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I walk into the dark room, unsure of what I'm going to find. It's not until I turn on the light that I see the man in the corner, his eyes wide and unblinking. I can tell he's aware of my presence, but he doesn't move away.

I take a step closer and I can see his gray skin, his expressionless face, his hands tightly clasped together. It's then that I realize this isn't just any man in the corner; this is a man suffering from Alzheimers.

At first I'm unsure of what to say, but then I remember that Alzheimer's isn't just a disease — it's a tragedy. A tragedy that doesn't discriminate against one's age, race, gender or social class. It’s a tragedy that can tear families apart, though they still love and care for the one they love.

I kneel down to look into the man's eyes, and he finally blinks. I take his hands in my own and tell him that he isn't alone and that he is loved. I tell him that no matter what, someone will be there to remind him of who he is, even if he forgets.

I stand up, already starting to make my way back out of the room. But before I leave, I glance back to the corner one last time, only to find the man in the same exact spot, his eyes wide and unblinking. 

I close the door behind me, reflecting on the man I had just seen and how little we actually do to understand such a tragedy. That moment has stuck with me everyday since and I've tried to find ways to make a difference in the lives of those who are suffering from Alzheimer's.

All too often we turn away in fear of the unknown, of what we don't understand, but we don't recognize that in doing so, we're missing out on an opportunity to extend compassion, to lend a helping hand, and to make a difference in the life of someone who may not have anyone else to do it. 

I think back once again to that dark room, illuminated only by a single lightbulb, and the man in the corner whose eyes widened in recognition as I entered. He was me, and I am him, and we are all in this together.