There's an old joke that claims your first and last birthdays are similar. Someone explains to you it's your birthday and there are a lot of strangers standing around looking at you.
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My father turned 87 on Sunday and I drove up to Pennsylvania to join in the celebration with some family members. My sister-in-law made his favorite raisin cake, which his grandmother would make on a coal-burning stove. We sang a very out of tune "Happy Birthday" and all the residents of his Alzheimer's unit who were present enough joined in the treats.
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My dad loves the company and attention. He's never quite sure who I am, but he recognizes me when I walk into the room and listens attentively when he asks me where I live and what I do.
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Despite the nature of his mental decline, his trademark sense of humor remains. It's fascinating to see how much his sense of comedy now relies immediately on the present moment.
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Any laughter or smile lights up something inside.
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