Dazey’s Diary: Alzheimer’s Caregiver Memoir & Hot Tips
Dear Diary, (circa 2022‑ish)
Outside noise is built into memory care. You can’t mute it; you can only try to turn it down.
“Every day is a new day and every hour is a question mark” became my unofficial slogan. Short‑term memory loss is wild like that—it shows you how powerful the mind is, and how terrifying it can be when it stops holding on to the basics. Names. Pills. Showers. Appointments. Entire conversations.
As a caregiver, I learned fast: my real job is protecting dignity and keeping safe from scammers, hand outs and pain mental and physical.. You work like hell to make sure the person you love isn’t embarrassed, exposed, or talked over by people who have no clue what this actually feels like. Slowly, familiar places start to look strange to them. The house that once felt safe can suddenly feel like a trap. Life splits into before and after, and too many people start talking about their legacy instead of the life they’re still living.
If they’re high‑functioning and good with logic? It’s even harder. They can talk circles around people, cover their tracks, and mask the gaps… for a while. Underneath, they’re exhausted. So are we.
Meanwhile, the basics turn into mountains:
remembering meds
keeping up with showers and hygiene
getting dressed in something that makes sense for the weather and the day
following any kind of schedule
Caregivers pick up all the invisible pieces. We build routines so the day has a shape. We learn which pajamas calm them down, which sweater is “the one,” how to wash clothes the “right” way, so everything still feels familiar. None of it is glamorous. All of it matters.
Most days, one person becomes the default scheduler, nurse, housekeeper, therapist, bouncer, and peacekeeper. So when outside people won’t help, won’t adapt, or can’t even fake compassion? The load goes from heavy to impossible.
That’s where boundaries come in.
Not cute Instagram‑quote boundaries. Survival boundaries.
I said versions of this more than once in those early days:
“If you can’t get on board, get out of my way. We need a schedule and a routine. No surprise visits. No big groups. No, we were just in the area’s pop‑ins. I’m not being controlling; I am telling you what she needs: peace, understanding, compassion. Get on board, or get out of my fucking way. Are you blind? Have you no decency?”
Some people listened. Some rolled their eyes. And then there was the sentence that changed everything:
“You are not family and never will understand. Stop burying your head in the sand and rein her in.”
That line was thrown at the one person I rely on every single day to keep this life from collapsing. About me of course. reign me in so they can go back to before the needs changed and so did the handouts and access freely without gaurd posts and brick fuckin walls.. #asyouwish #testme
In that moment, I knew the battle in that arena was over. The future in my head shifted. Whatever came next, it would be built around her needs and my capacity—not their comfort. Those voices went quiet after that. We haven’t heard from them since.
Did I bend? No. I leaned in. #burnbaddieburn #dazeydiary
I’ve always fought to create a safe space—emotionally and physically—with whatever tools I had. These days, I see the payoff in the questions people ask me:
“How did you get through that?”
“What worked when everything was falling apart?”
But the doubts still whisper:
Should I have tried harder with them?
Should I have remembered that other people don’t see what I see or learn what I learned as fast?
Should I have been softer, more accommodating, more worried about their feelings?
Back then, I questioned everything. I went to therapy just to stay afloat in the chaos and disconnect. Sometimes I wonder: could I have spent more energy making the outside world comfortable? Could I have soothed their complaints, eased their guilt, given them a gentler version?
Maybe.
But who has that kind of energy?
The Dalai Lama?
The Pope?
Saint Mary?
If you find someone who is perfect, send them my way. I’ll bring a notebook.
The people who wish I’d acted differently don’t change the facts—for themselves, for her, or for me. A tiny bit of grace would’ve gone a long way. Without it, I went cold and laser‑focused on what would keep us alive, sane, and as peaceful as possible.
Especially on the days when “family conflict” landed like a punch in the face.
Literally.
I got punched in the face during an argument I wasn’t even in. I was trying to lower the temperature, to pull everyone back from the edge. She doesn’t remember the details now—it’s gone, filed in the fog—but in that moment, the guilt in her eyes was as real as the pain in my jaw.
Here’s one hot tip they don’t put in the brochures: don’t stand too close when 70 years of buried emotion tries to squeeze out all at once. It’s rarely about the thing happening in front of you. You’re not just dealing with today. You’re dodging decades.
Memory care is not for the weak. You need quick reflexes and a soft landing. You dodge, you react, and you end up comforting the same hand that just smacked you. For the record, she had a wicked left hook. She could’ve been a boxer.
People ask me all the time how we manage a life full of unmanageable situations.
The real answer? We don’t. Not in the way people imagine.
What I aim for is a life that feels like independence for her, even if it’s mostly an illusion. The same with “peaceful existence” in memory care—it’s a fragile magic trick we’re pulling off day after day. #percievedindependence
Percieved independence~ the hyperaware need to feel in control. so, we let her. I do the lyons share of planning, sassy ass has all the fun. lunch dates who ask her out and send me a private chat with date, time place and return… I know how much money she will need/want in her wallet, i know how she should dress, i put out clothing that suits the outing, I guide the path, cruse director of the alzheimers kind. zoom calls on weekly repeat. I get a text ‘we are good for that time and date’ they reach out to her…on the day and time, Im there to make sure the correct link is in play and they have the four person chat from around the damn world.. istimbal turkey to illinois to cali and here…. clock work baby, we run on starbuck bribary and personal assistant realities.
I had a life before this. Maybe I’ll have one after. Right now, a personal life isn’t really part of the deal. I’m like so many caregivers: limited resources, no real family support, and a to‑do list that never ends.
My story isn’t special. It’s just more visible—a glasshouse view for people who don’t know and still feel entitled to judge, and for the ones who do know but somehow have opinions about everything I could’ve done to make their lives easier.
The outside world doesn’t think the way I do. I’m detailed because I’ve been living in the fine print for years—long before anyone said “Alzheimer’s” out loud. I rode the waves of dysfunction for decades in a “Do as I say, yes ma’am” household.
This didn’t start with dementia. Dementia just turned the volume up.
So I share for two reasons:
For me. To empty my head and heart before they crack.
For the caregivers who feel alone. The ones holding everything together with duct tape, coffee, and sheer stubborn love.
I understand more than I say. I see what others don’t. I know the quiet wins and the silent heartbreaks. And in case no one has said it to you lately:
You matter. Your work matters. Your boundaries and your “nope, not happening” moments matter.
Even when the outside world doesn’t make you feel worthy, heard, or valued… even when the only “help” they offer would blow up the fragile peace you’ve built for the brilliant, complicated mind you’re caring for… please remember this:
When it gets ugly, when it feels impossible, someone out here gets it.
Our journeys aren’t identical, but the echo is familiar.
Everyone who knows… knows.
#iykyk
One last thing, dear Diary (and dear caregiver):
Don’t cave.
Set the boundaries. Set the structure. Set the routines—and keep them, no matter who stomps through your door, acting as if none of it applies to them.
There will always be someone who says, out loud or between the lines:
“She lives here, so this is my house. I’ll do what I want, when I want. I don’t care about her sleep schedule; I’ll call at 3 a.m. if I feel like it. You can’t tell me what to do. If you don’t give in, I’ll create chaos and drag everyone into it. You’re dead to us… until we need something. You’re a vicious bitch. A control freak. Unhinged.”
Cool. Duly noted. That was the day I stopped trying to be understood, started treating access like a privilege instead of a birthright, and let every word of that tirade become another brick in the wall between us—and another lock on the door protecting her. #brickfuckingwall
Maybe you’ve heard your own version of that.
Your journey isn’t mine, but the similarities are familiar, and every story carries weight. Caregivers are the safety police, the soft place to land, and the ones who lock the doors when everyone else gets to leave.
We should be honored for the sacrifices we make, not branded as villains because people don’t like the needs, the changes, or the boundaries that keep their loved ones safe.
If you’re the one holding the line, hear me clearly:
You are not the problem.
You are the reason there’s still a line at all.
I didn’t plan to become “the caregiver” or “the villain”—I just ended up the one still standing when Alzheimer’s, family drama, and real‑life logistics collided. Dazey’s Diary is my no‑filter space to tell the truth about memory care—messy, darkly funny, heartbreaking, and sometimes weirdly beautiful—and to share the hard‑won tips I wish someone had handed me on Day One. If you’re a caregiver or love someone who is, I hope these stories make you feel less alone and more equipped to protect your person and your own crooked little crown.
