My Father’s Journey with Dementia
People often ask me why I started the Adult Cognitive Wellness Centre. The truth is… there are many reasons. And I’ve decided to share them, one by one. Today, I want to begin with the most personal one—my father.
He had dementia.
It started slowly. He began forgetting small things. Then conversations stopped making sense. My mother, with her limited understanding of what dementia truly was, thought he was just “talking nonsense” or acting strange. She believed he was going crazy.
It was hard to accept. Harder to talk about. And easier to hide from others. I remember how overwhelmed he would get when the house was full of people. Loud conversations, too many voices—it would trigger something deep in him.
One time, in the middle of a family gathering, he stood up, clearly distressed, and shouted at everyone to leave. It broke my mother’s heart. She didn’t understand why the man she loved was suddenly acting this way.
She became embarrassed. She stopped inviting people over. Her social life disappeared. And both of them became more isolated.
I remember chasing after my father one evening when he wandered out of the house, confused. He would hand money to strangers or buy things he didn’t need.
We were always worried. But the worst memory—the one I still carry with me—was the hospital. He had a heart attack and was rushed to the ER. He was scared, confused, and no one seemed to understand that he had dementia. They treated him like he was just being difficult. Nurses rushed him, restrained him, tried to draw blood or insert IVs without explaining. He screamed. He panicked. No one spoke gently to him. No one slowed down. When I arrived at the ER and saw him, I couldn’t hold myself back. I screamed and cried.
I said to the nurse, “Let me hold his hand.” I held his hand and cried as I gently opened his hands. That moment broke something in me. Every day after that, I watched him slip away.
Dementia is a long goodbye. It took seven years. Seven years of watching pieces of him disappear. That pain—and all the lessons I lived through with him—became one of my strongest, “whys.”
I didn’t just want to build a program. I wanted to build something better—something filled with compassion, dignity, and understanding. And this is only one part of my story.
There is more I’ll share when the time feels right. But if you’ve lived through something like this, please know: You’re not alone. I see you. And if you feel ready—share your story.
Believe me, it’s not easy. It took me 25 years to share this pain. It was buried deep. Every time I tried, I cried. So I stopped talking. But I’ve learned something powerful: healing began when I started to speak.
If you have a story, share it. It helps others. It helps you. And it helps break the fear, shame, and silence that too often surrounds dementia.