Our Days One Moment at a time.A Dementia Care Journey.

Dreaming a World without Alzheimer...

We Fear...yet we fight for this battle to preserve dignity.

There is this particular Corelle mug in our kitchen cabinet that has survived years of small household arguments, careful reminders, and silent routines. To anyone else, it may look ordinary, just another mug resting among plates and bowls. But to my mother, it was something worth protecting. No one dared to touch it except me. Even then, every time she saw it sitting outside the cabinet, she would immediately return it to its proper place, as if restoring balance to the house itself.

My mother treasured her belongings deeply. We often argued about the things inside the kitchen cabinet. The plates that were “for guests,” the cups that were “too special,” and the items she believed should simply be admired rather than used. I never fully understood why she guarded them so carefully. To me, they were objects meant to serve their purpose. To her, they carried memories, order, and meaning.

Years passed, and I stopped drinking coffee. The mug quietly returned to the cabinet, untouched for a long time, exactly where my mother wanted it. Life became busy, ordinary, and filled with things more urgent than an old cup.

Then last year, my mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease.
The diagnosis changed the atmosphere of our home in ways words can barely explain. Memories began slipping through her fingers like water. Familiar names became difficult. Conversations repeated themselves. Some days she remembered small details with surprising clarity, other days, even the simplest moments drifted away from her.

And somehow, in the middle of all these changes, I found myself reaching for that Corelle mug again.
Now, every time I use it, I instinctively look for her afterward. And almost every time, I find the mug back inside the kitchen cabinet, carefully returned to its place by hands that may forget many things, yet still remember this small ritual. In a world where memories slowly disappear, that simple act feels sacred.
The mug has become more than an object now. It is proof that love can remain hidden inside habits. That care survives in the smallest routines. That even when memories fade, parts of the heart continue to hold on.

Sometimes I wonder if one day she will forget why the mug mattered at all. But for now, every time I see it back in the cabinet, I feel her presence in a way Alzheimer’s cannot erase. It reminds me that before the illness, before the confusion, before the forgetting, there was simply my mother loving quietly, caring deeply, and protecting the little things that made our house feel like home.

“When Life Gives You Lemons…” — Caring for a Loved One with Dementia

People often say, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” But caregiving for a loved one with dementia teaches us something deeper. Sometimes, the “lemons” are not small inconveniences. Sometimes they are sleepless nights, repeated questions, forgotten names, confusion, wandering, exhaustion, and the quiet grief of watching someone slowly change before your eyes.
And yet, within this difficult journey, families discover a different kind of sweetness.

Dementia caregiving is not about pretending everything is easy or beautiful. It is about learning how to love someone in new ways, even when recognition fades. It is about patience when routines become difficult, gentleness when frustration rises, and choosing compassion even on emotionally draining days.
There are moments when caregivers feel invisible, tired, or overwhelmed. That is real. But there are also moments that quietly shine, a smile that suddenly appears, a hand that still reaches for yours, a calm moment shared in silence, or the simple comfort of knowing your loved one is safe because of your care.

Maybe “making lemonade” in dementia caregiving means creating small moments of peace from situations we never asked for. It means finding purpose in service, strength in love, and grace in ordinary daily care.
Caring for someone with dementia changes a family. It stretches the heart. It teaches sacrifice, humility, and patience in ways few experiences can.

And although the journey is heavy, love still remains, sometimes quieter than before, but still deeply present.
Not every day will feel hopeful. Some days are simply about surviving the moment. But even then, caregiving is an act of love that matters more than words can fully explain.
Sometimes, the sweetest lemonade is not happiness.
Sometimes, it is simply the decision to continue loving someone through every season of memory and change.

From me to you...just hang in there although we might be hanging by the thread this will also pass. Hold on to every tiny hope that's in your soul and until then...

We as family caregivers need to grow, to learn and to endure with purpose...

It is more than patience and understanding, It is beyond Love and care. You need skills and strategizing makes a difference.🙏🪻♥️

When there is no one to talk to,
the silence becomes louder than any noise.
It echoes with thoughts I try to escape,
with questions I cannot answer,
with feelings I don’t know where to place.
I hold everything inside,
the pain, the confusion, the quiet breaking,
because there’s no space, no person,
no moment that feels safe enough to let it out.
So I become my own listener.
My own comfort.
My own witness to the battles no one sees.
And it’s hard…
carrying conversations in my mind,
replaying what I wish I could say,
and holding back tears that have nowhere to fall but inward.
But maybe in this silence,
there is something I am slowly learning,
that even when no one else is there,
I am still here.
Still breathing.
Still feeling.
Still holding on, even when it hurts.
And maybe that counts for something.
Maybe that means I am not as alone as I think.
Because even in the quiet,
even in the emptiness,
there is a small voice within me
that hasn’t given up yet.
And for now…
I will sit with that voice.
Until one day, the silence no longer feels so heavy.

A Long Intermission

There are seasons in life when everything seems to pause.
The noise quiets, the plans slow down, and the direction ahead becomes unclear.
This is the intermission.
It is not the end of the story.
It is the quiet space between what was and what will be.
In this pause, life invites us to rest from the rush of becoming.
It asks us to sit with our thoughts, our faith, and our questions.
Sometimes it feels uncomfortable because we are used to movement, progress, and certainty.
But intermissions are not wasted time.
They are moments when unseen work happens within us.
Old wounds begin to heal.
New wisdom begins to grow.
Our hearts slowly learn what truly matters.
Just like in a play, the intermission prepares the stage for the next act.
The lights dim for a while, but behind the curtain, everything is being arranged.
So if you find yourself in a long intermission, do not be discouraged.
Breathe.
Wait.
Listen.
Life is not finished with you yet.
The curtain will rise again.
And when it does, the next chapter may be more meaningful than you ever imagine.

It really does take a village to care for someone with dementia.

No caregiver should have to figure everything out alone. Over the years, many of the families we work with have discovered organizations, support groups, and services that make the caregiving journey a little easier.

That’s why we’ve gathered a list of trusted resources that caregivers often find helpful from education and support networks to practical tools for navigating dementia care.

Whether you’re just starting this journey or have been caring for a loved one for years, these resources can offer guidance, reassurance, and connection.

Explore the list here:
https://www.drlizgeriatrics.com/resources/helpful-links/

And we’d love to hear from you.

What services, organizations, or resources have helped you the most while caring for a loved one? Share them in the comments so we can continue building a stronger village together.