At a clinic in Waterloo, Ontario, an elderly woman sat on the edge of a waiting room chair belting out the Celine Dion’s tune My Heart Will Go On.With little effort, she was able to send her sweet, high-pitched voice to every corner of the clinic. I had fun watching how people reacted. There was some shifting in seats, but mainly they turned away their eyes in embarrassment and tried to pretend there was nothing unusual.

I was there with my father, who was getting a routine blood test when the woman arrived. She took a seat directly across from my dad. I was concerned about how my dad would react to the possible interaction on his space. He was 77 and had been living with Alzheimer’s for several years. He was a brilliant man of few words in public. When he was healthy, he considered it bad manners to bring more attention to oneself.

Her singing began gently, like a quiet hum. I glanced over at Dad. His smile was gone, and he was staring right at her. It seemed to be something like confusion. This wasn’t an unusual state for him, and I wondered whether he was actually seeing her at all or if he was lost somewhere deep in his mind, not really aware of her singing at that point.

Her singing slowly got louder. By the time she got to the chorus — “near,far, wherever you are...”, Dad looked a little surprised. Still, I watched for any sign of an angry outburst. Instead, his face softened, and the tension eased in his brow. He no longer looked confused.

People say that Alzheimer’s is a thief, and that it steals your loved ones slowly, day by day. There is so much heartbreaking truth in that statement. But certain experiences with my dad have allowed me to see aside of him that I never knew existed. That’s what happened for me that day in the clinic. When her song ended, the woman opened her eyes. My dad was still looking directly at her. “That was beautiful,” he said. And she smiled and said, “Thank you.”