Seven years ago, I realized there was something very wrong with my wife of four decades. I did not know what it was. In the beginning, I didn't consider it might be dementia. Lena had known the risk factors and done all the right things to avoid such an outcome. Ironically, while a graduate student at Berkeley, she had refused to use the drugs that were readily available, stating firmly that she would do nothing to damage her brain, since it was the only one she would ever have.

Lena denied there was anything wrong. When I finally dragged her to the neurologist, she failed his cognitive tests badly. After examining the MRI, he looked her in the eye and said, "You have dementia, probably Alzheimer's." She had no reaction. It was as if she hadn't heard him. My reaction was altogether different. I understood that her life would end sooner than mine. Both our lives were about to be turned upside down. She would slowly fade away; I would be a caregiver.

I did not know how to be a caregiver. I ran around with my hair on fire, trying to manage her increasingly bizarre behavior. Like most of the medical community, I didn't understand dementia. She refused all medications. Her energy was gone, along with her enthusiasm. I was begging her to take a shower and brush her teeth. She almost set the house on fire. The State took her driver's license after a minor traffic accident. Our idyllic life in Carmel Valley, California, had come to an abrupt halt. We had no family nearby. I called........

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