When a Toddler Calls 911, Dispatchers Need to Know How to Listen

I recently listened to a 911 call involving AJ Hayes, a toddler from Keizer, Oregon, who called for help after his father, Aaron Hayes, suffered a serious injury while wood carving. The little boy was panicking and could barely get the words out: “Help Daddy.”

The 911 operator kept asking him whether his dad needed an ambulance or the police. The toddler repeatedly responded, “Okay.” Meanwhile, you could hear his father hollering for help in the background.

Listening to that call, I kept thinking about how frightening and confusing this must have been for AJ. He knew his daddy was hurt, and he did what he could to get help. But he was being asked questions using words and concepts he might not have understood.

An emergency dispatcher cannot expect a toddler to communicate like an adult.

Words like “ambulance” and “police” may be familiar to older children, but they can be difficult concepts for a very young child to understand, especially when that child is terrified. Asking a toddler to choose between emergency services may not get the dispatcher any closer to understanding what is happening.

Instead, dispatchers need training in age appropriate communication. They need to know how to use simple words, ask short questions, and give a young child enough time to respond. Sometimes, that might mean asking something as simple as, “Does Daddy have a bad owwie?” or “Is Daddy being really mean?”

Of course, dispatchers still need to gather critical information and follow emergency protocols. But how they communicate with a child can make a significant difference in how much information they are able to obtain.

A toddler in an emergency isn't being difficult when he cannot answer a question. He may not understand the question in the first place. He is scared, overwhelmed, and trying to make sense of something frightening that is happening to someone he loves.

AJ did what he knew how to do. He called 911 and asked for help for his daddy.

We need to make sure our emergency dispatchers are trained to recognize when they're speaking to a very young child and know how to adapt their communication accordingly. Because sometimes, getting the information needed to save a life starts with knowing how to talk to a frightened little one.

A Potential New Discovery in Alzheimer's Research, and Why It Matters to Me Personally

As someone caring for my mom, who is living with late stage Alzheimer's disease and vascular dementia, I pay attention to research that could help us better understand this devastating disease. I know firsthand that Alzheimer's affects far more than memory. It changes communication, independence, personality, and the everyday moments families once took for granted.

A recent discovery by Russian researchers has caught my attention. Scientists investigating potential treatments for Alzheimer's found that a small molecule called HAEE, which they originally developed in the laboratory, may also occur naturally in the human body. Even more surprising, their research found that people diagnosed with Alzheimer's had nearly half the levels of this molecule compared with participants who had no cognitive impairment.

What is HAEE, and why does it matter?

HAEE is a small peptide, a short chain of amino acids. Researchers initially developed a synthetic version to investigate whether it could interfere with the accumulation of amyloid beta, a protein associated with Alzheimer's disease.

Amyloid beta can accumulate into plaques between brain cells, while another protein called tau can form abnormal tangles inside them. Both are associated with Alzheimer's, although the disease is complex and also involves inflammation, vascular changes, and metabolic factors. Scientists are still working to understand how these processes interact and contribute to the progression of the disease.

In earlier laboratory research, the HAEE peptide showed potential for preventing amyloid beta from clumping together in mice. When researchers later developed a method to measure HAEE in blood samples, they made an unexpected discovery: the molecule appeared to be present naturally in human blood.

They then found significantly lower levels of HAEE in blood samples from people diagnosed with Alzheimer's compared with people without cognitive impairment. This raised two important questions. Could HAEE eventually help researchers identify Alzheimer's-related changes? And could replacing or supplementing it become a potential treatment?

There is a reason for hope, but we need to understand the limitations.

The researchers believe synthetic HAEE could have therapeutic potential, possibly through administration under the skin or through the nose. However, those are proposed approaches, not established treatments. The findings do not prove that low HAEE causes Alzheimer's or that replacing it will stop the disease.

Independent experts have also raised important questions about confirming the molecule's identity, understanding how the body produces it, and determining why its levels do not appear to decline further in people with more advanced disease. These questions need to be answered through independent verification and additional research before anyone can draw firm conclusions.

That distinction matters because a promising laboratory discovery is not the same as a proven treatment. More research, including properly designed clinical trials, would be needed to establish whether HAEE is safe and effective in people.

Why this research matters to me

Watching my mom live with Alzheimer's and vascular dementia has given me a deeply personal reason to follow the science. Since becoming her caregiver in the spring of 2023, I have seen how much this disease changes a person's life and the lives of everyone who loves them.

I cannot look at research like this as just another medical headline. I think about the families searching for answers, the people who may be diagnosed in the future, and the possibility that discoveries being made today could one day change their outcomes.

I also believe we need to be careful not to confuse hope with a promise. My mom needs compassionate care today, while researchers continue working toward better ways to prevent, slow, and treat these diseases.

For now, HAEE is an intriguing early research finding, not a cure or a reason to change anyone's treatment. But understanding why this molecule exists, what it does, and why its levels may be lower in people with Alzheimer's could open a new avenue of investigation.

I share research like this because education matters. We need scientific curiosity, independent verification, and continued investment in Alzheimer's research. We also need compassion for the people living with dementia right now and the caregivers who walk beside them every day.

My mom's journey is a reminder that behind every scientific discovery are real people and families hoping for more time, more understanding, and a better future.

My Journey With Alternative Medicine, Chronic Pain, and the Importance of Being Heard

Growing up, alternative medicine was nothing new to me. My mom was a massage therapist, so I was exposed to different types of bodywork from an early age. I received acupressure, deep tissue massage, and many other forms of massage as a child. As I got older, acupuncture, chiropractic care, and herbal remedies were also commonly recommended in my family. Those early experiences helped shape my openness to alternative approaches to managing pain and supporting overall wellness.

Over the years, I've experienced chiropractic care, acupuncture, physical therapy, and massage therapy. Some experiences have helped me find relief, while others have left me frustrated or disappointed. My journey has also taught me how important it is to distinguish between temporary pain relief, a medical finding, and a confirmed diagnosis. Most importantly, I've learned that patients deserve to be heard, even when healthcare providers disagree about what might be causing their symptoms.

My Back Problems Began at 13

My history with back pain began when I was 13 and injured my back while skating. I didn't think much of it at the time. I took off my skates and walked home in pain, then babied my back until it felt better. Although the immediate pain subsided, I was never able to bend the same way again.

By the time I was 16, everyday activities could be difficult. I remember feeling as though I was going to collapse while shaving my legs before school or trying to put on my underwear and pants. I couldn't do sit-ups in physical education class, either, and my PE teacher, Mrs. Farr, accused me of faking my symptoms to get out of participating. I knew I was struggling, so I went to my mom and begged her to help me.

My mom took me to a chiropractor, who adjusted my back. I felt better afterward, but the relief was temporary, and I still didn't understand what was happening. I only knew that something had changed after my injury and that certain movements were much harder for me than they should have been.

Pregnancy Made My Back Pain Worse

When I became pregnant at 18, my back problems became even more noticeable. As soon as I started showing, I had difficulty walking without pain and a limp. My doctor told me that sciatica was common during pregnancy and would go away after I delivered my baby, so I trusted that explanation and hoped things would improve after childbirth.

Unfortunately, the pain didn't simply disappear. Carrying my baby was sometimes easier than putting her down because bending over to place her on the bed or floor made me feel as though I might collapse. Throughout my 20s, I continued to experience back pain, but I largely ignored it while raising my children and managing everyday responsibilities.

When I was 26, I had my youngest child. By the time he was about three years old, my back problems had become impossible to ignore. One day, I was cleaning the kitchen when the floor was wet, and my son came running in and fell. I bent down to pick him up, and my back went out. I could pick him up, but I couldn't put him down, so his father had to take him out of my arms while I struggled to get back to my bedroom.

I waddled toward the bed and slowly inched my way onto it, eventually using a massage machine on my back to try to get some relief. It was frightening to realize that my pain could interfere with something as basic as picking up and caring for my child. That experience pushed me to seek more help as my back problems continued to worsen.

Acupuncture Provided Relief, but the Pain Continued

In my 20s, as my back pain became increasingly difficult to manage, I turned to a friend who was an acupuncturist. The acupuncture helped alleviate my pain, allowing me to walk without limping or feeling as though I was going to collapse. After struggling for so long, that improvement made a meaningful difference in my daily life.

However, the relief didn't mean the underlying problem had been resolved. My back pain continued throughout my 30s, and I eventually began using my health insurance to receive chiropractic care. During that period, I was told that I had a loss of lordosis, meaning a reduction or straightening of the spine's normal inward curvature. This was described to me as flatback syndrome.

I was also told that seeking medical attention earlier might have given me more options for addressing the problem. Looking back, I wish I had pursued answers sooner, but at the time, I had spent years trying to manage my symptoms as best I could. I couldn't help wondering whether earlier evaluation might have made a difference.

July 20, 2010: Treatment for a Strained Back

On July 20, 2010, I visited a chiropractor because of a strained back. My treatment included a transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulation (TENS) machine, heat therapy, traction, and acupuncture. I was in rough shape, and it took about a week to recover. During that time, I was walking like an old lady.

Although the injury was painful, I didn't have a bad experience with the chiropractic care or acupuncture itself. My experience reinforced my willingness to explore different approaches to pain management, even though I continued to experience back problems over the years.

April and May 2021: Knee Findings and More Back Treatment

By 2021, I was in my 40s and dealing with persistent back pain as well as knees that would give out on me. I told my doctor about these problems and sought further evaluation. On April 6, 2021, I received an explanation for a finding in my left knee that helped account for some of the pain I was experiencing.

The evaluation identified patellar enthesophytes at the insertion of the distal quadriceps tendon. In simpler terms, these are bony projections associated with the area where the quadriceps tendon attaches to the kneecap. This finding wasn't what the medical team had originally been looking for, but it was discovered during the evaluation and offered a possible explanation for my knee pain.

Thankfully, the imaging showed no degenerative changes in my knee. I was told that steroid injections might be considered if the pain worsened. My back was also being evaluated, and I was referred to chiropractic care and physical therapy for the reported loss of my spine's normal curvature.

By May 10, 2021, I was struggling with how to proceed because my medical insurance didn't cover physical therapy, and I couldn't afford to pay out of pocket. I canceled my appointments with Hope Orthopedics, even though my knee pain could be debilitating. I felt caught between needing treatment and being unable to afford it.

2022: A Disagreement About My Back Diagnosis

In 2022, while living in Oregon, I was receiving chiropractic care and physical therapy for my ongoing back problems. I had also been seeing a doctor there for approximately six months when I explained that a doctor in California had told me I had flatback syndrome.

My Oregon doctor responded, "There's no such thing."

I felt stupid for repeating information that another doctor had given me about my own body. What bothered me wasn't simply that two doctors disagreed, because I understand that medical professionals can interpret symptoms and findings differently. It was the way the disagreement was handled. I felt dismissed rather than given an explanation of what my symptoms and reported spinal findings might mean.

I had been dealing with back pain since I was 13, struggled to bend, experienced pain during pregnancy, and spent years trying to find relief. I wasn't trying to diagnose myself. I was sharing my medical history and attempting to understand what was happening to me.

After everything I had experienced, being told that the condition didn't exist felt as though my symptoms were being dismissed along with the terminology. I wanted someone to listen to my history, explain the medical findings, and help me understand what treatment might be appropriate.

Is Flatback Syndrome the Same as Loss of Lordosis?

After that experience, I researched the subject myself and came across information from Medical News Today about flatback syndrome and its symptoms. Finding that information made me even more frustrated because I had been told I had a condition in California, only to have the diagnosis dismissed in Oregon.

There is an important medical distinction here. Loss of lumbar lordosis describes a reduction or straightening of the lower spine's normal inward curve, while flatback syndrome generally refers to a broader spinal alignment problem that can affect posture and the ability to stand upright comfortably. The terms are related, but they are not always interchangeable, and an imaging finding alone does not necessarily establish flatback syndrome.

I cannot independently determine which diagnosis best describes my back based on my history alone. However, I believe that if a doctor disagrees with a previous diagnosis, the patient deserves a clear explanation of why, what the findings indicate, and whether additional evaluation is needed.

Medical opinions can differ, and an earlier diagnosis may need to be reconsidered. That doesn't justify making a patient feel foolish for asking questions or sharing information from another provider. After living with pain for decades, I wanted answers, not to feel as though I had wasted time trying to explain my symptoms.

May 21, 2023: Acupuncture for My Left Ankle and Knee

Acupuncture needle in my ankle

On May 21, 2023, I shared another experience with alternative medicine. A coworker of mine was a monk who was very interested in traditional Eastern medicine, and he performed acupuncture on my left ankle and left knee.

Once again, I did not have a bad experience with acupuncture. Throughout my personal history with both acupuncture and chiropractic care, I haven't had the negative experiences that would make me dismiss either practice altogether. Acupuncture had helped relieve my back pain in the past, and I remained open to exploring different approaches to managing discomfort.

That doesn't mean every treatment works for everyone or that pain relief necessarily resolves an underlying condition. My experience has simply shown me that I can appreciate the relief I've received while recognizing the importance of proper evaluation and individualized care.

Acupuncture needle in my knee

When Massage Therapy Disappointed Me

Here is the part that might surprise some people: I've had a couple of bad experiences with massage therapy, even though I'm a massage therapist myself.

My first particularly unpleasant experience happened at an inexpensive Chinese foot reflexology establishment. The pressure was so deep that I was incredibly sore for several days afterward. This wasn't ordinary, mild post-massage tenderness. It was unusually intense soreness, and it didn't feel okay.

Deep pressure isn't automatically better pressure. Massage should be tailored to the individual, their comfort level, and their needs. Clients shouldn't feel that they have to endure excessive pressure for a massage to be effective.

Unfortunately, I returned to the same establishment and had another negative experience. On that occasion, I was exposed twice during the session. For someone who works in the massage therapy profession, that was especially disappointing because professional draping, privacy, consent, and respect for personal boundaries are fundamental aspects of providing massage therapy.

Clients deserve to feel safe and respected throughout a session. These experiences reinforced something important to me: the price of a service doesn't tell you everything about its quality, and the name of a treatment doesn't guarantee that it will be delivered professionally.

What My Experiences Have Taught Me

My experiences with alternative medicine have been a mixture of relief, pain, frustration, and lessons about what I need from healthcare and wellness providers. I grew up around massage therapy and traditional approaches to health, and I've personally experienced acupuncture and chiropractic care without any negative encounters. At the same time, I've experienced massage sessions that left me excessively sore or violated my expectations of professional conduct.

I've also spent decades trying to understand and manage my back pain. Acupuncture helped me walk more comfortably at certain points in my life, chiropractic care became part of my treatment, and physical therapy was recommended to help address my ongoing problems. I've faced financial barriers to accessing care and the frustration of feeling dismissed when I tried to explain what I was experiencing.

When you're living with pain, you don't necessarily know the medical terminology or understand every finding on an imaging report. That's why you seek professional help and trust that someone will listen, evaluate your symptoms, explain the possibilities, and help you determine the next steps. You shouldn't have to be an expert in medicine to deserve that consideration.

As a massage therapist, I recognize that the responsibility goes beyond performing a technique. Practitioners must listen to their clients, respect their boundaries, adjust treatments appropriately, and understand that every person has different needs and experiences. Being open-minded doesn't mean accepting every treatment without question. It means exploring options thoughtfully, paying attention to your body, asking questions, and understanding potential risks and benefits.

I believe conventional medicine and alternative approaches can have different roles in managing pain and supporting well-being. What matters is making informed decisions, seeking qualified practitioners, and finding care that respects both the evidence and the individual.

My journey has taught me to advocate for my own well-being and to seek practitioners who treat me with knowledge, care, and respect. I'm still managing the effects of longstanding back and knee problems, and I know that one treatment isn't the answer for everyone. But I firmly believe that patients deserve to have their concerns taken seriously, even when their diagnosis is uncertain or their symptoms are difficult to explain.

After all these years, one lesson stands out above the rest: listening matters. Sometimes, the first step toward helping a patient is taking the time to hear their story, understand their concerns, and treat them with the respect they deserve.

I’ve Spent My Whole Life Preparing to Bury My Mom

My husband and my mother
at the nursing home. 
Oct. 2026. 

My mom was 37 when she had me. By the time I was 10, she was 47, and I remember thinking she was older than dirt. In my little-kid mind, 47 sounded ancient. I had no idea then that my mom would eventually live to be 86, or that I would spend nearly my entire life worrying about how much time I had left with her. Back then, I was just a kid who thought her mother was old. I had no idea that the thought of losing her would become one of the biggest fears I would carry into adulthood.

My mom was only a year older than my dad when I was born. Both of my grandfathers died in their 40s, decades before I was born, and both of my grandmothers lived to be 74. Then, when I was just 24, my dad died of a heart attack at 59. My mom outlived all of them, but losing my dad changed the way I thought about death and, more specifically, about losing my mother. I had just experienced the pain of losing one parent, and I suddenly became terrified of the day I would have to lose the other. I was still so young, trying to figure out how to live without my dad, while worrying about a future in which I would have neither of my parents.

After my dad died, I couldn't stop thinking about how fragile life was. If he could be here one day and gone the next, then the same could happen to my mom. I knew she wasn't going to live forever, but knowing that intellectually was very different from actually imagining a world without her. The thought frightened me so much that I began carrying it with me everywhere. Even when nothing was wrong, even when she was healthy and busy with her own life, I worried that I was running out of time. Every birthday reminded me that she was getting older, and every passing year brought both relief that she was still here and dread that one day she wouldn't be.

I was afraid of the phone call that would tell me she was gone. I was afraid of the day I would have to walk into a room and realize I was seeing her for the last time. I worried about all the things I hadn't said, the questions I hadn't asked, and the ordinary moments I took for granted because I assumed there would always be more. I wanted to enjoy my mom without constantly thinking about losing her, but I couldn't seem to separate loving her from being terrified of a future without her. I lived with that fear for decades, and no amount of time seemed to make me feel any more prepared.

My mom continued working as a massage therapist throughout my childhood and well into my 30s. She kept working, celebrating birthdays, and living her life, while I grew older and continued worrying about how much longer I would have her. I never imagined she would make it to 86, and I am genuinely grateful that she did. Still, there is something heartbreaking about realizing that I spent so many years afraid of losing her without knowing what those years would eventually look like. I thought I was preparing myself for the day she died, but I had no idea that I would begin losing pieces of her long before that day arrived.

On July 3, 2015, when I was in my late 30s, my mom suffered a stroke that affected the left side of her brain and her dominant right side. The stroke changed her life, and it changed mine, too. She developed vascular dementia, and we also discovered that she had diabetes after years of living with it undiagnosed. She survived the stroke, but she was never quite the same afterward. The woman who had spent years working and living independently now had to navigate a life changed by brain damage and declining health. I had spent years worrying about losing my mom, but I had never really understood that loss could begin while someone was still alive.

In 2023, when I was in my mid 40s, my mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease in addition to her vascular dementia. By then, I had already spent eight years watching the effects of her first stroke. Now there was another disease gradually taking more of her memory, abilities, and independence. I watched her change, and I watched the things that once came naturally to her become more difficult. I saw her need more help, and I felt the distance growing between the mother I remembered and the mother I was learning to care for. Before her second stroke, she was already at stage 6 Alzheimer's, and I was still trying to make the best of the time we had while carrying the same fear I had lived with since my dad died.

Then, on September 29, 2026, my mom suffered another stroke. Afterward, her right-sided weakness and difficulty communicating became worse, and her overall condition declined significantly. Her Alzheimer's progression advanced from stage 6 to stage 7, and she needed much more help with everyday activities. At nearly 50, I found myself watching the very thing I had feared for more than half my life unfold right in front of me. I had spent decades worrying about the day my mom would die, but I had never imagined how painful it would be to watch her slowly lose the abilities that had always been part of who she was.

That is one of the cruelest parts of dementia. The person you love is still physically here, but your relationship with them changes in ways you cannot control. You grieve the conversations that no longer happen, the independence they lose, and the familiar pieces of their personality that become harder to reach. You can sit beside your mother, hold her hand, and look at her face while aching for the woman you remember. You want to talk to her the way you used to, hear her voice, and share the little things that once made up your relationship, but you cannot force those moments to happen. You learn to treasure a few words, a smile, or a brief moment of connection because you know how precious those things have become.

The hardest part is not knowing how much time remains or what the next stage will bring. There is no date circled on a calendar, no reliable countdown, and no way to know how many more birthdays, holidays, or ordinary mornings you will have together. You wake up and keep going, trying to care for the person you love while living with the knowledge that things may change again tomorrow. I have been asking myself how much time I have left with my mom for more than 25 years, and now I am living through the reality I once feared without having any way to know what comes next.

Today, caring for my mom is one of the biggest responsibilities in my life. I am her conservator, so I handle legal and financial matters in addition to helping manage her care. I work as a massage therapist, and outside of work, I care for her alongside my husband and sister. There are appointments to manage, bills to pay, necessities to arrange, and an endless list of responsibilities that do not disappear just because I am exhausted. My mom's marriage was legally ended on October 13, 2026, through a bifurcated divorce, adding another major life event to an already overwhelming period. While life keeps moving forward around us, I am trying to hold together so many pieces of hers while watching her world become smaller.

I want my mom to be comfortable, safe, and loved. I want to give her the care she deserves, and I want to make the time she has left as good as I possibly can. But I am also tired in ways that sleep cannot always fix. I am physically worn down, emotionally exhausted, and carrying a sadness that is difficult to explain to anyone who has not lived through this. Sometimes it feels like I am trying to hold on to my mom with one hand while using the other to keep everything else from falling apart. I am still that daughter who lost her dad at 24 and became terrified of losing her mother, except now I am also the person responsible for helping her navigate the life she has left.

When my dad died, the loss was sudden and devastating, but eventually I had to learn how to live without him. I could grieve his death, carry his memory with me, and slowly find my way forward. With my mom, the grief has stretched across years, arriving in waves with every new decline. I grieve her health, her independence, her ability to communicate, and the things she used to do without thinking. I grieve the conversations we used to have and the future I imagined for her. I grieve the changes in our relationship even while I continue to love and care for the person she is today. And when she eventually dies, I know I will have to face the enormous loss I have been terrified of since I was 24.

I wish more people understood that dementia does not give you one moment to grieve and then leave you to find your footing. It keeps changing the person you love while asking you to keep showing up, day after day, as if your heart can somehow adjust to each new loss. You learn to celebrate a good day because you know tomorrow may be different. You treasure a few words because you don't know how many more you will hear. You hold on to a familiar look or a brief moment of connection because you understand how precious those little things have become. All the while, you carry the knowledge that one day even those moments will belong to the past.

I have spent my life fearing my mother's death. When I was 24, I thought I was preparing myself for a future heartbreak, but I had no idea I would spend the following decades living with that fear, only to eventually face a different kind of heartbreak. I am watching dementia take my mother from me one piece at a time, and I cannot tell myself that I will be ready when the end comes. I have had more years with her than I ever imagined when I was a little girl, and I am thankful for every one of them, but gratitude does not make this easier. There is no age at which you stop needing your mom, and there is no number of years that makes you feel ready to lose her.

Sometimes I wish I could go back to being that 10-year-old girl who thought 47 was ancient. I would tell her that her mom would be here for many more years, but I would also tell her to cherish the ordinary moments without spending her whole life afraid of losing them. I wish I could go back to my 24-year-old self and tell her that losing her dad would change her forever, and that the fear of losing her mom would follow her through adulthood. I would tell her that she could spend decades worrying about that day and still never feel prepared when she finally had to face the reality of her mother's decline.

Now, at nearly 50, I am trying to live with the mother I have today while grieving the mother I remember and fearing the day I will no longer have her at all. I am scared of what comes next. I am scared of how much more dementia will take, and I am heartbroken over what it has already taken. I wish I could protect her from all of it, but love cannot repair the damage these diseases have done. All I can do is keep showing up, care for her as best I can, and try to be present with her even when the sadness of what is happening feels almost unbearable.

I have spent my childhood thinking my mom was old, my adulthood worrying that I would lose her, and now my life is consumed by trying to care for her while watching dementia take away the woman who raised me. I never imagined it was possible to miss someone so deeply while they were still alive, or that grief could begin years before a death that has not yet happened. I never imagined I would spend so much of my life preparing for a goodbye that I still cannot bear to imagine.

My mom is still here, and I am grateful for every moment I have left with her. I can still sit beside her, hold her hand, and tell her I love her. But I am also a daughter who has been afraid of losing her mother for more than half her life, and I know that when the day finally comes, I will lose someone I have been trying to prepare myself to lose since I was 24. I thought the hardest part would be the day she died. I never imagined that the waiting, the worrying, and the slow, painful process of watching dementia take her from me would break my heart long before I ever had to say that final goodbye.

DEMENTIA SUCKS.

My Dementia Caregiving Journey: Turning a Personal Experience Into Hope for Others

Caregiving for my mother through dementia has changed my life in ways I could never have imagined. What began as caring for my mom has become a journey filled with difficult decisions, emotional challenges, unexpected lessons, and a deeper understanding of what it means to love someone through profound change.

I never expected to find myself navigating the complexities of dementia, conservatorship, and the responsibilities that come with caring for a parent whose memory, communication, and independence are gradually slipping away. This journey has taught me that caregiving is about so much more than meeting someone's physical needs. It is also about preserving dignity, offering comfort, adapting to change, and learning to love someone through every stage of their journey.

Recently, I had the opportunity to participate in a lengthy interview with EnhDme for its Heart of the Home series. The resulting article, Living in Her World: A Dementia Caregiver’s Story, shares a part of my personal experience that I hope will resonate with other caregivers.

I am incredibly proud to have my story published, not because caregiving is easy or because I have all the answers, but because our experiences can help someone else feel less alone. Dementia can be isolating for the person living with it and for the family members who witness its progression. Sometimes, knowing that another person understands what you are going through can make a meaningful difference.

If sharing my journey helps even one caregiver feel seen, understood, or better prepared for the road ahead, then telling my story is worthwhile.

You can read my full interview here:

Living in Her World: A Dementia Caregiver’s Story | EnhDme

I share my story with the hope that it reaches others who are walking a similar path. We may not be able to change the course of dementia, but we can share what we learn, support one another, and remind each other that no caregiver should have to feel alone.

About EnhDme

EnhDme is a family-owned retailer specializing in durable medical equipment and home care supplies. The company offers products designed to help older adults, people with disabilities, and caregivers manage daily life with greater safety, comfort, dignity, and independence. Its offerings include mobility scooters, walkers, wheelchairs, bathroom safety equipment, and other home care essentials.

Beyond providing practical products, EnhDme uses its Heart of the Home series to share the personal stories of caregivers and families. By highlighting real-life experiences, the series helps raise awareness, encourage understanding, and remind caregivers that their journeys deserve to be heard.

I am grateful to EnhDme for taking the time to listen to my story and share it with others. Thank you for creating a space where caregivers can speak openly about their experiences and potentially make a difference in someone else's life.

Learn more about EnhDme and explore its home care products and resources at enhdme.com.