In the last year of his life, my grandfather, who had dementia, struggled with reality.
Before being placed in hospice, he often complained about a man in his house who came at night, took his things, and used his belongings.
My grandmother reassured him she was the only one there, but his doctor increased his medication as he was losing touch with reality.
At his funeral, a man appeared whom only a few family members recognized—an old friend of my grandmother’s, there to pay respects.
In a small town, that wasn’t strange. About a year later, Grandma revealed she was seeing someone—the same man from the funeral.
At first, it seemed sweet as they reconnected at church.
Then, Grandma casually mentioned it was their third anniversary. Grandpa had died only two years earlier.
This man was the one Grandpa saw in the house, the reason we thought he was losing his mind and why he was heavily medicated in his final year.
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