There Is No Vacation from Caregiving
Three days into a lakeside vacation, a call from my mother's memory care community revealed the quiet truth of caregiving—you can share the tasks, but never fully set down the worry.
My husband, son, and I are on vacation this week. We escaped Colorado’s hot, dry summer by traveling to Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire—a beautiful lake surrounded by forested mountains.
Now that my parents live in a memory care community with 24/7 support, I can finally leave town without carrying quite as much worry or guilt. Before we left, I asked my brother—who lives about 45 minutes away—to be on call in case of an emergency.
Three days into our vacation, the phone rang.
Some sounds have the power to transport us instantly.
One moment I was in New Hampshire.
The next, I was back in Colorado.
It was the nurse’s station.
My mom had been complaining of severe pain in her right breast.
By the following day, the pain had eased, so I asked her care team to continue monitoring her while I was away. If it got worse, call my brother.
Then I added one more instruction.
“Call me first.”
I’ll call him.
After I hung up, I wondered why I needed to be the first to know.
It wasn’t because I could get there faster. I couldn’t.
It wasn’t because I knew more than the nurses. I didn’t.
And it wasn’t because my brother wouldn’t help. I knew he would.
Somewhere along the way, caregiving had quietly convinced me that nothing important should happen without first passing through me.
From that moment on, I was no longer fully on vacation. My mind was fixed on her.
Is she okay?
What could be causing the pain?
Is it something serious?
Or…
Is it her dementia?
The moment that thought crossed my mind, I stopped.
Did I really just question whether she knows her own body?
The longer I’ve walked alongside dementia, the more I’ve realized it has been changing me, too.
Over time, you stop taking every statement at face value—not because you want to, but because the disease teaches you that reality isn’t always straightforward. Is someone truly in pain? Did they misunderstand what happened? Is this new symptom real, or is it confusion?
Eventually, those questions become second nature.
Until one day, you realize you’ve started questioning someone you never wanted to question.
Not because I don’t trust my mom.
Because dementia has conditioned me to interpret every symptom before simply believing what she’s telling me.
Later that afternoon, we sat by the lake. My son splashed his feet in the water while my husband and I admired the mountains rising above the shoreline.
A new family memory was quietly taking shape.
The lake was still.
The mountains weren’t going anywhere.
It was beautiful.
And every few minutes, I found myself checking my phone.
Not because it had rung.
Because it might.
That’s the thing about caregiving.
Other people can share the responsibilities.
They can answer the phone.
They can make the drive.
But the worry, the guilt, and the quiet vigilance remain with you.
There are trips away from home, and there are moments of laughter, beauty, and rest. But the part of you that has learned to carry another person’s well-being never fully lays it down.
It simply learns to carry it from somewhere else.
Written by Ti Mougne
