The Day She Asked About the Cottage and Really Meant: Will You Miss Me?

The Day She Asked About the Cottage and Really Meant: Will You Miss Me?

Vibes-Only Caregiving: What Will You Do When I’m Gone?

“What will you do with the cottage when I’m gone?”

Not a preface. Not a gentle on-ramp.

Just a random, quiet afternoon. Coffee is cooling on the table. Her eyes were on something far away that I couldn’t see. And then the question drops into the room like a brick through glass.

“What will you do with the cottage when I’m gone?”

“Well… what do you want me to change when you no longer live here?” I ask back.

“I think you should do whatever you want.”

OK.

On paper, it’s logistics. Remodel. Future plans. In real life, it’s code. It’s her way of asking:

Will you miss me? Will there still be a ‘we’ when I’m not here to remember us? Are you already building a life that doesn’t have to orbit my diagnosis?

This isn’t the first time she’s asked. And she’s not the only one.

People ask versions of this all the time:

• “L, what will you do when she’s gone?”

• “L, it’ll be so hard for you to adjust again… I mean, back to the way it used to be. Oof. You know what I mean.”

• “L, did they give you a timeline for when you get your life back?”

• “I didn’t mean it like that, I mean… you know what I mean…”

And then there’s the less friendly cut:

• “You’re dead to me” — but still with the gimme-gimme energy.

• “Are you done yet? When will you put her in a home?” (Translation: Please stop reflecting on what we didn’t, don’t, and won’t do. It’s making us uncomfortable.)

She hears some of it. She feels all of it.

She says:

• “I don’t want to be a burden.”

• “I fucking hate this.”

• “I don’t want this for you.”

• “I don’t think anyone else notices, do you?”

• “I’m not as bad as Dad was all those years ago…”

• “I have Alzheimer’s. I can’t remember shit.”

Every one of those lines is valid and fair, depending on the intent, the timing, the person, and the wound.

But I’ve made a choice in this season: I’m going to focus on the well-wishers and on her. The people whose questions come from love, confusion, fear, and the desperate hope that there’s a happy ending to all this.

Because caregivers’ lives are uncomfortable. Full stop. We live where the script runs out, and the vibes take over.

And if you’ve been with me for Parts One and Two of Vibes-Only Caregiving, you already know: this isn’t a manual. It’s not a “10 Steps to Gracefully Survive Dementia” list. This is a field report from the front lines of memory care with a spicy, brilliant mind.

The Question Under the Question

“What will you do when I die?” is the new meaning under everything.

What will you do with the cottage?
What will you do when I’m gone?
Will you keep living like this?
Will you be OK without me?

It’s not just about stuff or property or plans.

It’s a litmus test.

It’s her trying to check the temperature of her own disappearing timeline. It’s her asking: How much have I already lost? How much do you see that I don’t?

She knows enough to know there are gaps.

• “L, tell me we’re OK.”

• “L, don’t forget the real me.”

• “L, tell me there’s an end to your madness.”

• “L, tell me the happy ending, so I don’t have to sit through how awkward and uncomfortable this feels.”

People don’t say it that cleanly. But that’s the subtext.

We all want out of the discomfort. Spectators, siblings, friends, even professionals. Everyone wants the part where it’s neatly resolved, respectfully grieved, and organized in labeled bins.

But caregiving?

Caregiving is living in the part before the resolution.

It’s messy, loud, quiet, boring, terrifying, beautiful, and relentless. It doesn’t sit well at dinner parties or in small talk at the salon.

And speaking of salons—this is where my weird little background becomes my superpower.

Herding Cats, Mixing Color, Managing Chaos

I’ve got 34 years of managing salons and teaching hair color to people who don't want to be at work on their day off, listening to some chick spout off about color charts and ammonia content.

I am highly trained in:

• Herding cats

• Managing crisis

• Reading rooms full of people who’d rather be somewhere—anywhere—else

• Dealing with the mentally ill, the burnt out, the viciously petty, and the beautifully human

Compared to some of those days, this?
This feels like retirement with higher emotional stakes.

But then she asks a question like:

“What will you do when I die?”

And it punches you right in the face.
Your knees go out.
The stars feel like they’re falling out of the sky.

She’ll follow it up with something like:

“I’m 74. No… 76… fuck it. I was born in 1948; you do the math.”

She wraps it in charm. She deflects.
Because underneath that joke is the terror:

“I can’t remember my own age.”

Deflect. Joke. Hand the math to someone else.
“I hate math, always did,” she says. She’s always said.

It’s familiar. And it’s not.

That’s the thing about dementia: the lines don’t come with a label that says this is the disease talking vs this is just her being herself. You feel the shift in your gut more than you can prove it on paper.

When the Plan Bite

Here’s the part no one wants to admit out loud:

No matter how beautiful your “care plan” looks in a binder, life will eat it.

We don’t live inside PDFs and checklists. We live inside:

• 3 a.m. confusion

• Repeating the same answer for the 7th time in an hour

• The sudden, sharp questions about death, inheritance, and “what happens to the cottage.”

• The awkward conversations with people who want reassurance more than they want the truth

People ask for timelines like there’s a project manager somewhere in the back office of the universe:

“L, do they tell you a timeline for you to get your life back?”

As if someone in a white coat is going to say, “Yes, on June 14th at 3:42 PM, you will be done with all this and may return to your regularly scheduled existence.”

There is no return. There is only through.

But that doesn’t mean there’s no life.

Vibe Caregiving in the World of N

This is Vibes-Only Caregiving in the world of N and her sassy ass.

It’s not denial. It’s not toxic positivity. It’s saying:

Yes, this is awful.
Yes, this is sad.
Yes, this is unfair.
And also—there is still a life to be lived inside this.

We can’t remember everything.
We won’t get it all right.
We will say the wrong thing, laugh at the wrong time, cry in the grocery store, and scream in the car.

But we can:

• Make the cottage feel like home today without needing to know who will own it in five years.

• Answer her real question, not just the one she has words for.

• Refuse to shrink our love down to a “timeline” that makes other people more comfortable.

Because here’s the truth that caregivers don’t get told:

Your life is not on pause.
You are not in a waiting room, killing time until you “get your life back.”

This is your life.

The way you answer the hard questions, the way you hold the awkward pauses, the way you decorate the cottage, the way you sit with her when she can’t remember her age—

That is your life story.

So… What Will You Do When They’re Gone?

If you’re reading this as a caregiver, you’ve probably heard your own version of this question:

• What will you do when he dies?

• Will you sell the house?

• Are you going to move?

• Are you going to “finally live your life”?

It stings because it assumes you’re not already living.

Here’s my answer—for now:

I don’t know what I’ll do with the fucking cottage.
I don’t fucking know what my life will look like after.

But I know what I’m doing while she’s here:

• I’m choosing presence over pretending.

• I’m letting the questions land, even when they hurt.

• I’m answering the real fear under the small talk.

• I’m building a life that honors both of us, not one that waits for a finish line that doesn’t exist.

There will be a time after.
Not a “getting my life back” time. A different life.

When that comes, I’ll figure out the cottage.

For now, I’m here. In this room. With this question. This woman, born in 1948, hates math and can’t remember her age, but still delivers one-liners that could stop traffic.

And that, for today, is enough.

If you’re a caregiver or a spectator trying to love one, this series—Vibes-Only Caregiving—is for you.

Not to fix it. Not to tidy it up.

But to say, out loud:

You’re not crazy. #unhinged
You’re not alone. #asyouwish
And you are already living a real, full, complicated life—even in the middle of all this. #blessed #fuckit