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It was 2020, and my dad had been sick for quite some time. He had esophageal cancer and pulmonary fibrosis. Looking back, I think I may have noticed subtle signs before that year, but during his illness the symptoms of my mom’s dementia became much more apparent.

She began having difficulty managing his medications, which eventually became something we could no longer rely on her to do safely. I believe my dad realized that my mom was struggling with her memory as well. It reached a point where she would no longer drive on busy roads and would only take specific, familiar routes to and from the store. This was largely at my dad’s request, which led me to believe he was aware she was having memory issues. Still, she remained very much a caregiver. She took care of my dad—fixing his meals, helping him get dressed, assisting him with showering—and nearly all of her focus was on him. He may have attributed her symptoms to stress, anxiety, or exhaustion rather than dementia.

After my dad passed away, my mom continued to live on her own for about two more years. During that time, I started noticing more concerning changes, particularly with her medication management. Pills were scattered everywhere—open bottles, loose pills laying out, bottles without lids. Her glaucoma eye drops, which were supposed to be refrigerated, were often left out. She began making multiple trips to Walmart, sometimes once a day. She stopped cleaning the house the way she always had. I also began receiving phone calls from my aunts—my mom’s sisters—saying that my mom wouldn’t let them into the house and was displaying other odd behaviors.

Around this time, my sister took over paying all of my mom’s bills. Either I would take my mom to the grocery store to help her shop, or my sister would order groceries and have them delivered. We were becoming increasingly concerned about her driving.

The moment that made everything very clear to me happened one afternoon when I stopped by her house. As I always did, I looked through her cabinets to see what kind of food she had and what she had been eating. She was sitting in the den eating a bowl of ice cream. There was no bread, no milk—none of the basic staples. It was becoming clear that preparing meals was more and more challenging for her. Her medications were laid out on a cookie sheet, some bottles without lids, loose pills mixed together.

That was the moment I knew she could no longer live safely on her own. I packed her up and told her she was going to come stay with me for the winter. She never liked winter anyway—the early darkness, the cold—it made her depressed, and she was afraid being alone in the house after dark. I think, in many ways, she was actually relieved to come with me.

That was two and a half years ago, and she has been living with me ever since.

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