"Reagent, you're here!" My grandpa stood up, a smile on his face.
"My name is Unbalanced, Grandpa," I softly corrected.
His smile was replaced with a look that combined confusion with frustration. He seemed to recognize that he should have known my name. He just couldn't come up with it on his own. My grandpa has Alzheimer's disease.
I can't dwell on it. I can't think of how things should be because if I think about how things *should* be-- I should be listening to Grandpa's colorful stories about WWII, not gently prodding him to recall details about his lunch-- I won't be able to deal with the situation.
And deal with it I must. After all, his father had dementia, too.
