Sometimes the hardest caregiving choices are the smallest ones—the missing sink stopper, the door alarm, the labels on the drawers. If you’ve ever made a change that upset the person you care for just to keep them safe, you’re not overreacting; you’re adapting.

A day in the life. pt.-1

Dazey’s Diary is for caregivers who never really got a manual—and for the “experienced” ones still winging it every day. This isn’t sugar-coated advice; it’s real talk, practical support, and zero judgment in a world of scams, deep fakes, and nonstop worry. You’re not failing—you’re dealing with a lot, and you don’t have to do it alone.

My story is not unique; it just has a more ‘in a glasshouse’ vibe for those who don’t know and make assumptions, while those who do know have opinions on what I could have done differently to make their lives better and more enjoyable. The outside world doesn’t think the way I do. I’m detailed in my approach because I’ve had years of experience before memory issues were diagnosed. I have ridden the waves of dysfunction for decades amid personal discontent—experiencing a “Do as I say, yes ma’am” vibe.

I share for two purposes. One is personal, the other is for the caregivers who feel alone, who have all this going on, and no one to understand. I understand more than I share, I see what others do not, I know the challenges and the triumphs, and I hope you know you matter. Even when the outside world doesn’t help you feel worthy, heard, valued, or god forbid, they one day offer the only help that would matter to the brilliant minds of the Alzheimer’s variety in the journey you are living in. Know that when it gets hard, there is always someone who can relate. Our journeys are different; everyone who knows knows. #iykykyk

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?