In the final years of my grandpa's life, from 2010 and until September 11th of 2013, he suffered from dementia. It would affect every act of his life, along with old age, causing both mental and physical pain. This horrible disease was a long, miserable, and fragile chapter in his life; everyone around him wanted it to end without it ending him. But dementia doesn't work that way. It eats up its victim's life and meaning until he is a body with a ghost inside, full of demons.

Every Saturday, when my older sister and I were young, together with grandpa we would read the paper and enjoy the puzzles and riddles inside it. He would always solve them first, his face beaming like the sun, and he would remind us that if we gave up we should let him know. He always seemed to know all. He had the 'silent wise man' gleam in his eyes, which he'd earned throughout his long, difficult life, though things were about to get a lot harder for him, leaving the final chapter of the book of grandpa cruel and agonizing.

It started at nighttime. One random night, when he was staying at Uncle Eli's apartment, as he and Eli were sound asleep, suddenly, the evil demon of dementia awoke inside him, causing his mind to wake his whole body as well. He began pacing all over the apartment, wandering around, and talking to himself, sometimes yelling, and causing Eli to wake up too. Eli then found him in the living room, walking in circles by the couch. Eventually, he convinced grandpa to return to bed, but this kept on happening, with no end and no explanation.

Uncle Ari lived in the apartment next door to my grandparents' apartment, so at times, when grandpa would wake up, he would leave his apartment and try to get into his son's. When he'd see it was locked, he would knock and shout, waking up not only Ari, but, his wife and three kids.

It became unbearable; no one could manage to get any sleep. My father, Uncle Ari and Uncle Eli had to sit and discuss the matter. They thought that if they prevented him from taking his afternoon naps, he would be tired enough to sleep through the night. Thus, whenever we would visit, my father would make sure to keep him up, as would Uncle Ari, who would check up on him whenever he could. It would make grandpa mad that his sleeping pattern was being changed, as he didn't realize his nighttime travels were disturbing the ones around him. He wouldn't remember what he had done the previous night.

During his stay with Uncle Eli, an accident occurred. Grandpa needed to use the bathroom, but couldn't find the right room, causing an unpleasant mess all over Uncle Eli's floor. After he cleaned up and told my father, the three brothers decided he that grandpa needed diapers. My grandpa first refused, he couldn't understand the change in undergarment, or being forced to wear an item of clothing for an infant, not an adult.

As time went on, and as the demons of dementia increasingly toyed with my grandpa's mind, he began forgetting much more than he had before. A man the age of 89 forgetting what he had eaten for lunch was normal, understandable, even a given. Now there were times where he would stare at his son, who had woke him up from dozing off in order to bring him to the table for lunch, and would yell at him, and curse him, not understanding who he was and what he wanted from him. He began confusing my father with Uncle Ari, Uncle Eli with my father, and at times, all three of them for his deceased brothers. Almost at every visit, as I sat across from grandpa in the living room, he always seemed to stare at me and look away once I stared back. It took me time to realize he was trying to figure out who was the girl sitting on the couch inside his house.

Surely enough, along with the results of dementia, old age was harming grandpa as well, causing him to need to replace his cane with a walker, an object he refused to use on any occasion. As soon as he rose from the living room couch, he was told to use it to help him move around, an order he'd dismiss with either a wave of his hand or grunting back how he didn't need it. Though at times, especially when he began to slightly wobble, he was forced to hold onto the squeaky, screechy walker, in order to move from the couch to his room or the bathroom – the only places he'd now go.

As he wasn't able to walk on his own, showering and shaving long ago had become acts that were being done to him instead of him doing to himself. Every Saturday, when we came to visit, my father would shower him, giving Uncle Ari a day off. When Uncle Eli would visit, he would shower him too. Grandpa wouldn't have it. Each time he would wave his arms, nearly hurting his sons; he would curse them, push them and yell at them to leave him alone, as each one at each different time would take off his clothes and run the water from the shower head, and rub him with soap. When the shower was over, my father had a clever way of convincing him to dry his feet on the shower mat so he wouldn't slip. As he held grandpa tightly, he would tell him he needed to march like the soldier he once was, and then my father would stomp his feet on the ground – trying to bring back grandpa's memories of his days as a corporal –,yelling "Left, right, left, right..." causing grandpa to chortle with enthusiasm and join him. Together they marched, thump, thump, thump.

Since Uncle Ari couldn't watch grandpa all the time because he had to work, and my dad's and Uncle Eli's visits only lasted so long, it was decided to get grandpa a caregiver. Receiving a caregiver who would stay nights, and feed and shower grandpa, required a test he had to go through, a test which my dad, grandma and I watched occur. A test that was required for the partial funding from the government. A test that seemed to last for hours. A woman from social services came by, and began asking my grandpa various questions, such as did he know what day it was, could he tell if it was day or night, who the elderly woman was sitting in front of him. At times, I wanted to shout at her and exclaim "What are you doing?! Can't you see he can't do this on his own? Do you think we're lying and he can function by himself?", but I sat quietly, letting the humiliation of it eat me inside. When he answered correctly after pausing to ponder each reply, the woman turned to my dad, who stood behind her and grandpa without saying a word, glanced at him and murmured, "He seems fine; I don't see what the problem is."

On the way home from our regular visits, my dad would tell me how despite how hard all this was, he didn't mind because he knew that when grandpa died, he wouldn't feel bad – he would know that he had done everything he could to make grandpa’s life as easy as he possibly could. He would say this over and over, and when the test of time approached, and grandpa passed away, those words came back and stabbed my dad in the heart. He admitted how he would never be able to feel as though he had done enough, he would always feel shame for shouting at grandpa when he would swing his arms and nearly hit him. Regret and sorrow are the final part of dementia and old age, and not closure and relief as all of us had anticipated. It is a gruesome part of life we all must be aware of, and learn to deal with, when the inevitable demons come crawling inside the ones we love.