Some nights feel like a sitcom gone wrong, only there’s no laugh track and nobody’s handing out popcorn. That’s what life with dementia often looks like, messy and unpredictable. One moment there’s laughter and music at a wedding reception, and the next, a phone call from Dad that flips the evening upside down. This is the rhythm of their days for Becky and her sister Mary Ann. They squeeze in a rare night out, feeling almost normal again, until the phone rings around 9:45 p.m. It’s Dad, calm but clearly not okay. He tells them he has been dizzy since dinner but insists he is fine if he stays still. That’s all it takes for the fun of the evening to vanish; reality barges in without knocking.
They rush back to their parents’ place, slipping from dresses and smiles into caretaker mode. Dad wants more pillows, so they prop him up. Mom doesn’t understand what’s happening and fusses with the bedding, convinced the extra pillows don’t belong there. It’s a small detail, but it paints the picture: even the simplest adjustments feel monumental when dementia is in the room. Satisfied, or at least pretending to be, the sisters leave. Dad has his phone, they reason. Everything will be okay. They cling to the hope that maybe, just maybe, tonight will be uneventful.
It isn’t. At 11 p.m., just as Becky slides under her covers, the phone buzzes again. “Umm… your mom is sitting on the floor. She tried to get up by herself.” No hesitation. Glasses back on. Shoes by the door. And a quick call to Mary Ann, because no one should have to face nights like this alone.
Back they go, driving in silence, already tired but bracing themselves for whatever chaos waits. Mom is on the floor, confused but determined. Dad’s lying flat now, only one pillow under his head since Mom has yanked the others away. They help her up and into the bathroom, only to be met with anger and insults when she can’t follow the routine. The words sting, but somehow the sisters end up laughing. Dementia has a way of twisting even cruel moments into absurd ones.
But laughter doesn’t last. Back in bed, Mom crumbles. She hides under the covers, saying she “can’t do it,” though she can’t explain what “it” means. Tears mix with muffled words. It suddenly clicks for Becky and Mary Ann: she feels like she can’t take care of Dad anymore. The man she once cooked for, cared for, laughed with. The one she spent a lifetime building a home with. That realization breaks something inside the sisters, yet they rally. They soothe her with gentle reminders that Dad is okay and that she’s not failing him. Slowly, Mom calms down. Both parents are tucked back into some regular version when the sisters leave. Dad is propped up again, though they’ve hidden the extra pillows under the blanket so Mom won’t see them. Mom is quiet, but as the lights go out, she whispers, “Don’t leave.”
It’s the last thing Becky wants to hear. More than anything, she longs for her own bed and silence for one night without buzzing phones. Still, she and Mary Ann stay in the living room for a while, listening for any signs of unrest. Eventually, like teenagers sneaking out after curfew, they slip out the door and into the car. And then, because exhaustion sometimes turns into hysteria, they laugh again. This is their life now. A constant tug-of-war between wanting to escape and knowing they can’t. Between craving peace and answering the call of duty. Between heartbreak and humor.
Becky drops Mary Ann off, silently hoping they won’t see each other again until Sunday breakfast. That’s the funny thing about this stage of life: the most ordinary routines, like sharing pancakes on a Sunday morning, start to feel like gold. Dementia steals so much, but it also reshapes what matters. Nights like these, chaotic and exhausting, remind them that even when normal is gone, togetherness remains. And sometimes, that’s enough to keep moving forward.
