Change is Difficult

Moving my mother into her senior apartment was one of the hardest decisions I had ever made.

At the same time, it was one of the easiest.

Those two things existed together.

 I knew she wasn’t safe living alone anymore.

I also knew that when I couldn’t be with her, she would finally be somewhere safe.

We tried to make it feel like home.

We brought her favorite recliner.

Her television.

Her art table.

The only new piece of furniture was a couch.

Her china cabinet filled with the little treasures she’d collected throughout her life—her peacocks, music boxes, and favorite keepsakes.

The beautiful antique glass cabinet displaying the rocks she and my father had collected over the years.

Her bed.

Even the two boxes stored beneath it held a lifetime of memories—photographs, baby shoes, and keepsakes she couldn’t bear to part with.

Everything we could think of that might make an unfamiliar place feel like home.

She recognized every one of those things.

She just couldn’t understand this new place they were in.

For nearly six months, my mother believed she was living in a hotel.

Sometimes she’d call sounding almost delighted.

“Traci… can you believe this hotel room has a box of my things under the bed? I found my pictures and keepsakes.”

Other times she’d leave me a voicemail.

“Traci, I just wanted you to know where I am. I’m at a place called Villa SB. I’m in room…”

As though she were checking in so we’d know where to pick her up.

The hardest calls were different.

Sometimes she was crying.

“Traci… I don’t know where I am.”

Or…

“I know my children are here somewhere… but I can’t find them.”

She went through a phase where she believed my children were her children.

She wasn’t confused about loving them.

She was confused about who they belonged to.

And she was frightened because she thought she had lost them.

Those calls broke my heart.

Whenever she became confused, she’d open the heavy apartment door.

It squeaked loudly every time.

She’d step into the hallway.

Read the sign. Villa SB.

Her apartment number.

Then she’d let the heavy door slam shut behind her.

Every time, I found myself thinking about her neighbors.

What she never seemed to notice was that her own name was right there on the sign too.

To those of us without dementia, it seemed obvious.

If your name is on the door…

it must be your home.

But dementia had quietly taken away her ability to connect those pieces.

So every time she opened that door…

she was trying to solve the mystery all over again.

At first, I kept trying to explain.

“Mom… this isn’t a hotel.”

“This is your apartment.”

“Your home.”

I reminded her again and again that this was the first place she had ever truly lived on her own.

She had lived with her parents.

Then with the nuns while she attended nursing school.

Then with my father.

She had never had a home that belonged only to her.

I hoped repeating that story would help her create a new memory.

Help her feel less abandoned.

Because that was the word she kept using.

“Why did you leave me here?”

“Why did you abandon me?”

Those words stayed with me.

I had no experience caring for someone with dementia.

No idea what to do.

Nowhere to turn.

I was simply trying to figure it out one day at a time.

Nighttime was always the hardest.

Anyone who has cared for someone with dementia knows that evenings often bring more confusion.

My mother would call every seven…

ten…

sometimes fifteen minutes.

Some nights there were thirty calls.

I wanted to answer every one.

Because sometimes she was frightened.

Sometimes she was crying.

But I was also home with an infant and a preschooler…

and a husband who had to leave for work early the next morning.

When she woke me for the sixteenth time in one night…

I wasn’t usually the calm, patient daughter I wanted to be.

There were times when I answered the phone with more frustration than compassion.

When I snapped.

When I screamed.

When exhaustion won.

I said things I wish I hadn’t.

Sometimes I hung up the phone and cried because I couldn’t believe I’d spoken to my mother that way.

I loved her deeply.

I was also completely exhausted.

Eventually, I realized something.

She didn’t need a different answer.

She needed the same answer.

Every time.

So I adapted.

I recorded a special outgoing voicemail just for her that I put on at night.

“Mom, I know where you are. You’re safe. You’re in your apartment. I haven’t abandoned you. I’m home with my husband and the kids. Get a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow we’ll pick you up and go do something fun. I love you.”

Then, for the first time, I felt it was okay to turn off my ringer.

Because I finally knew that even if I didn’t answer the phone, she would still hear a calm, familiar voice reminding her she was safe.

For the first time in nearly a month…

we slept.

Slowly…

something wonderful began to happen.

She started forming new memories.

At first, we’d walk her to the dining room for meals.

We’d walk her to one of the pianos along with her sheet music so she could play.

Months later…

we’d arrive to find she was already eating dinner with new friends.

Or we’d hear piano music before we ever reached her apartment and find her happily playing.

Little by little…

the hotel disappeared.

Once we settled into a routine…

life became more manageable.

Thursday dinners at our house with both grandmas.

Regular grocery trips and outings.

Meals with friends in the café.

Evening piano playing.

None of those things changed my mother’s dementia.

But routine slowly replaced uncertainty with familiarity.

As new challenges appeared, I found myself asking a different question.

Not,

“How do I stop this?”

But,

“How can I make this one thing easier?”

When she kept calling to ask which medications she was supposed to take, I photographed one of my flowers and created a simple chart with AM and PM beside it, listing each medication underneath.

I framed it and hung it in her bathroom.

Those calls nearly stopped.

She began taking her medications more consistently.

We could tell.

She had more energy.

Her blood sugar was better controlled.

Later, I noticed that she had begun coming back from dinner through the patio instead of the hallway. Neighbors told me sometimes she’d try to enter the wrong apartment.

So, I bought a stained-glass sign with the name Ruthie and hung it on her sliding glass door.

Another small adaptation.

Another problem easily resolved.

Eventually, all of those little solutions grew into something much bigger.

I created a binder called…

Mom, Read This If You’re Confused.

The first page was simply a letter from me.

It explained that she might feel confused because she had dementia.

That we had sold her house.

That this apartment was now her home and her name was on the door.

That we were so happy she lived nearby so she could watch her grandchildren grow.

It reminded her that Chewey was safe and living with my brother because dogs weren’t allowed there.

I included phone numbers for my brothers and me. At first, I included everyone’s numbers.

That didn’t last long.

She no longer understood time… or time zones.

Family members began receiving cheerful phone calls at two o’clock in the morning.

So we adapted again.

She loved writing letters, so I added mailing addresses for family and friends. I also mentioned on this page her stationery and stamps were on her art table, and she could mail things at the front desk.

I learned to print the title on both the front and the back of the binder after noticing she often left it with the blank back facing up and never thought to turn it over when she was looking for answers.

Another small adaptation.

Inside were medication reminders that told her where they were kept and when to take what.

A photograph of her television remote showing exactly which buttons to push and what her favorite channels were.

A page reminding her where to find her art supplies and encouraging her to paint whenever she felt inspired.

A page told her the puzzle board was under her couch for her to work on.

As she made new friends, I added their names and photographs to help her remember them.

Near the end were family photographs.

Then-and-now pictures of my brothers and me.

Our spouses.

Her grandchildren.

My father.

Her parents.

Her siblings.

Cousins.

Close friends.

Every photograph labeled with names and sometimes other reminders like your honeymoon.

I even reminded her that there were more photographs and treasured keepsakes waiting for her in the boxes beneath her bed.

Over time, the binder became far more than a notebook.

It became a collection of loving answers.

Answers to the questions she asked over and over again.

Answers to the fears that kept her awake at night.

It was also full of ideas to keep her busy.

But it did something else, too.

It gave me permission to step away.

To spend time with my husband.

To be present with my children.

To sleep.

To do housework.

To breathe.

Knowing that even when I wasn’t beside her…

she still had something familiar reminding her she was safe…

and deeply loved.

Change is difficult.

Especially for someone living with dementia.

But over time, I learned that while I could not stop the changes, I could soften them.

One routine.

One adaptation.

One day at a time.

Reflection

There are moments in life…

when a single word changes the way everything feels.

A diagnosis.

A label.

A quiet explanation for something your heart already sensed.

No matter what the news is…

it can still settle deeply inside you.

Because often that single word doesn’t just change how you see today.

It changes how you look at every moment that follows.

For me it wasn’t only the word.

It was a thousand little moments.

Some heartbreaking.

Some frustrating.

Some surprisingly beautiful.

Looking back now…

I realize love doesn’t disappear when life changes.

It simply finds a different way to show itself.

A Gentle Invitation

If you’re caring for someone whose world has now become confusing…

Take a moment to ask yourself one simple question.

What is one thing I could make just a little easier?

Not everything.

Just one thing.

Maybe it’s writing down a routine.

Labeling a drawer.

Creating a photo book.

Recording a reassuring message.

Or simply reminding yourself that you don’t have to solve tomorrow today.

Sometimes the smallest changes create the greatest sense of peace.

For them.

And for you.

You are always welcome here

🌿WGG