When my mother’s dementia progressed, placing her in a nursing home felt like failure—even though caregiving at home had become impossible. She no longer recognized me, and every visit ended in guilt and heartbreak.
The morning she passed, I expected grief and paperwork. Instead, I found a young caregiver sitting beside her, holding her hand. She had stayed after her shift, reading to her, brushing her hair, and making sure she wasn’t alone in her final hours.
Months later, I discovered a small notebook hidden among my mother’s belongings. The caregiver had written detailed notes about her daily comfort—songs she liked, how she relaxed when her hair was brushed, moments when she smiled. It was proof of compassionate elder care when I couldn’t be there.
The final line read: “She talked about her daughter today. She loved her very much.”
That notebook didn’t erase the guilt of dementia caregiving—but it gave me peace. My mother was seen, loved, and not alone at the end.
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