Spring has sprung here in Alaska (don't be fooled by last Friday's 12 inches of snow). Winter in Alaska can be marvelous. But, as you've likely heard, we do have snow, cold and only a few hours of daylight. The darkness can be tough on your psyche, as you awaken in the dark, go to work in the dark, and then get off work in the dark—for months.

As a result, we often develop cabin fever, that psychological state characterized by a combination of anxiety, restlessness and boredom arising from a prolonged stay in a remote or confined place. In short, we all seem to get a little nutty as the winter progresses. Thing is, you don't have to be in Alaska to get it—and it doesn't have to be winter that brings it on. You just have to be pent up, whether it's because of the weather, illness or because you have become housebound due to respite-free caregiving.

In our case, with winter's onset, it's hard for Dad to go out. It never occurred to me that he, too, would develop cabin fever. Actually, I think his cabin fever is more acute than mine. I regularly go out for work, errands, grocery shopping—and I get nutty. He doesn't have the social network I have and he goes out less often, so, of course, he would be more greatly affected.

When Dad was first diagnosed with dementia, we had so many behavioral challenges—what we called catastrophic episodes. It's quite common for those with dementia to have these outbursts expressed through anger, resentment, paranoia, fear, frustration and, many times, violence.

As spring sprung, I realized he was getting tense. Most commonly, he displays that as a desire to "go home." He starts obsessing over his family—"Does my mother know I am here? Does my sister know where I am?" This trend toward questions is a signal I've learned that indicates the beginning of a behavioral downturn. So when the questions started recently, I knew I needed to act quickly to turn things around. I tried every trick in my book—ice cream, games, TV, talk. But I wasn't making progress. I needed to rethink my reaction to his behavior. Remember, change what you can and let go of what you cannot control.

I decided to take a walk and think it through. I knew I needed some peace and quiet. I needed some alone time to examine the situation. As I walked around the neighborhood, I talked to neighbors I saw along the way, watched the eagles above and listened to children play. I thought how good it felt to be out of the house in the sunshine and fresh air. I literally stopped in the street and realized what I was thinking. I stepped outside of myself and really listened to my thoughts.

It was all so obvious. Of course I loved being outside, exorcising the cabin-fever demon. So why wouldn't my dad need the same thing? Duh! He's spent more time indoors—with artificial lights and stale air—so why should I expect him not to develop cabin fever?

I went home and suited Dad up. We drove to a neighborhood ice-cream shop. We ate ice cream and watched the young families with their small children come in. I asked Dad to tell me about our going for ice cream when I was small. We went for a short walk. He's been so sick he cannot go far, but we went as far as he could.

That evening, when it was time for bed, I didn't have to convince Dad that he should stay with us. I didn't have to make imaginary phone calls to family members to supposedly inform them that Dad was staying with me for the night. Dad was tired.

He went to sleep peacefully, smiling, full of ice cream, tired yet refreshed. He had a very small outing, by my standards, but for him it was a marathon run that he'd won. And when Dad wins, we all win.