My father passed away last month after a struggle with a strange illness.

He started having problems after a hunting trip in Tennessee with a few of his work buddies.

They'd done it dozens of times in the past.

Go out early in the morning, camp out, bag a few deer, and get back home by evening of the next day.

And at the end, we didn't really have any reason to suspect anything

out of the ordinary until the following spring. I think I should let you know what kind of man

my dad was to understand the severity of his decline.

He worked as an engineer at an Alumnium plant, always showing up on time for 20 years.

He was a big Kentucky Wildcats fan, always either going to the games or

taping them at home if work or family matters got in the way. He was vibrant and

opinionated. He would argue with you, but he would be the first to apologize afterwards.

As a kid, I go camping with him and he'd tell me all about the animals and the land and we'd watch the stars at night.

I know this is something of a tangent, but I really don't like the idea of telling you

about what comes next without some idea of who he used to be before he lost his mind.

It began with the smallest of things. He'd have headaches. He'd forget little things like his keys or his email password.

He'd get depressed and withdrawn one moment, and he'd be right back to normal minutes after.

Mom didn't think much of it, and neither did I, though in hindsight I was probably too preoccupied with community college to see what was going on.

The first true red flag we got was when he forgot how to spell his mother's name the day before a birthday.

He picked out a card for her for us to sign, and when he sat down with his pen in hand, he turned to mom and asked,

how do you spell Margaret?

He thought he was joking at first,

but that look of flat confusion in his face quickly proved that he wasn't.

...