My father was diagnosed with early stages of dementia when he was 86. I'm not sure when the doctors started using the word Alzheimer's; same thing, I'm told. Alzheimer's is a form of dementia. Anyway, at the age of 86, Poppa began a roller coaster ride he could not have imagined, and we all went along for the ride.

Mother and Dad were serving as missionaries in a little town outside of Pensacola, Florida. Dad called home often. This particular day, I could hear something was wrong. He said he had some pain. He didn't elaborate. But I'd worked side-by-side with this man since I was 12 years old; I'd never heard him complain of pain. I've always been one to act with my heart and let the practicality fall where it may. Sometimes my impulsiveness has hurt me, but nothing could have stopped me from catching the red-eye from Seattle, Washington to Pensacola.

I didn't have the money for the ticket, but my sister, without reservation or question, charged the ticket on her credit card. I landed just before 8 a.m. I had left in such a hurry; I didn't even know how to get to the property my parents had purchased. I called Dad. Being my father, rather than tell me where to direct the taxi, he drove to the airport to get me. Seeing him was better than seeing Santa Clause. I rushed to his side. We hugged and I kissed his unshaven cheeks. His hug was weak and he was clearly very tired. I felt horrible getting him out when he was feeling so poorly. I drove us home, questioning him along the way: "Do you have a doctor? How long have you been having pain? Are you in pain now? Are you feeling dizzy?" I had to get hold of myself. Now that I was sitting next to him, I started to calm down. He pointed to his lower abdomen and said the pain comes and goes. When it hits, it's a sharp pain. His facial expression told me everything. The pain must be really severe.

Moments after I got in the door, I was on the phone and arranged an appointment with a local doctor. Dad said he felt fine now. We visited and Dad told me about the property and his plans. I started preparing supper. When Mother arrived home I opened the door and she was shocked. Of course, I hadn't told them I was coming. We ate supper and made it a short night. Dad had a doctor appointment the next morning.

Going to the doctor was foreign to my father, Mother too, with the exception of delivering nine children. But I would take no resistance. If I had had to carry my father, he was going to the doctor. When I didn't meet any resistance, I knew this was serious. The local doctor made a referral and we drove to our next appointment later that afternoon. Several tests were ordered and we waited.

Dad had bladder stones, very large bladder stones. He was scheduled for surgery at Baptist Hospital the following day. While Dad rested, Mother and I went shopping. I had very little cash on me and my credit card was nearly maxed. Dad wrote a check for groceries. People knew him in the area. But I found that no one connected Mother to Dad. Dad always did the shopping. Dad paid the bills. Dad took care of everything. Mother didn't even have an ID card. Concern started to build. What if something happened to Dad? What would happen to Mother? For now, this issue would have to wait.

I drove us to the hospital the next morning. Mother and Dad pointed out the sites during our 45-mile drive. We got Dad admitted. The operation was a success. By the next day, Dad was shaking the jar containing his two bladder stones. Yuck!

We drove back and forth to the hospital daily. Dad was recovering nicely. The doctors said he showed signs of confusion, to which he took vigorous exception. But I could understand any confusion. After all, this was his first experience in the hospital and on medication. I was satisfied this was nothing more than that. I heard what I wanted to hear.

With Dad on the mend, I focused my attention on the home-front. Mother and Dad were living in a single-wide on their property. The cute two-bedroom house that Dad had moved onto the property and renovated sat empty. Dad's illness had interrupted the move. Last time he and I had talked, all that was needed were the appliances, which he'd ordered. I took a walk through the house. It looked move-in ready. And I was more than ready to move Mother out of that hot mobile into this cute bungalow under the shade of the trees. "Mother we're moving. We have everything we need to move into the house." "There's no phone, what if your Dad calls"? Good point. I went to the local hardware store, bought a long phone cord, ran it across the yard and proceeded with the move.

As I was getting things organized, I found Mother back in the mobile scrubbing clothes by hand in the bathtub. I was shocked seeing my mother on here knees using a scrub board! And some of the clothes were mine I didn't want her doing my laundry! "Mom, what are you doing? It's too hot to be scrubbing clothes. Where are the washer and dryer?" Apparently Dad had ordered them, but they hadn't been delivered. I found the papers and found the receipt. All I had to do is schedule the delivery, which I did immediately.

We continued to visit Dad over the next two days. And we were making progress setting up the new household. I fell in love with the screened in back porch. Mother loves crafts and I figured this would be a perfect craft corner. I started putting up hooks and displaying all her treasures. I started unpacking her craft supplies and stocking the shelves. Mother gave me a hesitant look before she said: "But your Dad..." I cut her off. I knew that no matter what Dad had planned for that space, he'd enjoy seeing Mother's treasures. And when we brought him home the next day, he was surprised. But I think he was so happy to be out of the hospital and moved into the house he'd renovated for Mother that he didn't care about anything else. Besides, it was two against one, what could he say?

He was getting stronger everyday, and back to his old self. He wanted to display his bladder stones in the living room, but Mother didn't want to see them, neither did I.

I planned on staying a while, until Dad was stronger. I called my office and had my assistant send me a money order. Mother and I went to the bank. I figured their bank would have no problem cashing a money order for Bill's daughter. I didn't know the location of the bank, so one of the locals accompanied us. I approached the teller with my driver's license and credit card. I introduced myself as Bill and Dorothy's daughter and presented the money order. The teller looked at me like I had two heads, and called her supervisor. "She says she's Bill's daughter..." And when I introduced Mother they just seemed to be confused. I was getting the picture. They thought Dad was white, and here are these two black women posing as his wife and daughter. (While inter-racial marriages are commonplace now, this was rural Alabama in the early 1990s. Besides, Poppa was a black man, he just looked white.)

The local who had accompanied us vouched that we were related to Bill. I got my cash. I decided to introduce Mother to Customer Service and get her name on the account. I was instructed to have Dad sign a new signature card and for Mother to sign as well. And she needed proper identification. I took Mother to the local DMV and got her a state ID card and had her sign the signature card.

Getting Dad to sign was a bit more difficult. Each day I would pull the signature card out from under the stack of papers he'd buried it under and say: "I need you to sign this so I can return it to the bank".

After a couple of days, I pulled out the card and handed it and a pen to Dad.I sat down right in front of him until he signed it.

Soon after, Dad said: "Sis, I want to get my affairs in order..." I started sorting and organizing his paperwork and he stopped loaning money to everyone in the neighborhood. We needed to collect some of what was owed to him. Dad was the Good Samaritan. As I met some of these people, I wasn't so sure they were deserving of his kindness or his money.

A year or so after Dad's surgery, Mother and Dad moved back to Washington State. Following his wishes, I set an appointment for Mother and Dad to have their will drawn up. Dad's accountant suggested I have them draw up a power of attorney as well. It seemed only a matter of weeks before Dad started slipping mentally and physically. He was 88 years old.

Day-by-day, Poppa became less and less active and more forgetful, but otherwise healthy. He talked less; sometimes he'd have this far-off look in his eyes. He no longer went to bed, but slept in the easy-lift recliner. He was restless at night and often called: "Mom, Mom, Mom" throughout the night.

Mom told me that he had fallen several times and she had to call the fire department because he was too heavy to lift. (She never wanted to inconvenience "the boys". I know they would have come, but...)

I asked my brothers to put railings on the front and back steps since Dad was becoming unstable on his feet. Too late, he'd fallen and broken his shoulder.

Time and Alzheimer's progressed. Though he never seemed to master the walker, he'd still got up, using the easy-lift. He'd walk to the kitchen and raid the cookie jar. I kept the cookie jar stocked. I had a routine of coming home every two weeks. I'd spell Mother from her caretaker duties. I'd shop, clean and cook meals for two weeks at a time. I'd bake up to 44 dozen cookies. (Dad had a sweet tooth, big time.)

All too soon, Dad stopped getting out of the chair except to relieve himself. He'd call "Mom, Mom, Mom" when he needed to go to the bathroom. That was about all he said. He ate if you put food in front of him, but very little. Then we began to feed him so he'd take in more nourishment. I can't tell you when I realized that we'd lost him. My best friend, confidant, my father had turned into this statue with hollow eyes who just sat in a chair.

I'd cut my work schedule to part-time, occasional work and started driving home every two to three days to spell Mother. He needed more and more care. My first job after graduation was working in a nursing home. I saw how some of the staff treated the patients. I swore I would never place my parents in a nursing home.

One day my aunt called. She said my sister-in-law, Dorothy, had called. "Mom doesn't look well." I knew if I didn't do something I'd lose them both. I hired a chore person. I figured she could move in and take the night shift. Mother could get a good night sleep each night and I'd continue to spell her.

The first night the chore person was on duty, I left her and Mother to work out a routine with Dad. Confident this arrangement would work; I went to a near-by hotel and slept like the dead. When I arrived next morning, anxious to see how things had gone, I was met with a frazzled and exhausted Mother. Seems during the night, Dad saw the lady chore person, with short hair, as a man invading his house. He thought Mother was in danger. This now 88-year-old man somehow gathered enough strength that it took three police officers to subdue him, without injury.

Clearly, I was running out of options. I wasn't working much, and I was living a bare bones existence. If it wasn't for my sister, I'd have been out on the streets. I was living in one of her apartment units and managing her property. I was only working on and off, barely paying my bills, and I had exhausted my savings.

I should have asked the rest of the family to step in and help. I did ask one weekend. I called my sister. I told her that I had the chore person with Dad and that she had six hours to get the others together to help. I was taking Mother away for a break. My oldest brother took care of Dad for one night. You should have heard the uproar: "Dad kept me up all night". I don't know how Mother found out, but the look in her eyes was enough for me. We'd get through this together.

I knew Mother was exhausted and I was struggling. Mother told me that Dad had fallen again the previous night. I called the doctor and he made arrangement for Dad to go into the hospital for observation. We had discussed putting Dad in a nursing home. This was the lowest point of my life. But I knew if I didn't make the decision I was going to lose both Mother and Dad. I talked with Mother. She said she couldn't do it. The decision fell to me. Mother watched from the living room window as I walked my father, her husband of 55 years, to the waiting ambulance, knowing he'd never come home again.

While he was in the hospital, I went to the Department of Social and Health Services to sign up for Medicaid. We didn't have any long-term care insurance. Dad had supplemental insurance; he always planned ahead, but by the time I'd gotten their affairs in order, it had already lapsed. Savings existed, but it would not sustain long-term care. I authorized the State to review all my parent's finances and assets. Dad qualified for Medicaid. From the hospital, he was transported to the convalescent center.

We monitored his care very closely. Mother visited nearly every day. And thankfully, my brother, Joe, stepped up. He visited all the time. No one knew when one of us would show up, so we felt this insured some level of consistent, quality care.

I organized the family events at the center in the family room. One brother, having been wounded in Vietnam and spent too much time in hospitals, had difficulty attending the family holiday parties at the home. I suggested he come in through the garden entrance and bypass the main corridor. This worked. We all gathered, talked and laughed. I was convinced that though Dad didn't talk much, he could understand and feel the love of his family.

I visited every two weeks, at first, then more frequently. I'd bake cookies and bring him a special dish for lunch. We played a game called 10,000. He could still roll the dice, and I kept score until his attention wondered.

As the weeks passed and Dad stopped communicating at all. There was no speech, no eye contact, no hugs or kisses. I was having an increasingly difficult time during our visits. I kept pushing and pushing Dad to talk to me. I began to hate my visits, yet I wanted to be with Dad. I'd leave the home and go straight to restaurant lounge and order two or three double shots of whiskey.

I'd sit overlooking Ediz Hook and stare out to the horizon and let the tears flow. Then I'd go home and face Mother. I'm not sure what all we talked about-Dad for sure, the house and bills. There was money to pay the bills, but Mother had never handled the bills. Dad had taken care of everything.

Eventually, I took over the bill paying. We were having trouble collecting from the people in Florida who were supposed to be buying one of the houses. And the renter of another property. I was spending money on lawyers. I was paying taxes on property in Ohio that had belonged to Dad's brother and there was a local property Dad owned. The buyer was in default. I needed to pull things together, but I was drifting. I couldn't set aside the anger. My father was wasting away in front of me. I had to find a way to enjoy my visits.

Finally I stop pushing him to speak. I was probably hurting him. I was convinced he could feel my emotions and I was probably causing him anxiety. My next visit, I brought some needlework, something I never had much time for before. But I found as I stitched and stitched, I was keeping busy and less focused on the lack of communication. I'd sit next to Dad, hug him, rub his shoulders and talk to him about the family. And I'd accepted I would not get a response. Whenever I'd feel frustration mounting, I'd stitch, stopping regularly to just rub his shoulders and kiss his cheek. I was content. I had accepted what Mother and Dad would describe as God's will. Most importantly, I'd found a way to extend my visits with my father without plunging into despair.

I still had issues with God, but I was taught and believe not to question the will of God. I was struggling, for sure. Dad had served God faithfully for more than 50 years. And yet God was allowing him to suffer and waste away. Little did I know that this suffering was just the beginning.

Over the net year and a half, Dad had surgery for an intestinal blockage-not expected to live through surgery. Then he broke a hip, another surgery-not expected to live. He broke the other hip and yet another surgery. The family gathered in ICU each time. Each time we were told he had a less than 20 percent chance of survival.

A large bed soar had formed and Dad needed yet another surgery. When I got the call, I knew this would be his last surgery. His body was breaking down. As I drove the 120 miles to Port Angeles, I knew this was the end of what I had called Poppa's roller coaster ride. When I hit town, I didn't go straight to the hospital.

I went to the mortuary and made arrangements. My father had instructed me years ago: "bury me in a pine box". I selected his coffin. I had written his program many months before. I handed it to the assistant for printing. I was given a floral book. I had selected two floral arrangements. As I was about to select a third, and maybe a forth, I felt like Dad had tapped me on my shoulder. I heard: "Now Sis". Clearly startled, I immediately closed the book, placed the order for the two floral arrangements and headed for the cemetery.

The mortuary had phoned ahead and advised them that I was clear on what I wanted and not to push. I selected a plot for Poppa and the one next to him for Mother. All that was left was for me to go to the hospital and say good-bye. I was ready. It was time for Poppa to rest.

There weren't any visitors when I entered Poppa's room. Good, this will be our time. I went to his bedside, looked down on the man who had given me life, protected me and loved me unconditionally. What could I give him? I held his head and sang: "What a Friend we have in Jesus" (Poppa's favorite gospel). Something amazing happened. He was trying to sing with me. I thought I was imagining things. So I sang: "The Old Rugged Cross" (another of his favorites). The same thing happened. Poppa was definitely trying to sing. My heart soared. We had connected. I laid my head against Poppas, continued to sing and let the tears flow.

Dad was transported back to the nursing home. We began to gather and wait. I call it the death watch. When I arrived at the nursing home, several of my brothers were with him. I think it was Mike, Bill and Louis. Mother was two doors down, resting.

I went to my father's bedside. I felt for his pulse, but it was so irregular I couldn't get a beat. I wanted Poppa to know we were with him. I think he already knew. But I wanted him to KNOW! Anyway, I kissed his cheek, whispered in his ear: "You rest now, Poppa. It's time to rest". I again held his head and sang. And once again he tried to sing with me. My brothers looked on in astonished silence. Poppa hadn't spoken in months.

I went to Mother and decided to take her home to rest a while. She checked on Poppa before we left. A few minutes after we arrived home my sister called. Poppa was gone. We'd left too soon. But I was worried about Mother. My sister told me that Dad's last words were loud and clear: "I love you all, take care of Mom". I knew then that Alzheimer's hadn't won. Poppa's spirit was free.

I was to witness one more miracle before we laid Poppa to rest. I had known for many years that I'd honor my father and sing at his funeral. I used to sing solo at church every Sunday. Poppa was my fiercest critic and my greatest fan. I had chosen a song entitled: "Go Light your World". The message of the song felt like the message my father would want to leave us with. I had heard the song on a radio program hosted by Delilah, called City Lights. I called the station and asked them to play the song. I taped it. I played it over and over until I'd learned all the lyrics. I sang the song in my sleep. I knew the melody and lyrics by heart.

My dearest friend, Douglas, had come up from Los Angeles to be with me and to pay his respects. We stayed with my brother Mike and his wife, Candy. Douglas lay on a mattress on the floor next to me. We talked through the night. None of us slept.

The next morning as I dressed for the funeral, I suddenly and completely went blank. I couldn't remember the song-no lyrics, no melody. Mike and Douglas tried to keep the atmosphere light and get me to relax. I snapped at them. I walked out in the back yard, looked up and prayed for help.

We left for the funeral--a graveside service. I passed out candles, matches and a card printed with the chorus. I had planned for everyone to sing the chorus along with me. Even that didn't bring back the song. I was still blank when I stood to eulogize my father. Then I announced that I had chosen a song: "Go Light your World".

I asked everyone to light their candles and I lit mine as well. I took a deep breath, opened my mouth and sang the song flawlessly. At the close of the service, people left the cemetery service singing: "Go Light Your World". I felt uplifted. I had done Poppa proud.