Vibes-Only Caregiving, Part Two: When Showing Up Is the Win

Vibes-Only Caregiving, Part Two: When Showing Up Is the Win

Today’s episode is brought to you by: one bad mood, three outfit changes, and a fountain Coke with a side of fries for “breakfast” at noon after an accidental KO nap. Honestly, that nap deserved its own Oscar.

Welcome back to the positive side of the shit show.

This is the story of a day that woke up and chose violence—and the tiny, ridiculous win that still muscled its way in anyway.

If you’re new here, Vibes-Only Caregiving is my ongoing experiment in surviving at-home dementia care by chasing the smallest possible wins and refusing to let the hard be the whole story. Part One was all about coffee runs, Coke bubbles, and car-ride chaos. Today, we’re zooming in on what it looks like when the vibe is: absolutely not.

And how a single mug of cinnamon tea still managed to shift the entire day by 5 degrees.

The Day That Woke Up Wrong

Some days start sideways and refuse to straighten out. Some days are able to turn around… who knows what will happen next… today, not so much.

She woke up cranky. Sassy. SpicyAss.

Not confused. Not scared. Just done.

“I don’t wanna” vibes.

SassyAss, you have been awake for 7 minutes. (Again).

The lights were still off, blanket pulled up to the chin, sitting in the favorite chair, and we were already in full protest mode:

• The sunlight was too bright.

• The blanket was too heavy.

• The phone was lost.

• The heater isn’t high enough.

• My face, apparently, was too much.

Mood: no. Not today. Spicy-ass only, please.

I did the usual caregiver diagnostics:

• Pain?

• Blood sugar?

• Bathroom?

• Did we wake up in an alternate universe? (Honestly, could go either way most days.)

All signs pointed to: “No, I’m just over it.”

Cool, cool, and cool. What the actual fuck?

Also: the first time we really saw each other was three hours after a “little nap” that hit like a full night’s sleep and reset her clock to chaos o’clock. So the whole day already felt off. Her internal clock said 8 a.m. Her pillbox said noon. My mood is in manage mode. #fuckit

This is the funhouse math of memory care: time is a suggestion, and naps have hands.

When Every Option Is the Wrong One

I ran through the playbook.

“Want to get dressed and go for a drive?”
“No.”

“Want to stay in your PJs and watch your show?”
“No.”

“Hungry?”
“No.”

(Stomach growls loud enough to file a complaint.)

Every option got swatted away like an annoying fly.

“You can go,” with the flip of a hand.

Caregiver brain did the greatest hits:

• Is this the new baseline?

• Is something else wrong?

• Is this the beginning of a bigger decline?

• Am I missing something obvious?

• Did the phone ring? Did the cat piss her off?

Spoiler: none of these questions help when someone is just in a bad damn mood.

Here’s the blunt truth:

Now I'm in a bad-ass, nasty mood too.

When sleep patterns shift, my brain goes straight to: What fresh hell is this, and what’s coming next? The tension sits in my chest like a bowling ball. I’ve seen the tragic and really bad, and we have survived…

I was tired. Worried. Already bracing for uncharted waters and whatever chaos was waiting on the other side. I was over-extended. Running on 4 hours of sleep and the last coffee pod.

I wanted to yell, “Why the fuck are we like this today? Three hours ago, we were ponies and rainbows,” and speedily exit.

Instead, I took a breath, stared at the kitchen cabinet, and said the magic words:

“I’m making hot cinnamon tea with honey. Want one?”

The Cinnamon Tea Intervention

In our house, hot cinnamon tea is not just a drink; it’s a reset button with steam.

It’s familiar. It’s simple. It smells like childhood, comfort, and before.

So I pulled out the electric tea kettle she forgot existed and now thinks is a brand-new toy. I went full extra:

• Water heating.

• An indecent amount of honey coated the bottom of her favorite mug.

• A fragrant tea bag settled in just right.

The whole kitchen started to smell like a diner that only serves good decisions.

From the living room, I heard it:

“What are you burning?”

Great. Fantastic. Love that for me.

“Hot water,” I called back.

Silence.

Then, cautiously:

“For who?”

I walked in holding the mug like it was sacred.

“For us.”

She stared at me, then switched topics like only a brain on its own adventure can.

“Do you realize I’m gonna be 78 in April?”
“Yep!!!”

(Silence.)

“Do you realize I’m going to be 76 in April?”
“Yep.”

(More silence.)

“That’s old.”

“Do you think that’s old? I don’t… what can I do?”

“Rewind”… “get younger”…

If anyone finds the rewind button, let me know. Until then, we have tea.

The Smallest Shift

She eyed the steam as if it had personally offended her.

“I’m not interested,” she muttered.

“Cool,” I said. “I am. I’ll just put this here in case you get interested later. We can always reheat.”

I set the mug down within arm’s reach and flopped into the other chair with my own.

We sat in silence.

I took a sip.

Her eyes tracked the movement like a hawk.

Another sip. Hands wrapped around the warm cup.

She sniffed the air. #mimic #shadow

“It smells good.”

“Yeah, I accidentally did a great job,” I said.

A tiny corner of her mouth twitched.

“Don’t sass me, young lady!”

One minute later, her hand reached over, totally casual, as if the cinnamon and honey had levitated into her grip.

She took a sip. Closed her eyes.

“Now this,” she said, “is a good.”

Was she suddenly sunshine and rainbows? Absolutely not.

But the edge softened. The crankiness volume dropped from an 11 to a solid 8.5. #burnbadassburn

That’s a win.

And in this house, a 2.5-point drop on the Cranky Scale is worthy of confetti and a national holiday.

The Joke That Cracked the Day

Halfway through the mug, she looked at me and said:

“You make the best tea for someone who hates a kitchen.”

Ma’am.

I laughed.

“Aren’t we spicy? That’s the nicest insult I’ve gotten all week,” I told her.

She snorted. Another sip. Another small, reluctant grin.

The tension in the room loosened, just enough for a joke to sneak in.

“We should have this more often,” she said. “The day wouldn’t suck.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Every morning? Even on doctor days?”

She paused, weighing it like a serious contract negotiation.

“Especially on doctor days.”

Then, out of nowhere:

“What happened to cinnamon dolce on Dr. Days?”

There it was: the Starbucks era, floating back in.

“I don’t drive anymore, so that’s not an option,” she added.

Oh, is that so?

“I drive,” I said. “We ride.”

Now we’re negotiating with hot beverages and potential Starbucks runs. Honestly? As coping strategies go, this one’s lit.

Because it wasn’t just about the drink. It was about:

• Remembering something she used to love.

• Imagining a world where we still go places for fun, not just for lab work.

• Letting her feel like she was making a plan instead of just being managed.

That’s not just tea. That’s agency with a cinnamon aftertaste. One that is like a dolce, without a price tag or drama in a “get-ready” schedule for outings that’s exhausting—and I still work a full 60-hour-a-week job outside of 24/7 caregiving in-home memory care.

Why This Counts as a Win

From the outside, this might look like nothing.

Just a mug of tea. Just a cranky morning. Just a tiny mood shift.

But in memory care land, this is a full-blown victory parade.

Here’s what actually happened in that small window:

• A day that had a second start in full resistance mode softened into barely tolerable, which is still progress.

• She went from “no” to everything… to yes on something small, kind, and familiar.

• We shared a laugh that wasn’t about the disease, the decline, or the drama—just my kitchen avoidance and her five-star standards.

No meltdown. No screaming match. No “I hate this life” speech or the worst of the fucking worst:

“I don’t wanna be a burden.”
“I wish I were not here.”
“My mother did it when I was ten, I can too.”

Just hot tea and a slightly less terrible day.

That’s a win.

And here’s the secret: wins like that don’t arrive with fireworks. They show up as:

• One relaxed shoulder.

• One shared joke.

• One moment where you’re not Googling late-stage symptoms at 2 a.m.

Those are the wins you stack. Those are the ones that keep you from dissolving into the carpet. #iykyk

The Brutal Honesty: It Didn’t Fix Everything

Let’s be absolutely clear:

The cinnamon tea did not cure dementia. It did not erase the hard.

The rest of the day was still:

• Answering the same questions on repeat.

• Convincing her to take meds she doesn’t remember agreeing to.

• Dodging a mood that kept looking for reasons to sink again.

There were still tears. There was still frustration. There was still a moment in the afternoon when she looked at me and asked, very quietly:

“Is it always going to be like this?”

I had to swallow the lump in my throat and say:

“Not always. But today, we’re here. Together. And we have spicy tea.”

Brutal honesty: some days, that answer is all I’ve got.

But it’s true. And sometimes truth plus one warm mug is enough to get us to the next breath.

Caregiving in this season isn’t about “fixing it.” It’s about:

• Lowering the temperature on a bad moment.

• Buying yourself ten quiet minutes.

• Reminding both of you that there is still a you and a her inside the chaos.

That’s what the tea did.

Tiny Script for Hard Days

If you’re in the thick of at-home memory care and the day wakes up mean, here’s a tiny script you can steal.

Instead of:

• “Why are you in such a bad mood?”

• “You have no reason to be upset.”

• “You’re making this harder than it has to be.”

Try:

• “Today feels rough, huh?”

• “We don’t have to fix the whole day. Let’s just do one kind thing for ourselves.”

• “I’m going to make us something cozy. You don’t have to want it yet.”

“Suck it up, buttercup. You have to stick with me, as I’m the one you chose to argue with.”

#spicy SassyAss always gets a giggle on the right side of this chaos that came without a known cause.

And then make the grilled cheese, or the cup of tea, or the parfait, or the raisin toast with way too much butter.

Offer it without pressure. Set it beside them. Let them come to it.

If they do? You just earned a small win.

If they don’t? Well, maybe later.

Why This Script Works

Underneath the words, here’s what you’re actually saying:

• “I see you.” Not “I need you to be easier,” but “I get that this feels bad.”

• “We can zoom in.” We don’t have to solve the whole day; we just have to find one soft corner of it.

• “You still get choices.” You don’t have to want this yet. You don’t have to perform gratitude. You can just exist. Independence is real even in the smallest doses.

That kind of emotional permission is huge when so much of their life feels monitored, medicated, and managed.

And if you’re the caregiver, here’s your side quest: make something you actually like too. Not the leftover heel of bread. Not the broken cookie.

Something that feels like care—for you.

Mimic behaviors are real. Shadowing is real, too. You do, they may do as well.

Humor as a Pressure Valve

The crack about my kitchen skills—that tiny, spicy little jab?

That was her still being her.

She’s the cook in theory today, a master for decades in the kitchen. She could make anything perfectly, and then strive to make it better. #selfcritic

I cook for a chef every fucking night and hear five ways it could have been better 5–7 days a week. We order out when I can’t find energy for the verbal volleyball of my shortcomings of the past 51 years.

Still sharp. Still opinionated. Still able to drop a one-liner that takes the air out of the tension.

Humor doesn’t erase the heaviness, but it gives it a pressure valve. It says:

“Yes, this is hard. Yes, we’re both over it. But we’re still in here. We still get to laugh.”

There is so much we can’t control in this story. But we can:

• Burn the first attempt and laugh about it. #burnbadassburn

• Accept a semi-insult as a twisted little love language. #fuckit

• Let one small, silly moment interrupt a tidal wave of bad. #spicyass

That’s not denial. That’s how we stay human.

Laughter, in our house, often shows up sideways:

Her: “If I were in charge, we wouldn’t have to go to doctors.”
Me: “If you were in charge? Who do you think is in charge? You made me promise to do all the things even when ‘you don’t wanna.’”
Her: “Exactly. You’re in charge and I made sure of that at what’s-his-face’s office. I know that.”

Her, after misplacing the remote for the 11th time: “Someone keeps hiding this from me.”
Me: “N, it is you. You are someone.”

Those tiny exchanges don’t fix the appointments or the meds or the fear of what’s coming next.

But they prove that under the diagnosis, there is still a person, not just a patient. And next to that person, there is still a caregiver, not just a machine.

Another Small Win for the Collection

That night, right before bed, she texted and said:

“Did I take my pills?”

Yep.

“I really liked that new coffee you brought me!”

“Cinnamon tea will do that to you.”

“Well, shit. You can’t blame me, I have Alzheimer’s and can’t remember shit.”

“Remember to make it again,” she murmured. “For the next bad day.”

Hearts and smiley emojis for the win and an end to the day. Doors are locked, alarms are set, motion sensors checked, and the internal clock of when to check the nanny cam is in vivid view of how the night will go.

Because in this house, in this season, that’s the level we’re working with:

• One mug.

• One softened mood.

• One little crack of light in a pretty dark memory care day.

It doesn’t look like much from the outside. But for us?

This is a win.

And on the positive side of this shit show, we count every single one.

We stack them like armor. We tell the stories. We remind ourselves that even on the really hard days, something small and good can still get through.

Time still doesn’t stand still—not really.

But for a few minutes, over a hot mug of cinnamon and honey, it absolutely felt like it did.

And I’ll take that every time.

If You’re Collecting Your Own Small Wins

If you’re somewhere in your own version of this—dementia, chronic illness, disability, grief, or just a season that won’t let up—here’s your gentle, slightly spicy nudge:

You’re allowed to:

• Celebrate a mood going from a 10 to an 8.

• Call it a victory when no one cries during meds.

• Name “we both laughed once today” as success.

You’re not being dramatic. You’re not “lowering your standards too much.” You are adapting to a reality that most people never see.

In Vibes-Only Caregiving, this is the whole point: we chase the small wins because they are what we can reach from here.

So maybe your version isn’t cinnamon tea. Maybe it’s:

• The one song that always softens their shoulders.

• The drive-thru Coke that turns a meltdown into a grumble.

• The five minutes scrolling dog videos together in bed.

Whatever it is, it counts.

Write it down. Tell somebody. Tell yourself.

These are not “just little things.”

They’re how we build a life inside the hard.

If you missed how this whole vibes-only experiment started—with coffee runs, Coke bubbles, and car-ride chaos—go back to Part One and watch the small wins begin their takeover.

And if you’re here in the thick of it: your mug, your moment, your micro-win? It matters.

We’re stacking them together.