My dad had Alzheimer's. His dad did too. So I've watched this disease from close up, and I've watched it twice. I know what it's like to walk into a room and see someone you love look at you like they're trying to place your face. I know what it's like to answer the same question for the fifteenth time in an hour and feel your patience fraying even though you promised yourself you'd be gentle today. I know the strange grief of losing someone who is still sitting right in front of you.
If you're in this right now - caring for someone whose memory is slipping away - I want you to know that what you're doing is one of the most demanding things a person can do. It is physically exhausting, emotionally relentless, and largely invisible. Most days, nobody is going to tell you that you're doing a good job. So let me say it. You are. Even on the hard days. Even on the days when your patience runs out and you're not the version of yourself you wanted to be. You're still here, and that matters more than you know.
This is hard. And you are still here. That matters.
The Long Goodbye - and the Other Way to See It
People call Alzheimer's the long goodbye, and I understand why. There is a real grief in watching someone fade. Watching pieces of who they were slip away while their body stays. It is a strange, slow kind of loss and there's no way to make it not hurt.
But I learned something while caring for my dad that I didn't expect. The way you approach this season changes what it becomes. Not what it is - I'm not going to sugarcoat the disease. But what it becomes for you and for them inside of it.
You can sit in the sadness of what's being lost, and honestly, some days you will. That's okay. But you can also choose to step into what's still here.
Music reaches places that conversation can't anymore. People with memory loss often respond to songs they couldn't have told you the name of, but something in them still knows. There's real science behind this - musical memory is stored differently in the brain and it's often one of the last things to go. So play their music. Sing with them. Don't worry about whether they know the words. Something deeper than words is happening.
Pictures can do something similar. Not as a quiz - not "do you remember this?" - but just as something to look at together. Let them hold the photos. Let them say whatever comes to mind, even if it doesn't match the image. You're not testing their memory. You're just being with them.
Puzzles, coloring, reading out loud - these aren't just activities to fill time. They're points of connection. They give you something to do together that doesn't require the person to remember who you are in order to enjoy being with you. And that shift - from needing them to know you to just being present with them - that's where some of the most unexpectedly tender moments live.
It's Okay to Laugh
I need to say this because I think caregivers feel like they're not allowed to. Some of what happens in the midst of this disease is genuinely funny. Not the disease itself. But the moments inside of it - the things they say, the unexpected honesty, the conversations that go sideways in ways you never saw coming.
We laughed a lot with my dad. Read jokes out loud, told stories, let ourselves enjoy the moments that were genuinely funny. Because sometimes laughter was the only thing that got us through a hard day. I think God gave us laughter for exactly these kinds of seasons - the ones that need something to lighten the weight, even for a minute.
Proverbs 17:22 says, "A joyful heart is good medicine, but a broken spirit dries up the bones."
And here's something our family learned that changed the way we approached caregiving. They can still sense your emotions, even when they can't fully communicate their own. If we spend every day feeling sorry for ourselves or being angry at the situation we're in, they experience that - maybe as guilt, or sorrow, or agitation they can't name. But when the room is warm and there's laughter and someone is talking to them, not about them, something in them settles. They aren't gone. They've just forgotten a lot of things. And they still deserve to be treated with respect and love.
You Cannot Do This Alone
Here's the part where I stop being gentle and get direct, because I've watched too many caregivers run themselves into the ground trying to do this by themselves.
You need help. Not because you're weak, but because this is a job that one person cannot do well by themselves.
Ask for it, and be specific. "Can you sit with Mom on Thursday afternoon so I can go to the doctor?" is a lot easier for people to say yes to than "let me know if you need anything." People at church, neighbors, family - most of them want to help and don't know how. Tell them how.
Look into respite care. Even a few hours a week where someone else is with your loved one and you can relax for awhile. And consider getting yourself a medical tracking system - a planner, a binder, whatever works. Medications, appointments, changes in behavior. When you're exhausted, your memory isn't great either.
God Sees This
You're doing holy work that God sees - even if no one else does. You're showing up day after day for someone who may not know your name, and you're doing it because you love them.
Matthew 25:40 says, "Truly I say to you, to the extent that you did it for one of the least of these brothers or sisters of Mine, you did it for Me."
Every time you answer that question again with patience. Every time you put on their favorite song. Every time you sit with them even though they don't know who you are. You are serving God in one of the most intimate, unglamorous, sacred ways a person can.
You are not forgotten in this. And neither is the person you're caring for.