Dear Grayce,
I recently received the heart-wrenching news that my parent has been diagnosed with dementia. I’m still reeling from the shock, and while I want to be a pillar of strength for them, I’m engulfed in a tsunami of grief, fear, and a sense of loss for what the future may hold. How do I navigate this harsh reality while demonstrating love, patience, and resilience? Is there a way to mourn the changes ahead while still being fully present in the now?
Sincerely,
Trying to Hold It Together
Dear Trying to Hold It Together,
First, I want to gently exhale with you, for the weight you’re carrying, the questions you’re asking, and the love behind every word you’ve written. Receiving news of a parent’s dementia diagnosis is like being handed a map with no compass. The terrain ahead is unfamiliar, emotional, and often overwhelming. You’re not alone. I understand the difficulty of this situation and the emotions it brings.
I know this intimately. My mother, a fiery and fabulous Leo who is about to turn 81, was recently diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. But the signs had been there for years—subtle at first, then unmistakable. After my father passed away over a decade ago (they were high school sweethearts who were married for 45 years), her memory and behavior began to shift in ways that were painful to witness. I share this to let you know you are not alone.
I’ve talked to my parents—and then my widowed Mom—nearly every day for decades. I’ve spent so much time with her over the years that I could feel, deep down, that something wasn’t right. This wasn’t just “normal aging.” There was growing forgetfulness, anxiety, and, at times, an awful edge to her reactions that didn’t feel normal.
Living on the West Coast, I noticed the changes grow sharper with each visit. I then decided to get a place in my hometown to be closer to her. Last year, she finally allowed me to attend a doctor’s appointment. At my request, her GP ordered a full geriatric workup: cognitive tests, an MRI, and later a blood test. The diagnosis came in stages—first dementia last fall, then Alzheimer’s earlier this year. Her geriatrician explained she likely has coexisting dementias, which helped make sense of some of her more contradictory and complex behaviors.
But knowing doesn’t always make it easier.
There are days when my mother is loving and engaged, and then there are moments when she’s cruel, combative, or distant. If you’ve ever received sharp words from someone you cherish, especially when someone is a parent whose approval or warmth you’ve spent a lifetime seeking, it’s devastating. And when that behavior mirrors old patterns from before the diagnosis, it’s even more complicated. I want you to know I’m also working on all of this.
I’ve learned (and am still learning) to remind myself in those moments: It’s the disease. Dementia—especially Alzheimer’s—reshapes the brain in ways we can’t always see but feel. It strips away inhibition, heightens anxiety, and sometimes turns a moment of confusion into a perceived threat. It’s not personal, even when it feels personal. I breathe. I pause. I remind myself that this is a reflection of the symptoms of a disease that neither of us asked for.
“When a parent’s words feel sharp, remember: the pain is real—but so is the love underneath it. It’s the disease that lashes out, not their soul.”
Here are a few things helping me navigate this path with more grace: I’m working closely with her state’s Department of Aging and Social Services to ensure she has what she needs now and in the future. My siblings and I recently moved her into a better space designed for aging in a place near her church and familiar community. It’s not yet assisted, but it offers a buffer and peace of mind should her condition require more care. Her geriatrician has discussed medication, though each case differs. A complete neuropsychological evaluation helped us better understand what we saw, and that insight matters.
I’ve also researched holistic support. Nutrition plays a significant role. Kefir, omega-3s, turmeric, and leafy greens are essential to the routine. Music therapy, scent (like diffused lavender and rosemary), and even simple movement—like walking to the mailbox—offer calming effects. Familiar routines help reduce confusion, and photo albums or music can bring moments of connection that feel like tiny miracles. For instance, playing her favorite Elvis love songs from her days with my dad brings smiles and moments of clarity.
Still, there are the hard days. And on those days, I hold myself to what I now call “the two-second rule.” Before reacting to a hurtful comment or rising tension, I pause. In that breath, I remind myself: This is the disease speaking. Not the woman who held me through my childhood and adult tears.
As challenging as it can be, instead of correcting her, I redirect her. If she’s agitated, I try to validate her feelings—“That must be frustrating”—and change the setting or the topic. Sometimes, I have to step away and cry in the car. That’s okay, too. In these moments, I’ve found that it’s important to remember that her behavior is not a personal attack, but a manifestation of the disease. Taking a break and collecting yourself is okay before returning to the situation.
Remember, you are not alone in this journey. Take care of yourself, seek support, and remember that feeling a range of emotions is okay. You are doing your best, and that is enough. And I’ve had to make peace with the fact that a lot of her challenging behavior predated the diagnosis. That’s a deeper kind of grief, and I’m still unpacking it. If that’s true for you, please know it’s okay to acknowledge it. Dementia doesn’t erase the past but invites us to meet the present with a gentler lens. Therapy, journaling, or caregiver support groups can help you hold all of it—the before and the now—with more compassion and less guilt.
“You can grieve what’s changing and still love what remains. Presence and pain can coexist, and often do.”
You asked how to cope with and grieve the changes while still showing up. My answer is this: grieve gently and love fiercely. BE LOVE. There is no perfect way to do this; only honest ways exist. Let yourself be sad. Let joy find you in unexpected places. And when it does, hold it close. Remember, it’s okay to feel overwhelmed at times. Be patient with yourself and allow yourself the space to mourn. You’re doing the best you can, and that’s enough. Seek support when you need it. You are not alone in this journey.
Dementia is the brain’s way of aging—like wrinkles on the skin, only deeper and quieter. For some, those folds appear faster, but they are no less a part of being human.
In the space between memory and forgetting, you may discover a new bond built not on words or timelines but on presence, patience, and the quiet language of love. This bond is a unique connection that transcends the challenges of dementia, and it can bring moments of joy and fulfillment in the caregiving journey.
I see you. I honor your strength. I’m intuitively walking this path right beside you.
With all my heart,
Grayce
