The day comes to an end.
My house feels like it’s made of glass. The visceral response to the changes I've had to make over the last 15 years is open to interpretation, especially given the vast number of people I’m connected to in a small city that has just enough of a small-town vibe. Was it the lack of awareness in the early days regarding transparency, as I tried to maintain a private life in the customer service industry? Was it her need for secrecy when she first started feeling ‘off’ that led to confusion and disconnection from those she helped? The days were close to the edge of madness. How far down the rabbit hole of memory can we go to find the roots of dysfunction and total destruction from the middle years?
In our business setting, we worked together as a mother and daughter, business partners and friends, navigating the contrast between public perception and reality.
We often relive the past: the day her mom shot herself with a shotgun; six months later, the stepmother (the "monster") entered her life for real. We reflect on the days of meeting her forever friends and her favorite grandmother, who defied all odds. When her grandmother became a widow in 1950s rural America, she picked herself up and entered the world of politics, winning an elected office and holding it for over 25 years until she chose to step down. Gotta love a Grandmother Mabel story, which we recount multiple times a day with slight variations that reveal its truth.
Mimicking has become our new reality tonight. When I say something, she rephrases it slightly as if it were her own idea all along. For some, this might be annoying, frustrating, or downright mind-numbing. But not for me or my guests at work. We hear happy stories from the past and hard life lessons that often hurt more than words can express. These stories are important and relevant to the atmosphere and energy of the small space we’re in. It’s all about the storytelling vibe and the mood related to whatever topic arises when she swings open the white door and says, “I came to tell you something, but I have already forgotten what it was…”
There's often a blinding silence from the guest for no more than 3–5 seconds. She doesn’t notice, and I reply, “Well, come on in and say hi to…” She responds, “Okay, I’m sure I’ll remember it in a moment, but since I have Alzheimer’s, who knows?”
The most popular saying at the dr’s office…”Why you askin’ me, I have alzhiemers and don’t remember shit.” While on the topic of popular sayings is…”So THERE!”
The best conversation I heard this morning was at the coffee shop. She told the barista that she lives in a bougee (her word) tent in her daughter’s backyard. When the barista asked if I was her daughter, she replied with a sly giggle, “She’s my chauffeur today.”
The plumber had to stop by to address the shower issue, as the water pressure had decreased significantly in her eyes. When I called the plumber the day before, he asked me whether this was a sudden change or a gradual one. My response was something like, “Fuck if I know.”
1. a new problem, and
2. mentioned in passing a few weeks ago.
However, I was already dealing with the AC technician who was coming to fix the heater for the cottage at 7 PM on a freezing Sunday night that affected half the southern states. I didn't want to think about shower head water pressure; my main concern was leaving notes on the faucets to remind her not to turn them off, so the water would drip and prevent frozen pipes.
She has a strong dislike for notes taped on mirrors, windows, or anywhere else. She doesn’t understand why they need to stay in those places, just like she questions why the stove is unplugged or why there’s no stopper in the kitchen sink—these issues require attention. The last five years have felt like being a caged animal, trapped in a loop of disjointed feelings and overlapping timeframes, with stories that may be years apart. If you grasp this statement, you recognize the need for compassion rather than correction. The analogy I can only assume reflects what I see: emotions racing across her face while her mind struggles to catch up.
Do we downplay our need to focus on the present when it becomes uncomfortable? Yes—we try to avoid that discomfort for as long as possible. We attempt to minimize the chaos of fear and work within the confines of a brilliant mind struggling to connect to the here and now. While the past may be filled with trauma and turmoil, deep down, it is known that it belongs to the past while still clinging to the present as if we’re holding onto a bungee cord stretched high above a cliff, hoping for a soft landing instead of a painful crash filled with agony, fear, and embarrassment.
My approach is to maintain dignity and soften the blow as best I can within the confines of ‘do as I say’ Mamma Bear and ‘yes, ma'am ' vibes. I can’t escape the noise and chaos of her memories; I must confront them, stay focused, and remember that living in a world on her terms is far more human than trying to force everything back to the present and witnessing the devastation unfold.
Regarding the plumber this morning: he headed to the cottage while I was working, and we agreed to catch up once he figured out what was causing the problem with the showerhead. Half an hour later, I walked in, and he informed me he knew what was wrong. We went to the bathroom, and I quietly asked if it was an easy fix. He replied, “Yep, gotta rip out the whole shower,” in a deadpan manner. With her in the room and the TV on, I knew she wouldn’t hear us if I remained calm and collected. I said, “Okay… busted pipe? Broken stem?” He then revealed, “L, I’m kidding. The settings were changed, and she needed a small gasket. It’s fixed, and look...” The shower is now perfect with all the water pressure. I asked him to teach me the settings he has so I can check and keep them consistent. He agreed, and now we know how to change them back if needed. It’s all about being proactive to avoid disappointment and ensure consistency for her.
I’ll end this with dinner. We had gone to the store on Sunday, picked out fresh green beans, and everything needed to make her favorite recipe: sausage, green beans, potatoes, and corn on the cob. All the ingredients cook down in one big pot, and her personal favorite.
She helped me destem the beans while I started the stockpotaround 4 pm. Once everything was combined and all we had to do was wait and let it cook down, she headed back to the cottage to see what was happening with the cat and her iPad. Dinner would be ready by 6 PM. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll come get you?” I replied, “Nope. I’ll be here.” “Okay, see you in a bit.”
At 5:23 PM, “I assume you are not cooking tonight.’ The text I received was filled with angst. I replied, “Dinner ready at 6!””She responded, “Oh? What are you cooking?” I replied, “Green beans and potatoes and stuff.” She sent heart emojis and replied, “Perfect!”
At the table, we had a lighthearted discussion about how, if I had told her earlier, she would have taught me her recipe and how it could be improved. This wasn’t the first time we’d had this critique or discussion. It’s almost funny how many times it starts with her wanting to improve things, yet by the end of dinner, she declares it the best and says no changes are needed. It’s a mental tug-of-war between staying present and the past—balancing her desire to share wisdom and not wanting to be a burden or difficult.
We had a lovely time, and she retreated to her safe space with “good nite, set my alarm?” a reply of .. ‘before or after you return to the cat?'“ which always (and I mean) always results in a giggle, eye roll, and the middle finger presented with “D’on’t sass me, LA” and a “Nite nite N,” all the smiles and giggles.
A few minutes later, I received a text: “I didn’t take my pills!” I replied, “Yep… you did.” She responded, “How do you know? I didn’t!” I asked, “Is the box on your table?” She said, “Nope…” I responded, “Then you took them.”
Routines and schedules are important.
It was a gentle text exchange filled with smiling heart emojis. Eventually, she relented and trusted my word, accepting that if I said it happened, it did. We went back to our goodnight messages.
Think: Old school Italian family reunion where greeting everyone takes 45 minutes, and saying goodbye is just as long.
I was trained for this kind of situation, and I am successful in meeting our needs on our journey. But…
As the day comes to an end, I’m left with these thoughts: If I’m so vapid and villainous, why have I been doing this alone for nine years? If I’m unhinged and toxic, why does it seem so easy to others when the glasshouse has no blinds? If I weren’t here to help, how would her life be if I didn’t put effort into her world?
