At first, in the early days and weeks and even years of my dad's struggle with dementia, he just seemed more deeply himself. Bruce Jay Parker had always been quirky, in ways that generally delighted his friends and acquaintances, and frequently embarrassed his wife and two daughters. Now he was, simply, more so. He made misplacing things (his keys, his wallet, my passport) a way of life, and he regularly drove off with crucial items (steaming cups of coffee, his glasses, my mom's garment bag) still on the roof of our car. He was also perpetually getting lost, turning family road trips into epic tests of patience and wills. We once crossed New York's Tappan Zee Bridge three times in rapid succession, each time convinced that we were finally headed in the right direction. 'It is what it is,' my dad would say, which meant, in my mind, that we were all about to endure something awful as the price of membership in our family. Yet his mayhem, while often mortifying, could also be...
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