Systems, Scripts, and “Put Her Somewhere”: Fighting on Two Fronts
Systems, Scripts, and “Put Her Somewhere”: Fighting on Two Fronts
Dear diary,
By the time most people see us, the hard part of the day has already happened.
They see the neat pill organizers, the appointment cards stuck to the fridge, the way I can recite her medication list without checking. They see a daughter who “has it under control” and a mother who can still make a person feel special and entertained.
What they do not see is that every bit of that order exists despite the systems we have to navigate, not because of them.
Caring for her means fighting on two fronts.
Inside the Cottage, I am soft. I translate. I soothe. I protect the Bubble.
Outside, in doctors’ offices, billing departments, and intake assessments, I am hard. I advocate. I document. I protect her from being flattened into codes.
The Two Versions of Me
“If I don’t remember, it never happened” is her go‑to.
“I don’t know why the fuck you ask me these questions, I have Alzheimer’s and can’t remember shit.”
It is her escape.
It is her defense.
It is her way of saying, Don’t ask me, I’m gonna be wrong.
Both versions of me — soft and hard — are real.
Both are exhausting.
The Appointment Gauntlet
On paper, a routine appointment is simple:
Drive
Check in
Sit in the waiting room
See the doctor
Go home
In real life, it starts hours earlier.
There is the dance of getting her ready without making her feel handled — laying out clothes where she will “find” them, giving her time to do as much as she still can herself, quietly filling in the gaps when her body or brain can’t cooperate.
The Reminder Script
It sounds like this:
“We are leaving at 8. After blood work, we can get your favorite Starbucks drink.”
“Coffee?” — all excited and already ready to get that shit done so we can have a happy.
“What time are we leaving?”
“8 am.”
“What time is it?”
“6:30.”
“Okay, that means I have an hour and a half to sit here. Can we get coffee on the way?”
“No, but we can get it on the way home after blood work.”
“Okay, what time are we leaving? I know I probably asked already, but can we stop for a coffee?”
“Yep, absolutely.”
“If I wash my hair, would you blow‑dry it? You do a better job than I do. I wear out.”
“Of course, see you in the shop in a few.”
Then come the texts:
“What time are we leaving? I need to wash my hair.”
8 am. If you come into the shop, I’ll blow‑dry.”
“Oh, thank you!”
“I’ll be there in a little while. What time are we leaving? Can we go get a coffee?”
“Absolutely.”
Then:
“Why am I going to the doctor today? I’m not sick…”
And my script:
“We’re just going to check up with the doctor, do blood work, and prove you are doing great. You know how they are — they love their questions.”
“What would I do without you, L?”
“You are quite capable, but I’m glad to help.”
The exam hasn’t even started yet. I’m already on my second cup of emotional support.
HOT TIP: The “Reminder Loop” Is Not Failure
If you’re stuck in this same 5‑minute loop for hours:
Stop taking it personally. The repetition is not stubbornness; it’s the disease.
Answer like it’s the first time. Calm repetition keeps you regulated, which keeps them regulated.
Anchor with a reward. For us, it’s Starbucks. For you, it might be a pastry, a drive by an old favorite spot, or time in the garden afterward.
You’re not “giving in.” You’re building a bridge that your person can actually walk across.
The Waiting Room Performance
At the office, the performance begins before we even sit down.
“Do you want to sit, and I’ll check us in?”
“Absolutely, but I want to go get a coffee.”
“We can go as soon as we give blood and have a quick check‑up.”
She looks at the receptionist and says,
“I don’t think she wants my blood,”
— giggling and showing her wit. The receptionist checks us in with a smile:
“I hope you get your coffee soon, the wait won’t be too long here…”
So pleasant, cheerful, and at ease, we get called to the back. The tech asks how she’s feeling.
“I feel fine, I don’t know why she made me come today, but we get coffee when you are done.”
They laugh — same as last visit, and the one before. She tells a story about the sleepy town she grew up in and shows off her beloved library. Loved and entertaining, they argue over who’s going to spend ten minutes with her while the needle goes in and the vials fill.
Then the clipboards (or tablets) appear. Forms I’ve filled out a dozen times in a dozen different fonts:
Emergency contact
Insurance information
Who has the power of attorney?
And always the section that wants to measure her by numbers:
On a scale of one to ten, how is her pain?
List her conditions.
List her medications.
List her surgeries.
List her falls.
By the time we sit in the exam room, she is already tired.
HOT TIP: Pre‑Load the Paperwork
If you can:
Keep a master document with meds, diagnoses, surgeries, allergies, and contacts so you can copy it over instead of re‑remembering each time.
Ask whether forms can be sent in advance via a portal or email. Sometimes they say no. Sometimes they say yes, and you get back 20 minutes of your soul.
Keep photos of insurance cards and IDs on your phone. Technology exists — let it carry some of the load.
The Exam Room Tightrope
The doctor comes in with practiced calm, eyes flicking between her face and the chart. I appreciate the ones who start by speaking to her, not to me.
“How are you doing?”
“I’M fine,” she says automatically.
He asks the normal questions: pain level, discomfort, new symptoms, and any other questions. He starts to reference labs, and on cue, Sassy Ass arrives in full force:
“I don’t know why you ask me… I have Alzheimer’s and can’t remember shit. If I don’t remember, it never happened. But if I’m here, I assume something is wrong.”
He gives a hearty laugh.
“That’s fair. May I ask L some questions to fill in the gaps?”
“Why the fuck didn’t you just start there?”
All humor and seriousness rolled into one, she looks at me for clarity — for the temperature of the room emotionally.
It’s okay, right?
Should she be scared?
All of that in three hours, and then:
“Can we get a coffee when we leave here?”
He looks at me, about to question the coffee, and I give the slightest no‑no shake.
“Of course, we can,” I say.
No coffee is in the coffee today, and Starbucks knows exactly how to make our non‑coffee coffee to her taste. The quick brush‑off to his upcoming question was intentional. Don’t mess her day up by telling her she can’t drink it.
Acid issues, GI stuff — she doesn’t need to be reminded that her favorite drink can’t be what it used to be. We simply found a workaround.
Then the flip side:
“I’m not seven,” she snapped once. “I’m seventy‑something. Why are we doing first‑grade questions?”
“Who’s the parent, L?”
“Depends on the day, N,” I say, with a giggle and a side‑eye glare, and on we go…
The doctor watches the interaction, finds it amusing, and tells her that she has a good caregiver and that she is special.
“I’m spoiled and don’t know what I would do without her,” she says — pride and resentment all rolled into one, a spicy, engaging mind with short‑term memory loss.
I feel the familiar mix of pride and dread.
Proud that her personality is still fully present.
Dread because I know how this can go.
If she does well, there’s a risk.
“She seems great,” a provider might say, looking more at me than at her. “Are you sure things are as bad as you’re describing?”
That used to be the fear years ago; today, that thought is gone. But with new professionals, it’s always a gamble: what will trigger the spicy, and what will happen after we leave?
The aftermath is real, and it can turn what sounds super productive into something vile and scary. Was today not that day? Last month? It depends on the visit and what kind of doc we saw.
If she does badly, there’s a different risk — she’ll walk out furious with me for dragging her there.
Either way, I’m the one who has to fill in the missing pieces.
When the doctor turns to me with that quiet, clinical look — the one that says, Tell me what’s really happening — I have to compress months of daily life into a few digestible phrases.
What I do not say out loud is:
increased confusion
heightened anxiety
appetite changes
more nighttime wakefulness
You see twenty minutes. I see twenty‑four hours.
Out loud, I say, “We seem to be doing great. That new app with notes is awesome — I think this new way of communicating is amazing technology.” I guide him to the messages in her portal, the ones he hasn’t read yet, where I spent hours the night before compiling her current status at home — clear, specific, and honest, but still protecting her dignity.
HOT TIP: Translate Without Erasing Them
When you’re in that exam room, tightrope walk:
Let them answer first when it’s safe. Their dignity matters more than the office’s schedule.
Then add context: ask your loved one for permission to share your details, or share them outside the visit, and direct the professionals to where you shared.
Use concrete examples (missed meds, lost in familiar rooms, new agitation) instead of “she’s worse.”
You’re not undermining them. You’re making sure the doctor is treating the whole picture, not the 20‑minute highlight reel.
The “Put Her Somewhere” Chorus
Outside exam rooms, another script plays on a loop.
“Are you done yet? Ready to put her in a home so you can have your life back?”
“You’ll feel so much better once the professionals take over.”
Sometimes it’s framed as concern:
“It’s too much for one person. You can’t do this forever. Have you thought about a facility?”
Sometimes it is pure self‑interest, thinly disguised as advice:
“If she were in a place, we could visit more. It would be easier for everyone.” “You make it hard on us.”
They say it like I haven’t spent nights staring at the ceiling, thinking through that exact possibility from every angle.
They say it like there is a magic building somewhere full of unlimited staff who have no burnout, no ratios, no shift changes, no institutional blind spots.
They say it as if the decision is purely logistical, not moral.
As if moving her would be a simple change of address, instead of a seismic shift in what little solidity she has left.
I am not romantic about at‑home care.
I am realistic about what it gives her:
continuity
familiarity
a Bubble that actually reflects her reality instead of forcing her to live in someone else’s schedule
I am also realistic about what it costs me.
HOT TIP: Handling the “Just Put Her Somewhere” Crowd
When the chorus starts up:
You do not owe everyone your whole ethical spreadsheet. A simple, “We have a plan that works for her right now,” is enough.
Use a stock phrase for repeat offenders: “That’s a big decision. We’re working with her doctors and our team on it.” Then change the subject.
Remember: people often project their own fear or guilt. Their discomfort doesn’t mean your choice is wrong.
Regiving, Again and Again
So I come back to the concept that has quietly guided more of my choices than most people realize.
Regiving.
Regiving is handing care off to a trusted person or place when your love isn’t enough to keep them safe.
We’ve already done it in smaller ways:
bringing in outside help for specific tasks
handing certain responsibilities to professionals
choosing the Cottage as the place where her story will be steadied instead of spun
She chose here. We all agreed. For this chapter of her life, the Cottage is the best compromise between independence and safety.
Regiving is not narcissistic. Regiving is not controlling.
It is:
humane
dignified
a reflection of her trust in us
our ethics circling back to her
a plan we build with her as much as possible, not on top of her
The people who say “just put her somewhere” often imagine giving as abandonment.
To me, Regiving is the opposite.
It is refusing to abandon her to chaos — whether that chaos comes from a family system in denial or from an institution that doesn’t see her as a whole person.
It is choosing, over and over, the option that best protects her mind and body, even when that option complicates everyone else’s lives.
Will there come a day when a facility, hospice, or another setting is the most loving choice? Probably. Maybe. Of course. But that isn’t the present on our journey.
If and when that day comes, it will be an act of Regiving, not surrender.
Until then, the Cottage is where we fight.
HOT TIPS: For Caregivers in the Two‑Front War
If you’re also fighting on two fronts — inside the home and out in the systems — here are a few hard‑won things that help:
Build your scripts on purpose.
For them: gentle, repetitive, reassuring.
For doctors: specific, factual, unapologetically honest.
Keep a “symptom log lite.”
Jot a few lines on your phone each day or week: confusion spikes, sleep patterns, appetite, big behavior changes. Future‑you in the exam room will thank past‑you.Protect the Bubble.
You get to decide who comes inside your person’s Bubble and on what terms. If someone consistently dysregulates them (or you), they can love from further away.Outsource without abandoning.
A home health aide, house cleaner, or respite program doesn’t mean you’ve failed. It means you’re Regiving — widening the circle so your love isn’t the only thing standing between them and harm.Schedule recovery after appointments.
Build in “decompression time” afterward — coffee in the car, quiet TV, a nap for them and for you.If a facility is the better path for you and your loved one, that is your choice. These places exist for a reason — they are there when they work and when they’re needed. There is no judgment here.
Each memory care journey is different. We may share patterns and stories, but they are never one‑size‑fits‑all. They are always unique. Always personal.
Author’s Note: Love and Patience as Daily Labor
If no one has said this to you today: this is hard because it is hard, not because you’re doing it wrong.
Love and patience in in‑home caregiving are not vibes. They are labor.
They are:
The 17th cheerful answer to “What time are we leaving?”
The non‑coffee coffee was ordered exactly right, so her favorite thing is still hers.
The quiet hand on hers in an exam room while you translate her life into bullet points.
We do the hard work so the “others,” the spectators, and the outside world can stay comfortable believing she is “doing great.”
You and I know the truth: the systems are not built for this kind of love. We bend them, hack them, and work around them so our people can keep their dignity.
If you are in your own Cottage, fighting your own two‑front war — I see you.
You are not crazy. You are not unhinged. You are doing sacred, brutal, ordinary work.
And for today, that is enough.
Dazey
