My mother-in-law has Alzheimer’s. She lives with me, my husband, and another married couple who help care for her. Somehow, I became the “boss” of the household—her words, not mine. It’s sweet, really. She trusts me. Defers to me. When she won’t listen to anyone else, she’ll still take my word as truth. It’s an odd kind of power—one that feels both helpful and heavy.
Because sometimes, caring for her feels like wrangling an adult-sized toddler who is losing her balance with reality, her body, and her boundaries. She’s increasingly incontinent, sometimes defiant, sometimes frightened. I love her deeply. And yet, there are moments that feel utterly terrifying.
Tonight was one of those moments.
After helping her settle into bed, I noticed one of our cats refusing to leave her side. And then—out of nowhere—my brain decided to start playing that Garth Brooks song The Dance on repeat. I haven’t listened to country music in twenty years, but there it was, looping through my head like a warning.
And suddenly I thought, maybe this is it.
Maybe she’s slipping away tonight.
(To be clear, I have no history of psychic abilities—unless you count the ability to sense when a toddler’s about to spill something sticky.)
That thought broke something open in me. I ended up in my bedroom, crying and shaking alone, realizing this is how I process—alone, late at night, trying to make sense of something that refuses to be made sense of.
I’m a librarian. I know better than to believe in “right” answers. I know that knowledge is nuanced, that data can be twisted to say anything. But still, I research. I keep searching for the guidebook that doesn’t exist—trying to figure out what’s next, how far along she is, what the “right” decision is at every turn.
Four years ago, I knew almost nothing about Alzheimer’s.
Now I know far too much.
I know that no test or brain scan can tell you when someone’s story ends.
I know that uncertainty is its own kind of grief.
And I hate it.
I hate not knowing.
I hate that I can’t fix it.
I hate that my brain keeps trying to turn death into a problem that can be solved.
But maybe this is the lesson I’ve been avoiding:
that caregiving isn’t about finding answers.
It’s about staying—right here, right now—through all the not knowing.
So tonight, I’ll let the cat keep watch.
I’ll let the song play itself out.
And I’ll remind myself that love doesn’t always need a plan.
Sometimes, it just needs a place to rest.