Living Between Two Worlds: The Bubble and the Rest of the World
Title: Living Between Two Worlds: The Bubble and the Rest of the World
Dear Diary,
Caregiving like this is a kind of dual citizenship.
You live in her Bubble, where her sense of safety, identity, and time are barely holding together.
You also live in the Rest of the World, where:
Bills are due
Doctors need answers, not “If I don’t remember it never happened. I have Alzheimer’s, I can’t remember shit, WHY ASK ME ALL THE FUCKING QUESTIONS?” — delivered with a wink and a giggle
Banks want signatures
Scammers want her retirement
Relatives want updates and access without boundaries or restrictions
You are the link between all of them.
Inside the Bubble, I translate the world down to what she can process. I protect her from the chaos her brain can’t filter. I let her reality be right‑sized and kind.
Outside the Bubble, I:
handle forms, money, meds, logistics
sit in waiting rooms and exam rooms, taking notes for both of us
stand between her and every opportunist with a phone or an email account
answer texts and calls from people who saw five good minutes and decided everything was fine
I am constantly shape‑shifting: daughter to advocate, translator to brick wall, soft landing to hard no. #burnbaddieburn
It’s not just one life. It’s two. On bad weeks, it feels like three: hers, mine, and the version of our situation that lives in everyone else’s imagination.
My life gets squeezed into whatever space is left between them.
Outside the Bubble: The Rest of the World
Outside her Bubble, there’s the machinery of ordinary life:
work
appointments
pharmacies
technology and scammers
family drama
bills, forms, and the whole bureaucratic circus
I’m the link between those worlds.
She shadows my words, mirrors my tone, and mimics my actions to feel “normal” in something that is anything but fucking normal.
Somewhere between sunrise and whatever time we finally crash at night, I repeat one quiet truth to myself:
Letting her stay in her Bubble is one of the kindest things I can do.
Not dragging her out into the harsh glare of everyone else’s expectations. Not forcing her to live up to memories her brain literally can’t carry anymore.
Most people want truth and reality to win. What I want is for her to feel safer, calmer, and less ashamed of what she can’t do anymore.
When you live between the Bubble and the Rest of the World, you learn to pick your battles very carefully.
Dazey’s Hot Tips: Living Between Two Worlds Without Completely Disintegrating
Because yes, this is a memoir. But it’s also survival mode.
Hot Tip #1: Protect the Bubble Like It’s a VIP Lounge
If something:
spikes her anxiety,
shreds her sleep,
or makes her feel stupid or ashamed,
It does not get past the velvet rope. I don’t care if it’s a doctor, the ‘others’, or a well‑meaning friend with “tough love.” The Bubble is for:
routines,
familiar faces,
and conversations she can actually succeed in.
If you want access to her, you respect the Bubble. No exceptions.
Hot Tip #2: Stop Explaining, Start Translating
Explaining reality to someone with dementia is like trying to install a software update on a toaster. You will lose.
Instead of:
long explanations,
arguments about “what really happened,”
or forcing her to remember what her brain physically can’t hold,
I translate the world into:
One next step,
One simple choice,
One kind sentence.
Less: “Mom, we’ve talked about this five times, you had an appointment, remember?”
More: “We’re going to see your doctor now so she can help you feel more comfortable.”
Hot Tip #3: Pick ONE World to Lose the Fight In
You cannot fight in both worlds every day. You will evaporate.
Some days I let the outside world win:
The opinions, #asyouwish
The suggestions, #comeliveit
The chaos. Find your own fix if you don’t like mine. #fuckit
Other days, I let the Bubble win:
I cancel the visit,
skip the call,
ignore the relative demanding a play‑by‑play.
My rule: I don’t sacrifice her nervous system, and no longer mine.
Hot Tip #4: “No” Is a Medical Intervention
“No” is not selfish. “No” is not dramatic. “No” is a treatment plan.
No, you cannot drop by unannounced “just for a minute.”
No, you cannot grill her with rapid‑fire questions to “keep it like it was.”
Every extra decision, disruption, or interrogation is a tax on a brain that’s already overdrawn. My “no” is how I protect what’s left. for her and for the peaceful-ish caregiving vibes we provide.
Hot Tip #5: If You Can’t Care, You Can Contribute
If you can’t provide help in our 24/7 care, your job is not to micromanage the person who does. Your job is to:
help find care,
support the care,
or pay for the care.
Texting me for tightly curated “medical only” updates while I’m holding the whole circus together? That’s not helping — that’s customer service.
Amping up a chaos moment with 3 a.m. texts and calls, rehashing your grievances about my caregiving in long paragraphs, telling her to stop playing mind games, or that she should be ashamed for feeling a way or saying her truth? That’s not a concern. That’s abuse. #theothers
Your hands stay clean when I’m asked to intervene in what you created. I take the vile texts off her phone, but she still has the feelings and nothing to connect them to. No, you don’t get to make her feel crazy for your bad behavior.
If you reach out and ask for help, then tell me I “asked for it,” you need to check yourself. If you’re okay with someone abusing her emotionally but don’t want to help stop it… You are the “others.”
Which brings us to…
When “Medical Only” Isn’t Really Medical Only
For people on the sidelines, medicine is simple. They want:
lab results
appointment dates
medication lists
They do not want:
the paranoia
the 2 a.m. panic spirals
the emotional disasters
the silent days when words won’t line up
the way one chaotic visit can shred her sleep for forty‑eight hours
All of that, in their minds, is “the rest.”
So when someone texts me:
“Medical updates only, L!!! I don’t want the rest.”
My answer is simple:
“Well, the rest is medical too — just not the kind that fits in your neat little box, sweetie.” # Alzheimer’sismedical
Because every part of this is medical.
Her moods.
Her fear.
Her anger.
Her confusion.
Her humiliation when she can’t find words.
Her insistence that someone is stealing from her when her own memory has stolen the explanation.
The way her system crashes after a well‑meaning visit that blows up her routine.
All of it is brain atrophy.
All of it is dementia.
All of it is memory care.
If you can’t provide help in twenty‑four‑seven care, your job is not to micromanage the person who does. Your job is to help find, support, or pay for a place that can.
That’s not selfish. That’s what I call Regiving.
Regiving is what happens when you love someone enough to:
let go of the version of them that only exists in old stories,
accept the version in front of you today,
and build a life that’s kinder to both of you, even if it doesn’t look heroic from the outside.
Welcome to life between two worlds. If you’re here too, you’re not crazy, you’re not selfish, and you’re definitely not alone.
You’re just bilingual in a language most people hope they never have to learn.
