Yes Ma’am, No Sass: How Mable Taught Me to Set Caregiving Boundaries
Yes Ma’am, No Sass: How Mable Taught Me to Set Caregiving Boundaries
Feisty farm girl politics, stolen chickens, blocked numbers, and one “unhinged” caregiver learning to say: not today, Satan.
Dear Diary,
If you’d told me my crash course in Alzheimer’s caregiving would be taught by a small‑town farm girl who bullied her way into politics, survived stolen chickens, and saved her own neck with a matronly bun, I would’ve asked what you were drinking. Yet here we are.
Her name was Mable.
She ran on spite, thick hair, and “yes ma’am, no sass” energy — and somehow, decades later, she’s still coaching me through group‑chat wars, blocked numbers, and the art of setting boundaries for a woman who is losing her mind in real time.
This is not the Hallmark version of caregiving. This is the “hold my vodka martini while I mute the family group text” version — the one where you get cast as the villain, the gatekeeper, the unhinged one, and you keep going anyway because the one actually suffering Alzheimer’s needs someone willing to be misunderstood.
Mable taught me you can be soft and loving and still say, “Nope. Not today.” This is how that looks inside our little cottage, with N’s Alzheimer’s bubble, one lonesome rooster in a frame, and a caregiver who finally, finally stopped apologizing for doing what’s needed.
The stories on repeat this week all orbit the same guest star: the lady in the white dress. She’s back.
Ooof. Apparently she was pissed I walked in to give evening meds — but the evening wasn’t lost. By the time I showed up she was gone — but N was smiling, relaxed, happy. Whatever happened in her bubble? It worked.
“L, you would have loved her. She was the best.”
Then comes the sheepish look. She bows her head just a little, eyes sparkling.
“I’m a feisty bitch. A lot like Mable.”
And just like that, we’re back to Mable.
“Did I ever tell you she was in politics? Mid‑1950s. Small town, middle of the USA. She didn’t like the guy who held the office, so she had him kicked out. It was an elected position, so she ran, won, and kept it until she said, ‘I resign. I’m 80 and I’m tired.’”
Absolute queen behavior.
Then we move to the hair story.
Mable, according to N, had more hair than any woman in a five‑county radius. Once, she fell off a horse.
“L, they rushed her — horse‑and‑buggy days — to the town doctor. He said that without her thick hair and that low, matronly bun, she would’ve broken her bossy neck.”
N giggles, proud, like she personally pinned that bun in place. Mable lives in the VIP section of N’s memory — past and present all mashed together. When she tells it, it’s not nostalgia. It’s like she time‑warps straight back to the day Mable fell off that horse and almost left her behind.
Then: the chickens.
“L, Mable still had the dairy farm after her husband died. One night, someone came and stole all the chickens. Next day: chickens, gone. So Mable goes to town and puts an ad in the local paper: ‘To whoever took all the chickens, please return the rooster. He’s lonesome.’”
I still have two copies of that gem framed on my wall. In 1956, the rooster lost his friends to theft — and Mable turned grief into a classified ad with a punchline.
For the next hour, we loop the familiar tracks. The lady in white floats in and out. Mable, politics, hair, chickens, the farm — same stories, slightly remixed details, same warm smile.
Then a late‑evening text comes through.
That’s when the festivities really begin.
The text thread starts pleasantly enough, so I tap out and take my exit.
Twenty minutes later, my phone explodes.
The battle is on.
Hold my vodka martini. Take off the 4‑inch heels. Oh, we’re doing this.
It turns into verbal volleyball fast. You go low? I’ll bury you in the deep ocean. Test me. I don’t give a rat’s ass — and that’s before N’s texts start rolling in.
First, she texts me privately. Then she spins up a group chat.
Because this chic? She knows her way around a smartphone and a tablet.
She is brilliant. She is complicated.
She can block people in a hot second, but if you ask her about it, it was definitely my doing, I mean, or the cat. And then she can’t remember how to get back to the block button to unblock whoever she banished. It’s the digital version of slamming down a rotary phone until it rattles.
Pure 1970s–80s energy, accidentally updated to iOS.
This is the stuff that shapes routine, structure, and boundaries.
This is the stuff the others hate to rehash.
Their story goes like this:
I keep them from her.
I barricade the property so they can’t visit.
I block and unblock them on her devices and socials for shits and giggles.
I make up stories and lie.
In their narrative:
I’m unhinged.
I’m the villain.
I’m the excuse they needed to stay remote and disconnected from reality.
Cute.
We’re not replaying that whole shit show today. What matters is what I actually learned:
Boundaries.
How to set them. How to hold them. How to stay consistent for her and for us.
Same message. Different angles. Whatever it takes to get to what she needs.
She wanted to be spicy? Fine.
I can go all the way back to her relationship with me when I was a kid: “Yes, ma’am” vibes and “don’t sass me” energy. Hers then. Hers now. The ways I messed up in the past shape how I show up for her and for myself today.
I used to:
Explain.
Defend.
Over‑justify.
Get mad and sound off.
Dump all the frustration out of my system, then stumble into the next day.
Now?
I don’t over‑explain what I need, why, or how. I simply say:
“Update: this is what is going to happen. Blah blah blah.”
he replies vary. They rage, sputter, accuse, threaten, dramatize, or play the silent game. They block me so someone else can report back — you know, the ones who don’t even realize they’re pawns in a sick, twisted game the caregiver never asked to play.
Eventually, it ends with:
#fuckit #asyouwish
Maybe there’s another contempt‑filled text or two. Then: silence.
It took four years to get here — four years of chaos, vile behavior, and emotional shrapnel. But we’re still here.
This is what perceived independence looks like for a sassy‑ass Alzheimer’s loved one — “N” — and what it looks like for us.
Every morning, we do the same things.
Each day has:
A name
A time reference
A simple routine
A flexible schedule
As rigid or as bendy as needed, all for one purpose:
Quality of life for the one actually suffering Alzheimer’s — the one who is hyper‑aware of losing her mind in real time.
She lives every day like it’s Groundhog Day — sometimes every hour, sometimes every ten minutes — trapped in a loop inside her bubble.
The bubble belongs to her. We just visit.
We step in when she needs us most. We step out when the rest of the world “can’t” or “won’t” understand. Unable. Unwilling.
If you’re reading this: don’t be the unable or the unwilling.
Make your journey with your loved one exactly what you need it to be.
Find ways to pack as much care, dignity, and dark humor as you can into the lane you choose. There is no one‑size‑fits‑all here.
Our needs in the cottage, given Mable’s memory and N’s reality, will not be what you need. But a few things are universal:
The bubble is the bubble.
The loop is the loop.
The reset is the reset — small or big, long or short.
When we honor that, we get softer landings:
Less anger.
Less frustration.
Less heartache.
Not a perfect journey. But a gentler one — for N, and for the unhinged “villain” in the background trying to keep her world from shattering.
Hot‑Take Care Tips Hidden in This Chaos
Keep or cut this section depending on how “memoir vs guide” you want the post to be.
Let them have their “lady in white.”
If the hallucination or story makes them smile and feel safe, don’t fight it. Join the scene; don’t correct the script.
Use routines as anchors, not handcuffs.
Same names for days, same morning flow, soft structure. Flex around appointments and flare‑ups, but keep a familiar backbone.
Set boundaries like policies, not debates.
Stop over‑explaining. Say, “Update: here’s what’s going to happen.” Repeat as needed. Let people be mad without letting them be in charge.
Accept the villain edit.
Someone will cast you as the problem because it saves them from looking at their own absence. Let them. Protect the person actually suffering.
Remember: the bubble is theirs.
You are a visitor. Your job is not to drag them out of it, but to make the inside safer, softer, less terrifying.
Author’s Note:
If you’re a caregiver reading this, wondering if you’re the villain in someone else’s Alzheimer’s story, you might be. In their group chat. In their family lore. In their carefully curated victim narrative. But inside your loved one’s bubble? You are the one who keeps the lights on, the meds on time, the laughter possible, and the rooster from being completely alone. You don’t have to shatter to be taken seriously. You just have to keep showing up — boundaries, martinis, unhinged cackle, and all.
