Vibes-Only Caregiving, Part Three: When the Plan Eats Dirt (And We Don’t)

Vibes-Only Caregiving, Part Three: When the Plan Eats Dirt (And We Don’t)

Today’s episode is brought to you by: a color‑coded plan, three appointment reminders, one very smug pill organizer… and the universe laughing in my face. #fuckit

Welcome back to the positive side of the shit show.

If Part One was coffee runs and chaos, and Part Two was cinnamon tea and the tiniest win, Part Three is what happens when you do everything “right” — and the day still swan‑dives off the rails. #wtf

Spoiler: the plan ate dirt. We didn’t.

In Vibes‑Only Caregiving, success is not “the day went smoothly.” Success is: “the day went feral, and somehow we’re still standing, still speaking, and maybe even laughing once before midnight.”

The Plan (AKA: The Jinx)

You’d think I’d have learned by now: the second I say, “This should be a pretty easy day,” the dementia gods start stretching. #burnbadassburn #holdmybeer

The plan looked great on paper:

• A slow morning.

• One mid‑day doctor appointment.

• A quick pharmacy pickup.

• Home in time for a chat, some texts, and her favorite show.

Nothing fancy. Just a manageable Thursday.

I did all the “good caregiver” things:

• Laid out clothes the night before.

• Packed the bag.

• Charged the phone. Set the alarms. Double‑checked the calendar.

I even prepped the script:

“We have a quick doctor visit today. We don’t have to fast, so we can stop for coffee on the way. What ya think? After that, we can run anywhere you want to go.”

Look at me. Prepared. Positive. Ready.

Caregiving Rule #47: The more prepared you are, the more creative the plot twist.

The First Wobble

The morning started out… suspicious.

She woke up super energetic, super early. Ready to go by 6, which in this house is basically: ummm??? Yeah… we don’t move that early here anymore. She’s more of an 8:30 vibe.

“When are we leaving?”

“9:30.”

“It’s only 6 a.m.?”

“Yep, we have some time. No hurry or rush.”

A frown. A pause.

“That doesn’t sound right.”

But she sat back in her favorite chair, kicked off her shoes, took off her sunglasses, and picked up the iPad.

I dared to think: Maybe this really will be okay.

I should’ve shut the fuck up, even in my own head.

One hour later, the minute we hit the “Get Your Shoes On” portion of the program, the whole thing tilted.

When “No” Means “I’m Scared” (But Sounds Like War)

Shoes are apparently the line between “cozy at home” and “the world is coming for me.”

I held them out.

“Alright, N, let’s get these on and head out. We want to get a Starbucks coffee on the way.”

Her whole body stiffened.

“I’m not going.”

Just like that. Flat. Steel.

I tried the soft route.

“We’re just going to see Dr. What’s‑His‑Face, remember? You like him.”

“No.”

“He helps, and your energy gets better.”

“No.”

Then came the classics:

“I’m fine.” “I don’t need a doctor.” “They’re just going to tell me I’m old.” “You can go without me.”

On the surface, it looked like stubbornness. Resistance. Heel‑digging for sport.

But under "no" is usually one of three things:

• I’m scared.

• I don’t understand.

• This feels like something being done to me, not for me.

And my nervous system? Already at a 7.

Because I know what happens if we don’t go:

• Meds don’t get adjusted.

• Bloodwork doesn’t get updated.

• Future emergencies get messier.

• I have to answer to the “others.”

Also, I took off work, rearranged calls, and did calendar gymnastics worthy of Cirque du Soleil to make this happen.

I wanted to yell, “We are going because I have sacrificed twelve work hours and four hours of sleep for this!”

Instead, I zoomed in.

Micro‑Script in the Middle of a Meltdown

I sat down. Put the shoes down. Looked at her, not the clock.

“Hey. Today feels like a lot, huh?”

She stared at the floor.

“No fucking way am I putting on those shoes.”

“That makes sense. It’s a lot of poking and questions and people in your business, and I know you’d rather the loafers, but we’re walking and you don’t like the walker.”

She snorted. “I fucking hate this.”

“They always ask the same damn questions.”

Fair. The questions get harder, and having to keep saying “I can’t remember, ask her” gets old fast.

“Here’s the deal,” I said. “We don’t have to think about the whole doctor thing yet. Right now, we just have to do one thing: socks and shoes. And Starbucks coffee. If the answer is still no when we get to his office, I promise to call them from the car and reschedule…”

She didn’t say yes.

But she didn’t say no.

So I picked up a sock and did what I do when my own panic is spiking: I narrated the boring.

“I’m putting the sock on your right foot. This one is the soft pair you like, not the tight ones. After this, we’ll do the left. Then we’ll see how it feels.”

One sock. Then the other.

“I’m not stupid, L. I am aware of the process of socks and fucking shoes.”

No full surrender. But no full battle.

Tiny win.

And then the plan ate dirt.

“Alright, sassy ass with a potty mouth!”

Plot Twist: The Car Ambush

You know that moment when you think you’re in the clear… and then you’re absolutely not?

We made it to the car. This alone felt like a minor miracle.

I buckled her in. Shut the door. Took the kind of deep breath you see in yoga ads.

By the time I walked around to my side and opened my door, she was in tears.

“I don’t want to go. I changed my mind.”

Not light, misty tears.

The chest‑heaving, snotty, panicked ones that say: I’m not being dramatic. I’m overwhelmed. I’m drowning.

The appointment clock was ticking. My brain went full chaos math:

• If we leave now, we’ll barely make it.

• If we go back inside, I’ll have to reschedule.

• If I force it, we both break.

• If I cancel, something important doesn’t get done.

Caregiver brain loves to offer only worst‑case options.

But Vibes‑Only brain whispered: What makes this 5% kinder?

So I got in the car.

And I did not turn the key.

Letting the Plan Break Without Letting Us Break

We sat in the driveway, engine off, doors closed, both of us breathing like we’d just run a marathon we didn’t train for.

“Sassy ass, it’s just a coffee run. Suck it up so they don’t think I’m mean to you when I order us a Dolce and a cinnamon pull‑apart to share?”

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, annoyed at the tears.

“I hate this.”

“Me too,” I said. “The doctor part sucks. The planning around it sucks. The not knowing what they’ll say sucks.”

She huffed.

“They always ask if I know what day it is. I don’t give a damn what day it is. I’m here, aren’t I?”

There it was: the humiliation. The constant testing.

“You are here,” I said. “And you’re doing something hard.

We can decide this together: we can go in late and tell them it was a rough start, or we can skip today and I’ll call and reschedule. Either way, I’ve got you. I’m starting the car and driving to Starbucks… remember, you can’t look like I beat you when we get there.”

She looked at me like I’d offered to cancel gravity.

“You mean we don’t have to go?”

So much of their life feels forced. Timed. Controlled. Like there’s a silent checklist of “good patient” behavior they’re supposed to hit.

Sometimes just saying, “We have options” is the pressure valve.

We sat there for another minute.

“What would happen if we don’t go?” she asked.

“We’ll miss this check‑in. I’ll call to move it. It’s not ideal, but it’s not the end of the world. I won’t be mad. I’ll just be a little tired and we’ll try again another day. But coffee and then decisions.”

She took a breath.

Another.

Then, very quietly:

“If we go… can we get something good after?”

Ah. There it is.

Negotiating With Treats and Dignity

“Something good” used to mean mall trips and Starbucks runs and wandering through Target pretending we only needed toothpaste.

Now it means:

• A drive‑thru Coke.

• Fries.

• A cinnamon tea.

• Ten minutes parked where she can people‑watch and narrate strangers’ lives like we’re casting a soap opera.

“Yes,” I said. “If we go, we get something good after. If it’s too much, we can even come home early. Deal? A two‑Starbucks kind of day… one on the way and one after we leave.”

She sniffed.

“Can I say bad words if I don’t like what they say?”

“Say what you say and it’s all copacetic. Won’t offend me and I’m sure they’ve heard worse.”

A tiny twitch of a smile.

“Fine. Let’s go. But I’m not promising to be nice.”

Honestly? Fair.

The plan didn’t look like the one on my calendar anymore.

But we had a new one:

• Get there late.

• Tell the truth: “We stopped for coffee, and we are here,” with a wink and a smile.

• Survive the appointment.

• Drive‑thru something good.

That’s not failure. That’s adaptation with a side of fries.

Inside the Appointment: Chaos, Translated

Doctors’ offices with dementia are their own special hell.

Fluorescent lights. Paper gowns. Clipboards. Forms that assume someone can give clean, linear answers about symptoms and timelines when time itself has become slippery.

We checked in. We waited. She fidgeted. I filled out the same forms I’ve filled out nine thousand times.

The nurse called her name. Mispronounced it, of course.

“That’s not my name,” she muttered.

“Close enough,” I whispered.

Vitals. Questions.

“Any changes since last time?”

“I have Alzheimer’s, I don’t remember shit.”

Not attitude, just facts. A smile and a laugh to soften her “teasing.”

In my head: Where would you like me to start? The sleep? The mood swings? The way she sometimes looks at me like I’m someone she used to know a long time ago?

She gave the commentary. “Ask L, she has a better memory, and I’ll just fuck it up.”

“Do you feel safe at home?” they asked.

She shot me a look.

“Only when she makes the tea right,” she said, laughing, all charming giggles.

The nurse laughed, made a note. I did not explain that sarcasm with a cinnamon aftertaste is our current love language.

The doctor came in. More questions. More adjusting meds, planning labs, doing the dance of “managing” a disease that does not give a shit about our management.

At one point, she turned to him and said:

“You know I don’t remember most of what you say. I just don’t know why you fucking ask me all these questions. I have Alzheimer’s and can’t remember shit. Honestly, I won’t remember your name in 10 minutes.”

The laughter and spice. The sass and the bite. All there, and she’s not wrong.

“That’s fair,” he said and smiled. “May I ask L a few questions?”

“Why not just start there next time?” she said with a smile. “I can’t remember shit and hate the confusion.”

He nodded. She doesn’t sound addled or confused. She’s brilliant and sounds totally “with it.”

“That’s why I say it to both of you,” he answered. “She remembers for you. You just have to remember you’re not doing this alone.”

I almost cried in that freezing, over‑air‑conditioned room.

No, it didn’t fix anything. But for thirty seconds, someone acknowledged that this was heavy and that we were both in it.

That counts.

When the Plan Fails, We Count Different Wins

Did we leave with a perfect understanding of the new med schedule? No.

Did I have to ask follow‑up questions in the portal later? Absolutely.

Did she get overwhelmed halfway through and tell the doctor, “I’m done now”? Yes.

And yet:

We got there. We told the truth. We adjusted what needed adjusting. We left with no one shouting, sobbing, or threatening to move out.

In baseline‑land, that’s nothing. In memory‑care land, that’s a fucking medal.

On the way home, she looked out the window and said:

“I don’t remember half of what happened in there.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I do. That’s my job.”

Pause.

“Your job sucks,” she said.

I laughed.

“It really does,” I told her. “But you’re stuck with me.”

“I know,” she said. “I picked you on purpose.”

And just like that, the plan that had face‑planted gave us something the calendar didn’t promise:

Proof that underneath the fear and the fog and the forms, we are still us.

The Drive‑Thru Debrief

We hit the drive‑thru like we were coming back from battle. Because we were.

She ordered a Coke and fries. I got caffeine and something vaguely resembling protein.

We parked under a tree.

“That wasn’t so bad,” she said between sips. “They didn’t yell at me.”

“No one’s going to yell at you,” I said.

“You do,” she shot back, without missing a beat.

Fair.

“Okay, I yell when you hide your pills in the napkin,” I said. “That’s a different category.”

She smirked.

“Well. Then stop making it so easy.”

The joke cracked the tension. Again.

This is why we bribe ourselves with drinks and fries and cinnamon tea:

Not because we’re in denial about how hard this is.

But because:

• Our nervous systems need a landing pad.

• Our bodies need something familiar after something scary.

• Our relationship needs something that isn’t just meds, forms, and fear.

For twenty minutes, watching people go in and out of the building next door, narrating their lives like a soap opera, we weren’t “patient” and “caregiver.”

We were just us.

Tiny Script for When Your Plan Goes to Hell

If you’re doing at‑home dementia care (or honestly, any kind of long‑term hard) and your carefully crafted plan blows up, here’s a tiny script to keep in your pocket.

Instead of:

• “We have to go, stop being difficult.”

• “I rearranged everything for this; you can’t back out.”

• “You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”

Try:

• “This feels like a lot, doesn’t it?”

• “Right now, we don’t have to decide the whole thing. Let’s just do the next small step.”

• “We have options. We can go, go late, or reschedule. Either way, I’m with you.”

• “If we do this hard thing, we’re getting something good after. Non‑negotiable.”

And then:

• Pause in the driveway instead of flooring it.

• Let them cry without rushing to fix it.

• Tell the doctor, “We had a rough start getting here,” instead of pretending you floated in on a cloud of grace.

If it all falls apart and you don’t make it?

That’s not moral failure. That’s data.

You learn what was too much. You try a different slice of the plan next time.

Why Vibes‑Only Caregiving Isn’t Delusional

On paper, “Vibes‑Only Caregiving” can sound like denial. Like we’re trying to positive‑think our way out of dementia, or wrap grief in glitter.

We’re not.

We’re refusing to let the medical chart be the only story.

We’re saying:

Yes, this is brutal. Yes, there are days the weight of it could flatten a person. Yes, the system is often dehumanizing as hell.

And also:

• There are small, stubborn pockets of good that still show up.

• There are jokes in the car, fries in the parking lot, and cinnamon tea in chipped mugs.

• There are moments where you lock eyes and remember: Oh. It’s still us in here.

That’s not fantasy. That’s survival.

If Your Plan Is Currently on Fire

If you’re reading this in the middle of your own plan‑gone‑sideways day — dementia, chronic illness, disability, mental health, grief, or just life being an unrelenting asshole — here’s your slightly spicy reminder:

You’re allowed to:

• Call it a win that you made the call to reschedule instead of white‑knuckling your person through a panic attack.

• Name “we sat in the car and told the truth about how much this sucks” as progress.

• Celebrate the fact that you didn’t scream into the void (or if you did, that you came back from it).

You’re not failing because the plan broke. You’re adapting to a reality most people never have to navigate.

In Vibes‑Only Caregiving, the whole point is that we don’t measure success by how closely the day matched the plan. We measure it by how we treated ourselves and each other while it all fell apart.

So maybe your small win today isn’t even leaving the driveway.

Maybe it’s:

• Sitting in the parked car, doors closed, breathing together until the panic drops from a 10 to an 8.

• Deciding to call the office and say, “We can’t make it,” and refusing to apologize as if you committed a crime.

• Driving to the appointment while blasting the one song that always softens their shoulders.

Whatever your version is — it counts.

Write it down. Tell somebody. Tell yourself.

Because when the plan eats dirt and you don’t?

That’s not nothing.

That’s another small win for the stack.

And around here, we stack them like armor.

We’re still here. We’re still us.

And on the positive side of this shit show, that is more than enough for today.