Seagulls

In this conversation, Dad talks about the “seagull relatives” and so-called helpers who occasionally dropped in during the Alzheimer’s caregiving journey. They swooped in under the pretense of helping Grandma, offered opinions, stirred up chaos, and then disappeared—leaving the real caregivers to clean up the mess. If you’ve ever dealt with family members or friends who criticize but don’t contribute, you’ll recognize these common family dynamics in dementia care.

Just Visiting

In this video, Dad shares touching memories of Grandma’s rare and often random moments of clarity. These glimpses of recognition and connection were brief, but they reminded us of the woman we loved and gave us comfort along the journey.

Enjoying All the Moments

Caring for someone with Alzheimer’s is full of tough moments, but sometimes laughter sneaks in when you least expect it. In this short video dad shares a few memories of hard times that had funny moments, and why holding onto those lighthearted moments matters. Caregiving is never perfect, but finding humor in the middle of the chaos can make the journey a little easier.

Buried My Head In the Sand

When the first signs of Alzheimer’s appeared, Dad admits he wanted to look the other way. In this conversation, he reflects on those early moments, the denial many families feel, and the importance of recognizing dementia symptoms with compassion.

Thought For Food

(Dad)

Sharing meals was always one of our family’s greatest joys, and my mother was an exceptional cook. When she got Alzheimer’s, eating became a challenge. Things that were once taken for granted, —lifting a fork, chewing, swallowing— suddenly required patience, creativity, and care.

As they lose touch with reality, everyday habits may even become dangerous, warranting a ban from the kitchen. This was the case with my mother.

I came home from work one day, exhausted. I said, “Mom how are you today”? and she said, “Son you look so tired can I make you some coffee”? She was already having trouble remembering her world famous recipes which should have been a red flag, but because Alzheimer’s patients are okay sometimes, such signs are not always obvious. Several minutes later I could see smoke billowing from the kitchen. I rushed in there to see that she had taken a plastic container and filled it with coffee grounds, dish soap and water. Not wanting to scare her I calmly said, “Mom, what are you doing?” she said, “Son, I’m making you coffee”. I took her into the living room, sat her down and I remember thinking, this is probably it. Meaning, time to take away her cooking privileges.

Soon after that, I came home from work to another near disaster. My mom would always make the children french fried potatoes, they loved them. She was so excited because my son had asked her to make him some potatoes. As he sat watching TV and waiting, something told me to walk into the kitchen and check on her. I walked in to find her pouring Pine Sol into a flaming pot on the stove. I remember her saying, “I’m making fries for the baby”. All I could think to say was, I don’t think he wants any right now, and again I sat her down in the other room. That day I put an extra lock on the door leading into the kitchen so she wouldn’t go in there. Because she spent so much time in the kitchen her whole life, it took her awhile not to go into that room. She was quite upset for that but it was the right thing to do.

I remember thinking, you can’t bury your head in the sand, you have to face this and understand what’s happening to this person you love. It’s not the same person they were and they do not know what they’re doing or who they’re becoming. Only now it’s up to you, to make the major safety decisions, which can be difficult to make.

As they mentally revert to a toddler and later on to a baby their diet is going to change. As her disease progressed, her eating habits would change time and time again. At first, I would try to give mom familiar foods that she was accustomed to having. Foods from her past, as well as foods that she grew to love.

My mom was extremely lucky in that she was not diabetic so that even in old age she could always eat whatever she wanted. The issue was, because of the disease she didn’t always want to eat. We quickly figured out that she loved sweet food, and she loved Chinese takeout, so I would put sweet and sour sauce on all her food just to get her to eat. It was either that or ketchup. Nutrition is so important and we did our best to put variety in her diet, but there are times when diet can be compromised just for the sake of getting someone to eat. It didn’t matter what she ate, we needed to keep her fed.

Later on as the disease was taking over, she forgot how to swallow and we had to blend her food so she wouldn’t choke. We also had to be careful not to feed her too quickly. She was hungry and she wanted to eat faster. It was so satisfying for us to see her eat a full meal no matter how long it took us to feed her, and it would be time consuming sometimes. These simple efforts, of flavoring her food how she liked it, mashing it up so she could eat it, feeding it to her slowly, this enriched and prolonged her life.

This extra care was about more than simply feeding her body. It was about nourishing her spirit and showing her she was loved.

A Brief History of Abuela

(Dad)

My mother was born in 1929 in Laredo, Mexico. She was the youngest of sixteen children. She was five when her father died, and her mother was 36. The culture was different then, and my grandmother was only 15 when she married my much older grandfather who had a child from a previous marriage. His first child and one of her nieces would actually play dolls together as they were only a year apart in age.

With 16 mouths to feed, everyone did their part to help my grandmother. Often she sent my mother out to help raise her siblings’ children instead of going to school. This is a story my mother would share with my children when they were old enough to understand. Still, with her brother’s help, my mother was determined and taught herself to read and write Spanish, later learning English and even sign language for my sister, who was hearing-impaired.

She met my father in a factory, and they built a life together for 42 years. When he passed away in 1999, her grief repeated itself as she would forget her husband died and need constant reminders. We realized something more was going on in her mind, in addition to the grief.

At first, she spoke of vivid dreams where God walked her back through every place she had ever lived and all the people she had seen. Almost like our last moments of consciousness, or so they say, she remembered everything in detail. I remember thinking it was remarkable that God was allowing her to go on this journey to see all the places she had been and visit the people she had met.

Slowly, the memories began to unravel. She forgot names. She forgot sign language. Eventually, she forgot who we were. I started out as her son, then her brother, and finally I became her father.

Caring for her became a full-time responsibility. It was exhausting, heartbreaking, and humbling. My sister Maria, who was deaf herself and had endured her own battles with cancer, rarely left my mother’s side. My siblings and children helped and though the weight was heavy, we carried it together.

There were moments of light. My mom laughed at The Three Stooges, colored in children’s books, and cuddled baby dolls when real children visited. Music from her youth—old Mexican love songs, or even John Denver—brought her peace. Small windows of joy reminded us she was still there, even as the disease tried to take her away.

Doctors urged us to put her in a home. But I remembered the promise I made as a child: One day, I’ll take care of you, just like you took care of me. We kept her with us. It wasn’t easy, but for us, it was right.

Dementia doesn’t just take a person—it takes them piece by piece. You grieve them over and over before they’re gone. But through it all, I held onto one truth: my mother was loved. Even when she forgot everything else, I prayed she still knew that.

Caring for a loved one with dementia is overwhelming, but no one has to do it alone. Lean on family, friends, church, community—anyone willing to walk alongside you. The journey is hard, but love makes it bearable.

We did the best we could. And in the end, that was enough.