Renee Martinez-Epperson

We went out for pizza that day. Just a simple moment. We tried to play dominoes—no one really knowing how—but for a moment it didn’t matter. There was laughter. Connection, Togetherness. And then something shifted. The game changed. Or maybe… it didn’t change—but it no longer made sense. Instead of playing, he started building. Then knocking them down. Then frustration. Not just frustration… but the quiet awareness that something wasn’t right. Shifting to something that uses less brain...

I’m hanging out with my dad—just me and him. One of those days you don’t plan, but end up meaning everything. We go get ice cream. We buy him some new shoes. We head home, grab lunch, and sit down watching a movie together. Just a daughter and her dad. And this caregiver... Completely oblivious. Because somewhere between the smiles, ice cream, conversation, the shoes, and the movie… the cane was gone. His purple cane. The one he loves. The one you better not comment on the color... The next...

Last night, I stayed with him at the hospital. They were running tests to rule out anything serious—his chest hurt, his body ached—but what I felt most was the weight of fear. Not just his. The caregiver’s too. Because when dementia is involved, fear doesn’t always make sense. It shows up suddenly. It builds quickly. And without warning, it can escalate into something that feels like a medical emergency. He cried for hours, overwhelmed by something he couldn’t explain. And the caregiver...