No Makeup, No Respite, No Mercy: When Memory Loss and a Quick Store Run Collide
No Makeup, No Respite, No Mercy: When Memory Loss and a Quick Store Run Collide
People like me—caregivers—don’t get a break.
Not the brochure kind, where a smiling professional appears, pats your arm, and says, “Go relax, we’ve got it from here.”
I mean, real relief from being on call all day, every day, while people on the sidelines toss out gems like:
“You got what you wanted.”
“You chose this.”
“You’re dead to me.”
“You treat us badly, and until you change, we won’t visit.”
Cool. Cool. Thanks for the support, team.
#others #fuckit #asyouwish
What 24/7 Care Really Means
24/7 care means:
No girls’ nights out.
No wine nights disguised as “book club.”
No random “let’s grab a drink” texts.
You can’t even go shopping alone for clothes you need without turning it into a full-scale operation.
Getting a haircut at a real salon feels as complicated as planning an international trip with layovers, visas, and a blood pact.
No beach trips. No road trips. No long weekends.
Just rotating flavors of exhaustion.
Even dinner is a negotiation:
I cook and serve, knowing that the next 45 minutes at my dinner table will be her dissecting the recipe, what I could have done differently, what she would do to improve my current failure, or how much she hates my hair… or the kitchen table… or… I order out and order something she might share or eat too, just to avoid a meltdown over food being a problem. #fuckit
Welcome to caregiver life.
#iykyk
The Great Coffee Creamer Mission
You know that moment when you finally snap and think:
If I can just get one thing from the store, I might feel human again.
That was me.
She didn’t put on makeup, so I didn’t either. She’s in sweatpants and her favorite sweater. I’m in a ball cap, clinging to the “on brand” vibe like it’s a personality trait and not just camouflage for exhaustion.
Same coffees. Same ritual. If hers “tastes weird,” we trade. That’s the deal.
Even the five‑minute drive to the local store feels like an adventure:
“I didn’t put on perfume, you did—it smells lovely. Chanel No. 5? I like it.”
We park. We walk in. We find the one thing we came for.
The sacred object: coffee creamer.
Coffee is a must. Creamer is just as critical.
She doesn’t even drink coffee anymore, thanks to GI issues she swears never happened. Her words when we talk about it?
“Alzheimer’s fucking sucks.”
Hard to argue with that.
One Item From Freedom… and Then Her
We are one item away from checkout.
One.
Home is so close I can taste that first hot cup of coffee that might make me feel almost-normal again.
But of course not.
The universe loves a plot twist.
We have to lock eyes. We have to recognize. We have to hear:
“Oh, hey!!! I thought that was N and L!”
Of course it’s her.
N, in all her glorious, performative ways, gives a cold, curt, painfully civil, “Hello,” then glides down the aisle like she didn’t help light the match and stroll away from the explosion.
I do the 10‑second small‑talk shuffle, excuse myself, and head down the aisle to catch up with my loved one, who now has random crap in the basket like we’re stocking a full‑service food truck.
By the way, I hold no deep‑seated animosity. I’m just done with games, dishonesty, and manipulation. If that impatience is “karma,” then buckle up, sugar—bless your heart and hold my beer.
Coffee, Nicotine, and Other Sacred Vices
Coffee is my non‑negotiable. Creamer is the core.
You’ve got your vices; I’ve got mine: coffee and nicotine.
Judge me, I dare you.
If I had any unrealistic expectations, it’s probably because I left the house before having coffee. Everything feels off, old faces show up, and even the smallest things seem dramatic.
Am I dramatic? Absolutely. Maybe even a little unrealistic.
But I own it.
When Memory and Reality Don’t Match
We check out. We get the creamer. We get the hell out.
The interaction with N is fast:
Her: “I’ll catch up with you soon.”
Me: a wave that clearly means please don’t.
Then we’re in line, back on mission: coffee.
And then the mind does what the mind does. I’m reminded how scary and strange it can be. Memory loss is confusion at its worst. She didn’t recognize the one who said hi. She didn’t feel mad. Or hurt. Or betrayed. She felt… nothing.
Say the name later, and the stories pour out with sharp, terrifying accuracy.
But in person?
Nothing. Empty air.
What happens in real life doesn’t match her memories. It’s like her mind is on one track and reality is on another.
She’s on her own journey and just wants to feel normal. Suddenly, not wearing makeup or fixing my hair doesn’t seem so important anymore.
The Question That Guts You
In the car:
“L, who was that? Did I know them and forget?”
“Well, it’s been a little while, but that was… [insert name].”
“I don’t know them, but they said my name as if I did. Is that a friend of yours?”
“Absolutely a friend, N. Y’all just haven’t seen each other in a long time. Everyone is so busy these days.”
That’s the job: protect her.
Not their feelings. Not their guilt.
Her.
I don’t care about my looks now. I just want to get us in the car before anyone overhears—especially someone who used to matter but will never really get what’s happening. (Memory loss does suck; N is not wrong.)
I don’t want them involved in the hard parts of this story, especially since they helped write it. I don’t want to resurrect the past just because today’s reality doesn’t align with their preferred version of events.
And yes, I still haven’t had my fucking coffee.
A hot, fresh, strong cup of coffee makes me kinder, more patient, steadier, and better at saying what needs to be said.
As we’re headed to the car, we hear:
“It was good seeing y’all!”
I wave. She starts to respond.
“Hey, N, will you hand me that bag?” I cut in, and off we go.
We made it out.
Now we’ll go over the last 15 minutes again and again for the next day and a half.
That’s the sticky part.
#fuckit
Villains, Ghosts, and the High Road
I used to care about the outside world and their feelings.
I used to twist myself into knots so other people didn’t feel bad that they weren’t remembered by someone with Alzheimer’s—or that the vibe felt weird and unexplainable without turning old battles into new wars and decades‑old resentments into tidal waves.
Now?
My concern is 100% my loved one:
Her understanding.
Her peace.
Her dignity.
The ones who disappeared? That’s on y’all.
The ones who send other people to do their dirty work, to end relationships they’re too spineless to handle themselves?
Also on y’all.
You don’t get to ghost the hard parts and then pop back in at the grocery store like it’s a casual sitcom crossover episode.
If you’re looking for closure, you’re going to have to find it in the frozen food aisle without us.
How to Avoid Conflict on Outings
(Spoiler: You Don’t)
This is the part where I’m supposed to give you steps:
How to avoid conflict in public when you’re caregiving.
How to navigate memory loss at home for the spicy, fiercely independent, brilliant type.
How to stay calm, spiritual, and balanced while your life quietly burns to ashes in the background.
Here’s the truth:
You don’t avoid conflict. You manage impact.
#sayitlouder
You:
Protect their dignity in real time.
Lie gently when needed.
Redirect conversations.
Sacrifice your own comfort, your truth, your makeup, your coffee, your need to be seen and believed.
Then you go home and replay those 15 minutes for the next day and a half, while everyone who left you to handle this alone decides you’re just being dramatic or unstable.
The High Road (And Why I Still Take It… Mostly)
In the end, my answer is annoyingly simple:
The high road has its ups and downs.
Given the chance, would I always take it? No.
Sometimes I’d like to pick the side road. The petty road. The flamethrower road.
#burnbabyfuckingburn
But today? I chose the creamer. I chose to wave instead of speak. I chose to protect her, not perform for them.
And I’ll probably do it again.
Because this is what happens when memory loss and a quick trip to the store collide:
You go in for coffee creamer.
You come out with:
A reminder of who actually matters.
Proof that your nervous system is held together by caffeine and sheer stubbornness.
Another story your loved one might forget—but you’ll always remember.
Why This Story Matters (For the Series—and For You)
This is the day‑in‑the‑life episode that blows up the “you’re overreacting” narrative.
It’s not a dramatic hospital moment. It’s coffee creamer, ghosts in the grocery store, and the quiet violence of being polite when you’d rather burn it all down.
It’s also the thesis of the whole series:
When systems and people cast you as the villain, you keep choosing the high road—not because you’re a saint, but because you’re protecting the only person who actually matters.
To be continued…
