Memory loss challenges relationships, but it also reshapes how we approach care, empathy and connection.

Through navigating the repetitive and sometimes painful reminders of cognitive decline, we discover that the core of caregiving is not just about remembering, but about showing up, sharing joy and making every encounter meaningful—even if it’s just for that moment.

Caregiving for someone with memory loss is equal parts patience, storytelling and emotional triage.

It’s like managing a project where the goals keep changing—but the mission to stay connected never does. You learn to appreciate the small victories, like a shared laugh or a moment of clarity and realize that making memories isn’t about holding onto them but being fully present when they happen

In leadership, it’s much the same—showing up, fostering connection and valuing the small wins is what builds trust and resilience over time.

(If you think memory loss means losing stories, keep reading for the overthinker's cut and wait until you hear about General Born’s epic comeback.)

“Are you still working?”

“No Mom. I’m retired.”

“Well, that’s good. Where do you live now?”

“Maryland.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s where my mail gets sent.”

“You rascal,” Mom laughs. And then, “Are you still working?”

“No. I’m retired.”

“Well, that’s good. Where do you live now?”

“Maryland.”

“Wow. Are you still working?”

“Nope. I retired.”

“That’s good.”

The pattern remains the same when I visit my Mom, now 86 years young. The line of inquiry might change but the repetition does not.

Other commonly repeated questions include:

“Where’s Jen?”

“How many dogs do you have?”

And my favorite, “Why do you keep cutting your hair?”

Visits and phone calls with Mom are trying for a lot of reasons. My genetic predisposition for impatience being the main one.

I had 8 years of patience training while my Dad fought valiantly against Alzheimer’s. Mom was his primary caregiver for all 8 of those difficult years, preceded by 32 years of Alzheimer’s-free marriage.

Dealing with Alzheimer’s meant that a lot of time we were essentially lying to Dad.

Despite expert guidance at the time, if Dad believed something to be true, we let it be true.

The first time Dad asked me if I had talked to “General Born” recently, I told him that he was dead (and he had been for decades before I was even alive). Dad went from old man on recliner to irritated nephew on warpath before I could say, “BarcaLounger.”

Dad started crying, demanding to know who withheld the information. He was pissed at the insensitive decision to not tell him that his favorite great uncle and Army hero had passed. As the messenger, that meant Dad was pissed with me.

The second time Dad asked if I had talked to General Born recently, I told him I had.

“Good man, that General Born,” Dad reflected in reclined repose.

“Yup.”

And with one little lie, Dad forgot about General Born, dead or alive.

It was a fast lesson in dealing with Dad’s mental decline and one I leveraged more lies than I can recall.

For example, according to Dad, he and I had met for dinner in South Africa when I flew the Lockheed C-5 there on a mission. I had in fact flown a C-5 mission to South Africa and met a family friend for dinner. Whether it was my masterful storytelling or the progressive dementia, Dad had flown himself into the cockpit of my experience and incorporated himself as part of the crew in my storyline.

The first time he regaled the tale of our South African dinner, Mom and I corrected him. 

It was like reincarnating General Born just so we could tell Dad he was dead again. 

Dad was adamant that he had met me on the tarmac and that the dinner had happened. As he got more and more irritated at our failed recollection (especially mine), the more he insisted it happened and the louder the insistence became.

We got out of the turbulence by submitting that Dad’s truth was THE truth.

Yet another lie to keep the peace.

So, reviving General Born, reminiscing about a dinner in South Africa, handling inbound enemy bomber aircraft and being introduced as “the wife’s boy” became part of my own narrative. Not by choice, but by disease.

I did draw the line at Dad being ok with an awkward embrace we once shared because, and I quote, “May [my Mom] isn’t here.” She was.

So dealing with Dad’s Alzheimer’s prepared me for dealing with Mom’s dementia. 

There are some new skills we’ve learned through experience. Like, do NOT wear clothing with any text or graphics on it. The repetitive fixation on the business, acronym, logo or picture will consume all the attention required for daily tasks like getting dressed or eating.

The rough part of this shitty mental decline is that memory retention is short, leading to repeated questions, intense fixation and depleted patience.

The upside of this shitty mental decline is that memory retention is short, fostering a fresh perspective, unexpected joy and renewed curiosity.

The irony of all of this is not forgotten as I am in the early throes of launching a business called “Unforgettable Experiences.”

Our brand is founded on the belief that life is about seeking, recognizing and appreciating unforgettable experiences because whether an event is mundane or monumental, there is meaning in it.

And visits with Mom are mundane on the surface, but monumental in reflection. Our time together is unforgettable to me, but lost on her. 

When we moved into our new house in Maryland, we drove an hour and a half to get my Mom, drove an hour and a half back to host her in our home for a few hours. Then at the end of our visit, at the top of the driveway, at the start of our hour and a half drive back to her place, she asked, “Where do you live now?”

“Maryland.”

“Have I been to your house?”

Glancing at the reflection of our house still in sight in the rearview mirror, I continue my gaze to Mom, “Yup.”

“That’s good. Where do you live now?”

A lot of times when I leave the nursing home after visiting Mom, I sit in my car and cry. 

I cry for the parts of my Mom I’ve lost. 

I cry for the parts of herself that she’s lost.

I cry because there are things I want to share with her that she won’t get, so instead I keep it to myself. Milestones like retiring from the Air Force, losing a dog, moving into a new house or starting a new company.

Events, visits and milestones that are unforgettable to me but forgotten by her.

Many times when I start the long drive from my house (I live in Maryland) to her place (not in Maryland), I realize that I could just as easily call her and lie to her, tell her that I visited and it was the best visit ever. She wouldn’t know the difference because she has forgotten our best visits ever.

But I would know.

I would remember.

Those visits are unforgettable for me.

That may seem like a selfish stance, but I'm hopeful that somewhere in her brain, trying to leap over synaptic gaps, there are neurons and impulses of our visits.

And it doesn’t have to be the whole visit or the occasion for the visit, but just the energy and emotion of our visits. It’s like I’m willing the dumb jokes, silly laughter and playful banter to be hoisted above the noise of blood sugar checks, hygiene reminders and insulin administration. 

I want those positive moments to be the unforgettable ones. 

I imagine each positive interaction as a little cannon ball lifted into a catapult to be violently flung by the axon to the dendrite so it makes it across the crevasse of the forgotten.

And I know I’m not alone. Mom’s memory militia is manned by friends and family who continue to visit her, knowing they will be the only ones to know.

But they’re not the only ones.

I absolutely love it when I get to Mom’s and see leftover spam musubi in her fridge. I know when I see the half-nibbled rice, nori and spam treat rewrapped in saran wrap, that our friends from the Hawaii State Society have visited. Mom may not remember their name or their visit, but that tasty ammo is catapulted across the gap.

I love making her bed and finding a hand-made teddy bear tucked away in the covers. I do a bear count and know that this is a new one, which tells me that at least 2 friends from her Teddy Bear Club have visited. 

Don’t make it weird…these ladies get together, sew, stuff and deliver smiling teddy bears to children in hospitals. The grinning bears whose purpose is to comfort a child now comfort my Mom. Teddy trebucheted into the trenches of her memory.

I get barraged with pictures from Mom’s friends who take her out for Cinco de Mayo. 

Mom wearing a hat with a pair of silly mustached cacti.

Mom’s devious smile and wide eyes as she holds utensils above a plate of Mexico’s finest foods, hecho in Virginia. She’s about to attack the plate like General Zaragoza at the Battle of Puebla. 

There’s a photo of Mom proudly displaying a Mardi Gras-inspired necklace with a festive jalapeño hanging from it.

“Show me your peppers!” is yet another unlaunched quip that stays in my quiver because it would confuse Mom and I’d have to explain why it’s so funny. And doing so would take her out of the slideshow of her lunch. Plus, if you have to explain it…

Thankfully the pictures help prove to Mom that the lunch actually happened. But as I scroll through and show her the pics, she insists that they’re photoshopped. I haven’t the heart to tell her about the photographic advancements with AI. That would be the one thing that she does remember and then the world might fold into an inception of lies within lies and who knows what’s real.

One day I went into her room and saw a very real balloon pinned to her lamp. “You are special” the mylar shouts. I’m happy that Mom sees that balloon every time she glances that way and is reminded that she is indeed special. I don’t know who brought the balloon and neither does Mom (I asked).

While neither one of us knows or remembers, what has become unforgettable is that someone brightened my Mom’s day with a festive balloon. And as the helium slipped out, the message crumbled and the sentiment lost its buoyancy. So we pinned the balloon up like a poster and now the message will last as long as the mylar.

As our hair whitens, our memory fades and catching up on friends means reading who’s in the obituaries, remember that every interaction, no matter how mundane, holds significance and meaning.

The holder of the significance may not be the recipient, but when we value the impact of even fleeting moments of happiness, we are more apt to appreciate them when they do come and more importantly, we are more likely to seek out ways to create more of those unforgettable experiences.

Those gestures of kindness and shared moments of joy bring unexpected connection. 

And in the midst of a tumultuous journey of caregiving, those experiences will outlast inevitable forgetfulness.