On being a caregiver.

Mom's birthday flowers, 2009.

Every day is a series of questions.

Did I call in the refills?
Is this okay for a diabetic to eat?
Is she due for her PT/INR?
Did the dosage on this pill change?
Has she exercised today?
Do I have everything for her annual Medicaid review?
Can I possibly listen to her tell the same three stories over and over again without screaming?

But it’s not those questions that are the most exhausting. It’s the ones that sneak up in the middle of the night, and steal away sleep.

How do I talk about any of this without sounding like I’m complaining?
Am I a bad person for feeling frustrated sometimes, for having to give up so much of my life?
Is it selfish for me to have thoughts about who will care for me when I’m old, when I should be focused on her?

But the worst question of all is:

How do I know if I’m doing a good job?

Because when it comes to dementia, the condition is progressive. You can’t expect improvement.

But there are good questions, too. And I received one recently via text from a friend who is dealing with a similar family situation. He certainly has his hands full, but still found time to not only ask how is your mom doing? but also how are you doing?

Thank you, Dan. It’s these kinds of memories I hope dementia never takes from me when I’m old. I’m lucky to have the friends I do.