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It felt like a rabbit hole I wasn’t sure I wanted to enter, but when my mom could no longer brush her teeth effectively, I knew it was time to make her a dental appointment. From the outside, this might seem like something that should have been handled sooner. My mom sees an eye specialist for glaucoma. She has atrial fibrillation and other chronic conditions that require cardiology, pulmonology, and regular primary care follow-up. But when you are a full-time, 24/7 caregiver, the basics of daily life take up nearly everything you have.

In my home, I manage all of it—cutting her fingernails and toenails, scheduling and taking her to hair appointments, picking out her clothes every morning, preparing her meals three times a day, and making sure she drinks enough fluids. If I don’t place a glass of water in her hand, she won’t drink anything all day. These are the bare necessities of life now. On top of that, I work full-time as a nurse, try to keep up with my own medical appointments, and manage the logistics of her care. Adding one more appointment—especially one likely to be stressful—felt daunting. But I did it.

At 76 years old, my mom still has all of her natural teeth. She and my dad always took excellent care of their dental health. They went faithfully to six-month cleanings and did all the “right” things. Still, she had been living with me for two and a half years, and this was the first dental appointment I had made for her during that time.

It’s worth noting that my mom also has sleep apnea. After my dad passed away, I arranged the sleep study, coordinated the equipment, and helped her use a CPAP for a while. But as her dementia progressed, she could no longer tolerate it, and eventually we had to let that go as well.

At the dental appointment, they did multiple X-rays and a thorough cleaning. Given how unpleasant her breath had become, I was bracing myself for bad news—concerned about hidden dental problems that could be causing pain or discomfort she couldn’t communicate. Surprisingly, the dentist found only three small cavities in her front teeth, along with some general wear and tear and a few areas they wanted to monitor. I scheduled a follow-up visit for the fillings.

This time, instead of staying in the room with her, the assistant told me I could wait in the lobby and they would come get me if needed. About thirty minutes later, they were done. The fillings went well, and she wouldn’t need to return until July for her next cleaning.

But my mom was clearly upset. She was shaking her head and seemed distressed. The hygienist explained that she was concerned about numbness in her face and felt like she couldn’t breathe through her nose. Whether it was numbness extending into her nose or simply congestion, I wasn’t sure, but she was genuinely frightened by the sensation.

Once we got home, every 10 to 15 minutes she asked me what had happened to her face. She said it was numb. She said she couldn’t breathe out of her nose. Each time, she was just as upset as the first. She didn’t remember going to the dentist, and even when she did briefly acknowledge the appointment, she insisted she had never felt anything like this before. Of course, she had—it just didn’t register as a memory she could hold onto.

That evening, before she went to bed around 5:30 p.m., as she usually does after dinner, her face still looked numb and slightly droopy. Honestly, it almost looked like she had had a stroke. I made a mental note to check her closely in the morning.

The next day, I brought her into the dining room with breakfast, morning pills, eye drops, water, and orange juice—the usual routine. I asked her to smile. She did, then looked at me strangely, asking why I wanted her to do that. I explained I was checking to see if she still had the numbness or drooping from the day before.

She had no idea what I was talking about.

She didn’t remember the dentist. She didn’t remember the numbness. She didn’t remember struggling to breathe through her nose. Every bit of it was completely gone.

And I found myself quietly laughing to myself—not because it was funny, but because of the strange mercy in it. What had been such a huge source of fear and distress for her just hours earlier had vanished entirely. It was a memory she didn’t get to keep, and in this case, that was probably a good thing.