January 8-13, 2026
Dad was deeply honored to receive an invitation to speak at a special event honoring a former student who was being presented with a Lifetime Achievement Award. As the keynote speaker, he would need to travel to Nevada for several days to participate in the celebration. Before confirming his plans, he asked if I would stay with Mom for six days while he was away.
At the time, I was still working and fully immersed in the demands of my job. Looking back, I realize I had not been as intentional as I wanted to be in spending time with my parents or fully recognizing the extent of Mom’s decline.
In fact, the last meaningful time I had spent with them was four months earlier, in September, when my brother-in-law, Joe and his daughter, Holly, my niece, came to visit from New Jersey. Joe was married to my older sister, Marianne and during their marriage, they were blessed with three children. Tragically, Marianne passed in 2021 from a brain aneurysm. I’m not trying to get off track, but I hope you know why the visits with Marianne’s husband and children are a rich blessing. Holly still grieves her mom’s absence immensely, and being in the presence of her Grammy (mother’s mom) was an emotional moment. During that visit with Joe and Holly, Mom was still mobile enough to walk with assistance, but signs of change were already present. She seemed weaker and more easily fatigued, and there was an undercurrent of anxiety that occasionally surfaced. From the outside, everything appeared manageable. Dad, ever protective as her primary caregiver, did an incredible job of shielding others from the daily realities of her condition while maintaining the appearance of independence for them both.
Fast forward, four months later and Dad preparing for his upcoming trip, I agreed to stay with Mom. I was naïve about what those six days would entail. I assumed I could simply bring Mom along wherever I needed to go and that she would adapt without much difficulty. I had no idea how much her world had changed—or how much mine was about to change as a result.
Those six days became my first intimate encounter with the daily realities of dementia. For the first time, I stepped into Dad’s role and experienced firsthand the challenges, frustrations, and unexpected moments that come with caring for someone whose memory, abilities, and sense of self are gradually slipping away. The journal entries that follow capture those days and the lessons they taught me about Mom, about caregiving, and about love in the face of loss.
January 8, 2026
Dear Diary:
Day 1 – Mom gave Dixie her water pill while I was doing dishes, so the dog has been on a nonstop pee tour all morning 😱🐶🚿
It only took 17 polite requests, 4 negotiations, and 1 spiritual awakening to get Mom out of bed. Once washed, dressed, hair done, makeup on, she announced:
“I’m beautiful. Let’s go!” 🚗✨
The second we stepped outside, Mom released her walker like it was a wild animal. It rolled all the way down the hill and into the driveway, choosing freedom. 🏃♀️🛞
I had to chase the runaway walker while holding Dixie—who had also escaped—and zigzagging through the yard’s poo-poo land mines 💩💨🐕🦺
Dad missed his flight by one single minute ✈️⏱️ and got bumped to the 2pm flight, so he enjoyed several hours of freedom before swinging by just in time to leave again.
Mom tried to escape my workplace FOUR times. We had people guarding doors like it was a high-security prison 🚪🕵️♂️
And now… we’re off shopping 🛍️ and I’m taking her for a pedicure, because nothing says chaos day like ending it with self-care 💅😌
January 9, 2026
Dear Diary:
Day 2 – Mom: “Martha, you can go now. Go to work. I’ll stay here and sleep.”
Me: “Absolutely not. You’re already awake, you’ve had a gourmet breakfast, and now it’s bath time, hair wash, fresh outfit, and maximum comfy-cozy.”
Mom: “What?”
Me: “Comfy. Cozy. Say it out loud.”
Mom: “When you leave, I’ll do it all myself.”
Me: “If I leave, you’re coming with me.”
Mom: “Na-uh.”
Me: “A-uh.”
Mom: “Na-uh.”
Me: “A-uh.”
Mom: “Na-uh.”
Mom: “Yes. I am staying home. I am going to do a sleepy sleep in the bed. You do not need to ask me about anything, whatever it is, at all. I am going to sleep. Also, your father is on his way home, so you can go.
Goodbye.
Good night.
Forever.”
😵💫 Two adults. Zero winners. 🫠
January 10, 2026
Dear Diary:
Day 3 – Mom: “Is that rain?”
Me: “Yes, it’s raining today.”
Mom: “Oof… I’m so cold.”
Me: “I made you some hot tea—to warm your hands, and your soul.”
Mom: “Did my husband come home?”
Me: “Not yet. He’s out of town.”
Mom: “Oh… will I see him today?”
Me: “Not today.”
Mom: “Is that rain?”
Me: “Yes. Come with me to the door—I’ll let you see it.”
Mom: “Oh wow… it’s raining. I’m sleepy.”
Me: “Come with me, let’s go shopping.”
Mom: “I can’t today. I’m waiting for my husband to come home.”
Me: “How about a massage? I’m going to wash you, and rub lotion into your dry skin, and you’ll sleep like an angel.”
Mom: “Oh… that sounds lovely.”
Me: “Rest well, and I will watch you sleep.”
Winter and rain—quiet gifts, stirring something tender in an aging soul.
January 11, 2026
Dear Diary:
Day 4 – It only took three polite requests to wake up today—mercy new every morning! Mom opened her eyes smiling, ready to see what blessing awaited her at the breakfast table.
She doesn’t cook anymore; our roles have gently traded places. Funny how life circles back. I can say with honesty that she is far kinder to me now than I was to her back when she rose me from bed and ushered me to the table. Grace has a way of softening memory.
I will confess, though—she eats like a bird, and much of what is prepared becomes leftovers. My parents don’t believe in waste, and I respect that. Still, my weakest moments of judgment come when I open their refrigerator and discover the mysteries stored in Cool Whip containers and mason jars. Some of it looks like a science experiment, and I have questions—many questions. But the Lord is teaching me something in that icebox. I’m watching. I’m waiting. I’m still learning.
This morning Mom began her usual sermonette—her list of reasons why she should stay home and why I should leave. I gently reminded her she was singing in church today.
“I’m singing what?” she asked. I said, “Blessed Assurance.”
She blew a raspberry. “Whoh, I’m not sure I can do that.”
“You sang it yesterday,” I said.
“I did?”
“Yes—and you sang like a bird.”
She paused, then nodded. “Okay then. Let’s go to church.”
After her morning spa bath and her hair-and-makeup appointment in the office chair of Dad’s art studio, she looked at herself and breathed out, “Wow… I see me, again.”
There it was—that holy moment. Joy complete.
“I’m going to put on a Scottish movie,” I told her, “so you can enjoy the bagpipes and the singing of your ancestors. Stay comfy-cozy while I get ready.”
She smiled at me, full and certain, and said, “Oh, I love you.”
And in that moment, my heart sang too—
January 12, 2026
Dear Diary:
Day 5 – Mom woke herself up today and somehow managed to surprise me. I heard her shuffling down the hallway, clearly on a mission, only to be deeply disappointed that I was not the “dear” she was looking for.
Meanwhile, I was in the bathroom, hard at work straightening my hair like it was a full-time job with benefits.
Mom: “Your hair is long!”
Me: “Thanks, you gave it to me.”
Mom: “Teeheee.”
A wholesome moment. Truly!
Breakfast was fresh-cut fruit, yogurt, and an apple fritter. Correction: one-quarter of an apple fritter. And yet somehow… Mom ate everything.
Mom: “Are you leaving now?”
Me: “No, I am not.”
Mom: “I don’t know where my husband is.”
Me: “He’s out of town but coming home soon.”
Mom: “Oh great! Now you really must go. I mean it.”
Me: “I’ll be gone before you remember I was here.”
I then made the catastrophic decision to clean the cat’s litter box.
I lifted it, and the ammonia hit me like a chemical attack. I gagged, panicked, and ran into the yard holding it like an infected specimen from a sci-fi movie. There was no turning back now. I had started something I deeply regretted.
Once emptied, I carried the box to the bathtub, sprayed it down with Scrubbing Bubbles, and dared them not to work. I detached the shower wand and unleashed a level of water pressure normally reserved for crime scene cleanups. Lid, box, scooper—nothing was safe. I was victorious. I was proud.
I was also quietly cursing the cat under my breath.
And then… betrayal.
The shower wand slipped from my hand and launched upward, spraying me directly in the face.
Time slowed. Mascara ran. Hair soaked. Clothes drenched. The bathroom turned into a slip-and-slide. I dove headfirst, wrestling the wand like I was in a death roll with an alligator. I slid across the floor until I grabbed a towel—my hero in terry cloth.
Surely, I thought, my mother would hear what sounded like a bar fight and come to my rescue.
Nope.
Once the water was off and the chaos settled, the results were clear:
✔ Litter box—sparkling clean
✖ Me—total casualty
I am convinced the cat orchestrated this.
As I patted myself dry, I noticed my mother’s door was closed. I peeked inside. She was fast asleep. I smiled, shook my head, and quietly closed the door.
Another successful day.
January 13, 2026
My final entry.
Dear Diary:
Day 6 – Last night I decided to give Mom an evening bath. She resisted at first—she’s always been cold natured—but eventually gave in, and soon she was giggling, splashing her feet through warm bubbles, washing with rose-scented body wash. In that small, sacred space, she came alive. Self-care awakened something in her, and she delighted in showing off her independence. I watched joy bloom across her face and felt grateful to witness her release into happiness so freely.
Afterward, we massaged lotion into her dry skin while she chatted about how she had forgotten how relaxing it all felt.
Together we moved toward the makeshift salon chair in Dad’s art studio—another room layered with love. Once her hair was brushed and styled and her nighttime cream gently smoothed onto her face, she was ready for bed.
Mom has entered a season of sleep, and seeing her excitement over such tender rituals carried me back to my own girlhood—watching her care for herself with intention, teaching me without words how to honor the body and spirit. I am endlessly thankful she was my role model.
Tucking her in felt bittersweet. I knew my supporting role was nearing completion for the night; Dad was on his way home, returning to her as he has for nearly sixty years.
A few hours later, Dad arrived. Dixie sounded her intruder alert, barking just loudly enough. I tried to usher her out of the room so Mom wouldn’t wake, but it was already too late. Mom was awake—as if she had sensed him before the door even opened.
As he walked down the hallway and entered the doorway, time folded in on itself. Her arms opened wide.
“My husband is home,” she said.
She pulled him down, and they embraced in a kiss that looked exactly like it must have on the day they were first married—young, certain, and full of promise. She rose with grace to show her joy and watched him settle in, her presence soft, content, complete.
I quietly slipped away, carrying the image with me. Grief pressed heavily against my chest, but it did not crush me. Instead, it slowly transformed into a peace that passes understanding.
This morning I woke early, joyful in the knowledge that Mom had already given me permission to “go to work.” I rolled my suitcase with a smirk down the hallway and left the keys beside Dixie’s leash, the house breathing quietly behind me.
Later, I checked in with Dad about how Mom’s day was going. He shared this exchange:
Mom: “The lady that was here just picked up all her stuff and left.”
Me: “What lady was that?”
Mom: “You know. The lady who was here for a whole month.”
Me: “So who was it?”
Mom: “She came and brought all her stuff. Then brought more stuff.”
Me: “So who was it?”
Mom: “You know… that woman I lived for—the oldest one.”
💫
“The oldest one” is my beloved sister Marianne, who went to Heaven when a brain aneurysm tragically took her life. To be mistaken for her is no loss of identity—only a gift. It means Mom believed, in her heart, that she had been living in the presence of an angel.
I laughed softly through tears. Scripture says that in the last days, the old will dream dreams. I will forever cherish that in this tender season of her life, I was allowed to be a glimpse of heaven on earth for her.
