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We lost Mom in Walmart.

It’s something I’ve been worried about for a long time, and today was the day it finally happened.

Jason and I rarely leave the house without her anymore. Outings are complicated and require constant planning. My mom is a fall risk. She is always off balance and unaware of her surroundings. She is nearly blind in one eye. And vision overall is poor. Crowded spaces, uneven surfaces, distractions, and noise all increase the risk—not just of wandering, but of injury. I find myself navigating the terrain for her. “ Okay mom, there’s a step up or a step down”even before we get inside the store, safety is front of mind. In the parking lot, I have her hold onto the cart the entire time. It’s the only way I can be sure she stays close and steady while navigating traffic and uneven pavement. And it’s a fight, as most things are with her. She has no understanding of her limitations. She pulls away from me like a toddler and tries to demand the independence she believes she should still have.

Once inside, I struggle to get her to walk directly beside us. She prefers to stay ten or fifteen feet behind, which means I’m constantly turning around—again and again—to make sure she’s still there. It’s exhausting and stressful, but it’s necessary. Today, we were in the produce section. Jason and my mom were standing together when I told Jason I needed to grab a green pepper. I stepped away, assuming Jason would stay put and that my mom would remain with him.

I was wrong.

I grabbed the green pepper and turned back to where they had been standing. They were both gone. Jason had remembered something else he needed and had stepped away. My mom, suddenly unsure of who to follow, went in an entirely different direction.

I saw Jason across the produce section and yelled, “Where’s my mom?” He looked around and said, “I don’t know—we lost her.”

A surge of fear and annoyance hit instantly. Jason headed toward one end of the aisles, and I went the other. We moved quickly, scanning faces and carts, calling her name. People with dementia don’t stop and wait when they realize they’re alone. They move—often quickly—convinced they can find their people on their own. In large, busy stores, that makes everything feel urgent.

Jason was the one who found her.

She was six or seven aisles down, walking at a fast pace. He yelled her name, and she turned around. From the other end of the aisle, I watched as she practically galloped back to him—like a little girl skipping, so relieved, so happy that she had found her people again.

The fear disappeared from her face in an instant. And I stood there, watching, knowing how close we had come—and how easily the outcome could have been very different. There is also a frustration with this. The loss of who your mom once was and the realization that a shell of that person is all that remains. Taking care of a loved one is far different than caring for patients as a hospice nurse.

This is the part of caregiving no one really prepares you for. Something as routine as a quick trip to Walmart becomes a test of patience, vigilance, and safety planning. Every outing carries risk. Every moment of inattention can matter. And still, we go—because life doesn’t stop.

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