Sundays are supposed to be slow mornings. Coffee, bacon, maybe a newspaper if you’re old school. For Becky, Sundays mean one thing—breakfast with family. On this particular Sunday, her mom with dementia was in a good mood, and honestly, that’s already a win before the pancakes even hit the table. They sat in their usual spot at the restaurant. Mom looked across the table at Becky and her sister Mary Ann, studying their faces like she was trying to place them in a yearbook photo. Then came the questions.
“Who are you?” she asked, pointing at both daughters. “We are sisters,” they answered, smiling. “Who am I?” “You are our mom.” And that’s when she dropped it: “Oh sh*t.” The daughters burst out laughing. Their mom, who never used to swear, had developed a new colorful vocabulary since dementia took hold. And maybe that’s the strange thing about dementia—it pulls you into moments that are heartbreaking and hilarious all at once. Breakfast slowed as the food arrived, but the morning was warming up. Afterward, Becky walked her mom home while her dad and Aunt Ann drove. As soon as they got inside, her mom asked for Carl, her husband. “He’ll be home soon,” Becky said, but that wasn’t enough. Mom rolled herself right outside again to wait.
And so began the weeds. With dementia, tasks take on a whole new rhythm, and apparently, weeding was on her list for the day. Becky started pulling them while sweat dripped down her face, her mom watching from her wheelchair. Every time one patch was done, another appeared. The weeds were endless, and so were her mom’s questions: “Where’s Carl? Where’s Carl?” She even called to strangers walking toward the next-door pizza shop, yelling his name like a town crier.
Finally, Dad pulled into the driveway, late because he had stopped to chat with a grandson. Mom was frustrated, trying to make sense of his delay, words tumbling out in fragments. Becky could see the exhaustion in her dad’s face. He wanted to help, but his heart couldn’t take yard work anymore. And still, Mom pushed for him to do it, convinced he was the one meant to pull the weeds. Inside, things weren’t much calmer. Mom, in her sauna-hot house, decided the dresser needed rearranging. Then the closet. Then the suitcases. Then the vacuum, which she rotated ninety degrees at a time, seemed like a puzzle she had to solve. Becky, still dripping sweat, could only play along. With dementia, sometimes you have to surrender logic and just move through the motions.
And yet, there were moments of tenderness in between the chaos. After much tug-of-war with closets, clothes, and the vacuum, Becky finally managed to guide her mom into the living room. Dad was sitting in his recliner, pretending to nap but grinning like he knew exactly what Becky had endured. Mom reached for his hand, and just like that, the storm quieted. That’s the strange beauty of life with a mom who has dementia. It’s unpredictable and often exhausting. There’s sweat, frustration, and more weeds than anyone ever signed up for. But then there’s laughter at a restaurant table when she forgets who she is, or the soft silence of her hand in Dad’s when the day winds down.
In that moment, watching her parents side by side, Becky realized that dementia takes so much—but it also leaves behind these small, shining moments: a hand squeeze, a swear word at breakfast, a smile from someone who has forgotten your name but not your love. And sometimes, those moments are enough to carry you through the weeds.
