I remember the day my Nanny’s cranberry Buick pulled into our driveway. I must have been in high school. I was happy to see her, but the moment she stepped out of the car, I could tell something was wrong.

She was holding a basket filled with all of her medications. She stood there looking down at them, confused, unable to figure them out. There was worry in her voice, something that was never common for my Nanny.

That moment has stayed with me all these years because, looking back now, it was one of the first signs that something wasn’t right. Over the years that followed, her memory declined. There was more confusion. Less independence. More blank stares.

This morning when I dropped the girls off at my parents’ house, my dad was walking the dogs. “What’s wrong?” I asked as I ushered the girls into the house.

“I just messed up my pills,” he said, worry written all over his face.

I asked if he needed help. “I’ll figure it out,” he said. I let my dad know that I could help him that evening if he couldn’t figure it out. “No big deal,” I said, a phrase I use a lot with him.

Later that evening, after I dropped Adi off at soccer, I drove down my parents’ street on the way to the dance studio to pick up Rose. As my parents’ house came into view, I remembered the pill situation. I called my dad. “Did you ever figure out those pills?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. “It doesn’t matter.

“I’m right on your street,” I said as I turned around to head back in the direction of their house I had just passed. “I can help you.”

I spent the next few minutes helping my dad systematically ensure he had the right pills and the correct number in each tiny compartment of his medicine organizer. As he walked me to my car afterwards, he thanked me for my help. “No big deal,” I assured him as I gave him a hug. “I’m happy to help you.”

As I drove away, I thought about my Nanny standing in our driveway all those years ago with that basket of pills in her hands. I’ve tried to remember how things unfolded after that-what got hard next, what memories were lost, when she stopped using our names, or even talking.

I try to stay in the present, showing my dad the patience and love he deserves, while at the same time feeling a quiet, persistent fear of losing him.