Caregiving Unzipped: Don’t Tell Me I Have an Easy Life

 

Don’t Tell Me I Have an Easy Life
A caregiver’s truth, spoken out loud.

Don’t tell me I have an easy life because I “get to stay home.” I’m a family caregiver.
Don’t assume I spend my days watching TV. I don’t even get to watch what I like.
Without the pause button, I wouldn’t finish a single episode — nothing I watch is uninterrupted, and none of it is truly for me, even when I chose it myself.
Don’t confuse the calm you might see in my home with leisure.
That peace? I built that. I routine that. I maintain that so someone I love doesn’t unravel.

Come over at 3 a.m.
Come witness the hydration battles, the night terrors, the diaper changes, the screaming showers.
Come see what happens after the visitors leave — when “showtime” is over and the reality of dementia snaps back into place.

Don’t say I didn’t sacrifice.
Don’t say this life is easy.
Don’t tell me I haven’t lost more than most will ever understand.

Don’t tell me I should be dating.
Don’t ask why I haven’t “put myself out there.”
For some of us, love has faded under the weight of caretaking.
For others, it never had a chance to begin.
There’s no space for desire when every hour is rationed.
Not when my entire life is lived on call.
And even if I met someone and the interest was there…
I wouldn’t bring them home.
Not into this house.
Not into this... life.

When you childproof a home for dementia, you lose the casual ease most people take for granted.
When you downsize for safety and affordability — fewer stairs, smaller spaces — you lose more of your life than theirs.
And when something gets knocked over or broken, it’s almost always yours — not because it mattered less, but because you made space for them to matter more.
When you take the smaller bedroom so your LO can have room for medical supplies or EMS access, you feel that trade-off every single night.

Caregiving means your own life fades into the background.
You are lost in translation — of your identity, your routine, your worth.
And you are lost in transitioning — not just homes, but selves. Slowly. Permanently.

When your LO moves in with you, or you move in with them, the world shifts.
When you downsize again, it’s your things that go.
I know what it means to box up over 3,000 books — a lifetime of reading and identity — and donate them to the library because there was no space and no money for storage.

That hits deep. Still does.

Sure, there’s less to dust now.
But that doesn’t make it easier on the soul.

We give of ourselves, as family caregivers, in every way — both large and small.
In ways most won’t see. Can’t see.
Can’t understand or appreciate. It’s outside of their experience.
Our days… they are all a day of days.
Family caregivers will know what that means.

Afterword

I know this piece is heavier than what I usually share. There’s more I could say — but this felt like enough. It already weighs more than most people can see.

Sometimes we don’t have the words to express what caregiving really is.
So it has to be written down by someone else — someone who's living it too.
Not someone studying it.
Someone in it.

If you’re a caregiver, or love someone who is one, I hope this met you where you are.
And maybe helped you or them feel a little less unseen, and unheard.

Binglefont Foo and the Comb That Had Roamed

Binglefont Foo and the Comb That Had Roamed

A fuzzy tale of friendship, assumption, and finding what matters most

Binglefont Foo, a fuzzy Whazoo, lived right by a tree,
Deep in a magical forest, happily.
He lived in a house—though some called it a stump—
With a round little door and a soft mossy hump.
A cozy brown home near the base of the tree,
Where he’d wave every morning to his neighbor, the Bee.

He kept his own comb in a neat little dome—
Not honey-filled like the Bee’s, but a hair-comb for home.
The Bee had his hive and his honey, all sweet,
But Binglefont’s fuzz needed tidying neat.
So he placed his comb proudly where fuzz could be tamed,
In the house that he loved, and that’s where it remained.

But one summer day, Binglefont Foo,
Returned to his home—a stump with a view—
To find the small door was hanging ajar…
And his comb, so beloved… had wandered afar!

“Bee!” he cried, gazing high in the tree.
“My comb! It's not home! It is gone—do you see?”

“Gone?” said the Bee. “Well that’s quite odd.
Combs don’t go walking… they’ve no legs to abscond!”

“Yes,” said Binglefont. “It should be inside.
But it’s clearly not—there’s no place to hide!”

So the Whazoo and Bee, both earnest and keen,
Set off to recover what once had been seen.
They searched high and low, behind rocks and grass,
They checked near the stump and each critter that passed.
They searched all around, but the comb was just… gone.
It was clearly a mystery they had stumbled upon.

“Bee,” asked Binglefont, scratching his head,
“You sit in that tree. Were any words said?
Any footsteps, whispers, buzzing, or croon—
Did you hear someone pass in the heat of the noon?”

“I do now recall,” said the Bee with a hum,
“A wandering Cuckoo did happen to come.
It asked about combs and about honey.
It seemed quite polite… and a little bit funny.”

“A wandering Cuckoo? Oh, that’s quite rare.
Usually all we get near our tree is a bear!”

So now they had something—a definite clue.
The comb went missing… and a Cuckoo came through.
But Binglefont paused—he wouldn’t accuse.
He’d learned from his mother—you think, before you choose.

“Never assume,” she’d said every night.
“When something goes missing, don’t start a fight.
Look for the truth, be patient, be wise.
The facts are your compass—not panic or cries.”

So Binglefont Foo, being wise for his age,
Set off on the path with the Bee in a rage.
Well—the Bee buzzed loudly, the Whazoo did not shout—
Because Binglefont knew what assuming’s about.

They moved up the trail, then moved up some more,
Past beetles and grasshoppers, right to the shore.
Bee saw a green Feathered Whazat that he knew a bit well,
And asked it for directions—and boy did it tell!
For there, on a log, with feathers askew,
Sat the single wandering blue Cuckoo.

“Good day!” said the Whazoo with delicate cheer.
“Have you seen my comb? It’s wandered, I fear.”

“Combs do not roam,” said the bird with a chuckling tone.
“Did you leave it behind with a napkin or pin?
On your mat, in your hat, under crumbs on a plate?
I misplace things too—it’s just part of our fate.”

“No hat and no mat,” Binglefont said, polite.
“I checked my whole house—it just isn’t right.
The Bee said you visited earlier today.
So I thought I would ask, in a courteous way.”

“I did visit the tree, and I greeted this Bee.
But I saw no house—just a stump next to me.”
The Cuckoo then blinked, gave a chuckle and flap,
“Wait—that stump was your house? Oh my, there’s the gap!”

“You had me stumped!” the Cuckoo did cry.
“I thought you meant a house, raised up high!”

“Haha!” laughed Binglefont. “That joke’s a good one.
You’d fit in quite well beneath our friendship’s sun.”
The Bee, no longer angry, hummed with delight.
And all of them smiled, as well as they might.

“But,” said the Cuckoo, remembering anew,
“I did see a bear just waddling through.
It passed by the stump with a sniff and a stare—
And bears, as we know, are curious about lairs.”

“A bear!” gasped Binglefont. “That’s news I can use.
It likely thought every comb came with the honey ooze.
Bears aren’t that clever—but they are quite bold.
And their assumptions, I’m told, can’t be controlled.”

So off he went to the big bear’s den,
And found there a bear. He asked a question right then.
The bear just pointed and muttered, “Back there, round the end.”
He climbed over some roots, and came back again—
With his comb! Just a bit sticky, no worse for the wear.
“I thought it had honey,” confessed the embarrassed bear.

“It didn’t,” said Binglefont. “But that’s okay too.
Next time, try asking—it’s the Whazoo thing to do.”

“Never assume,” he added, not at all snide,
As he walked off to home with his comb and with a satisfied stride.
And the Bee buzzed alongside,
Looking at his friend with generous pride.

Back at his stump, in the shade of the tree,
He polished the comb and sipped honey with Bee.
He placed it in its dome and gave it a nod—
A fuzzy Whazoo with a clean comb—not at all odd!

“You’re there when I need you, though I don’t today, it’s true.
Tomorrow when my fuzz is unkempt again, I’ll be counting upon you.
And just like my mother so wisely often said,
Some things are best saved for what lies ahead.
Never assume and keep your comb clean.”

So if you should wonder, dear reader, it’s true—
Are you as wise as a fuzzy Whazoo?

Afterword

I was sitting there on a calm and warm night, many years ago, when the mood — or perhaps the muse — came upon me and whispered,
“Once in your life, you should write a nursery rhyme. Something old-school, with moral lessons and a few absurdities. Fun and engaging.”
And so, I wrote the first draft of Binglefont Foo. Then I tucked it away, thinking:
“One day I’ll finish this… maybe even add pictures.”

That day finally came. And here we are.
It took longer than I expected. :)

Story and characters © 2025 M.W. Please comb responsibly.
All Rights Reserved

Caregiving Unzipped: Why I Wear White T-Shirts

 

I wrote this because I was smiling to myself after a Senior Helper gave me that look when she arrived and said, “That shirt... what have you been into?”

I told her.
She paused and said, “I think you need to change that one.”
And I replied, “But I am cleaning the shower.”

So, I thought I’d share this with others — my fellow family caregivers.

__________________

I wear white T-shirts.
Not because they’re fashionable.
Not because they hide anything.
I wear them because they don’t.

In the world of caregiving, white T-shirts don’t flatter — they inform.
They don’t camouflage — they confess.
And in this work, I need my clothing to tell me the truth.

That faint spot? I saw it immediately.
That smudge? Didn’t come from me, which means it came from someone who depends on me (or their Depends) — and that matters.
Because when bodily fluids show up uninvited, I’d rather be warned than surprised.
The mirror always provides that surprise.
I’ll go half a day thinking I made it out clean, and then — bam — there it is:
streaked across my chest like I lost a paintball match with the kids I don’t have —
although I do have an elderly toddler.

Dark shirts? They lie.
They whisper, “Everything’s fine,”
while quietly ferrying things you do not want to discover
while folding laundry
or, worse, shaking someone’s hand.

White T-shirts are my early-warning system.
My fire alarm.
My cotton armor that says, “Something happened here — and it’s time to clean house.”
They’re also my bib.
When the coffee spills —
or when the coffee gets spilled onto me —
that cotton chestplate takes the hit.
It’s not glamorous.
But it is washable.
Easily replaceable.
And that’s half the battle.

In caregiving, you don’t always get time for wardrobe changes.
So when something ends up where it shouldn’t,
I want a shirt that announces,
“Houston, we have a situation,”
not one that hides it until it spreads.

And let’s be clear:
you clean the skin before you change the shirt.
No point wrapping a gift if the box is leaking.

Of course, that’s always when someone knocks at the door.
You answer it innocently — because you’ve already forgotten what your shirt’s been through —
and suddenly you’re giving Texas Chainsaw energy
to an Amazon driver who just wanted a signature.
Poor skittish driver.
You were just making lunch.
Or at worst — cleaning the oven.

White undershirts don’t last forever.
They stain.
They stretch.
Eventually, they wave the white flag
and get turned into rags,
cleaning cloths,
or cautionary tales.

But while they’re with me, they work.
They warn.
They wear every stain with honesty,
and they let me reset at the end of each day
with nothing hiding beneath the surface.

And no, I don’t wear white pants.
White T-shirts are about visibility.
White pants are a dare.
Too revealing to survive a caregiving day —
unless you’re actively hoping for a surprise scene in public.

The shorts I wear —
varied in color, changed daily —
aren’t just for comfort during the thermostat wars
between the young(er) and the old(er).
They’re a sanitation protocol.
Because in this line of work, once is plenty.
Twice is reckless.

And yes, there are uniforms:
workwear, scrubs, bleach-safe everything.
Probably the smartest option.
But those look like shifts.
And family caregiving doesn’t clock out.
My day is 24 hours long.
I don’t want to live it in a uniform
that makes me look like an escapee from the ward,
the road crew,
or a visiting nurse.

I want something that still feels like me —
even if it’s covered in ketchup,
coffee,
or Tuesday’s mystery goo.

So, no —
it’s not a fashion choice.
It’s a field-tested protocol.
It’s a quiet manifesto in cotton.

And maybe, just maybe,
the first honest garment I put on all day.

My underpants?
Those are too honest after a long day of coffee.
Perhaps that’s why they call them “unmentionables.”

For anyone wondering why my shirt always looks like it’s been through something... it has. And I wrote about it

Copyright June 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

Caregiving Unzipped - Chronicles: The Enema Episode - The Very Long Day

Caregiver Chronicles: The Enema Episode

“One thing I learned today about giving an elderly person with dementia an enema … don’t do it alone.”
‘Nuff said.

That meme I created today came to me mid-chaos, somewhere between the in-betweens. I thought it was funny, relatable, and layered — one of those lines that’s funny for some, serious for others, and spot-on for those in the caregiving trenches.

My day began like many others: wake Dad at 6:00 a.m., give medications, hydrate. But the moment he sat up, I knew routine had packed its bags and left the building. A particular squish followed by an unmistakable smell — yep, it was going to be one of those days

Naturally, today was also the day my senior helper didn’t come. No nurse visits scheduled either.

Dad’s had diarrhea for a few days — volume and intensity bouncing like a yo-yo. He’d just wrapped up another round of antibiotics, which often bring side effects. But this wasn’t just skin irritation or inflammation. I knew this pain — the way he winced while sitting said it all. This was paradoxical diarrhea: both constipation and diarrhea at once. I call it the flow-around. Solid matter blocks the exit, while everything else squeezes past like water leaking through cracked mortar.

So I moved fast. Laid down Chux pads like I was prepping for a levy-breaking flood — bed, floor, bathroom path. Got Dad up, shuffled him to the sink, and (after slicing away his diaper) started containment.
They call them Chux pads because you chuck them — single-use heroes of the home front.
And no matter how many you lay down, the mess always finds a way to escape. Then he steps in it. Tracks it. You know the scenario well, don't you, my fellow caregivers.

From there: toilet attempt (failed), shower battle (epic), resistance (high), volume (loud enough to summon the gods), pain (shared). I often say I wash my father like a truck — not roughly, but deliberately. With care and purpose. You try not to damage the paint, even in a storm.
But the truck doesn’t know that.
It’ll still roll over your foot.

What I found confirmed my suspicion: the blockage was there — just low enough to be felt, but too large to pass. Manual extraction? Not an option. Dad wouldn’t allow it — and he still packs a punch.

Out of the shower, back to the bed (now a fortress of Chux). Feet cleaned before landing — because yes, they’d walked through the minefield — unsuccessfully. Yet again.

Then came the enema. Administering that alone? Don’t. Just … don’t. It requires strength, dexterity, emotional fortitude, and probably soundproofing. I half expected the neighbors to call the police.

And when it kicked in — oh, it kicked in. Quick trip to the bedside commode. But only partial relief. Still blocked. Still painful. Still very much not over.

I lost track of how many times we went back and forth to the shower. Each time trying to preserve dignity, manage pain, clean up the aftermath. I gave him fluids, Lactulose solution, hope. It might take a day or more. Meanwhile, he was exhausted. I was exhausted. And I knew — this was too much to do alone.

Honestly, maybe it was best I did do it alone, since there were no professionals available. If my senior helper — a non-medical aide who’s wonderful in calmer moments — had shown up today, I suspect she would’ve completed her shift … and then ghosted me forever. I thought that as I toiled: this is the kind of day that breaks gentler beings than me — though I’ll admit, I cracked more than a little.

Finally, I set him up to rest. Layers of Chux. A pad over the diaper area. Let him sleep. I kept hydrating him, monitoring him … waiting. The Lactulose bottle? Of course I dropped it. Don’t lift by the cap. Sticky mess. Kitchen floor’s still tacky.

And then — just when I thought I might exhale — he pulled off the top pad, soiled it, and tucked part of the sheets and blanket under himself. They, too, became casualties. So … yes, another cleanup. Another shower. More laundry. More everything.

This isn't the end of my day, just a pause.
I have more to do before the sun comes up. 

---

Some might wonder how I find the time — or the energy — to write this all down. But for me, writing isn’t separate from caregiving. It’s how I stay sane, how I make sense of the chaos. I was born with ink on my palms. It flows out without planning. My mind speaks fluently, even when my mouth says, “What the hell!”

This isn’t just a story. It’s a real, relentless day. A day in the life of a family caregiver.
And the truth is simple: never do this alone — not the enema procedure, not the cleanup, not the holding-it-all-together.
We can do a lot alone. Solo.
But there are things we should never do alone.
This is one of them. One of the many.

And later, I may laugh about today. Or some of it.
But not tonight. Not quite yet.
I see some humor in it, but it hasn’t sunk in enough yet.

My fellow caregivers:
We live this life.
We slowly find our way through.
We make mistakes.

We choose to share them with others.
We do not present the pretenses.
We give of ourselves fully — in caregiving, and in our cautionary tales and life experiences.

We are real,
and we are seen,
and we can be heard —
by those willing to see and to listen.

Copyright June 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

A Letter to the Ones Who Write - A Prose Elegy

The quill, the pen, the typewriter, the keyboard —

they are all played the same.

A Letter to the Ones Who Write

Writers write because they must.
Not for fame. Not for algorithms. Not even for applause.
They write because the words don’t leave them alone.

Some write loud — voices that split the air like thunder.
Some write soft — threads of breath barely loud enough for the page.
But neither is better. They are the same coin, both sides, in full.

There are writers who enter the world already mid-sentence —
natural scribes, born with ink on their palms.
There are poets who translate silence —
uninvited, but undeniable.
There are aspirers — watching, learning,
hungry to become what they imagine a writer to be.
And there are the market-minded —
chasing trends, crafting hooks,
measuring resonance by return.

Each has a place.
But only some carry that quiet ache — the one that says
“If I don’t write, I won’t know who I am.”
“If I don’t write, I don’t know how to live in this world.”

---

And then, there is Poe.
He wrote to eat. He wrote to stay alive.
He wrote from the gutter and aimed for the stars,
though he rarely saw either clearly.
He birthed the short story, the detective,
the speculative whisper of science fiction.
He wrote tales soaked in dread,
and poems that held grief like a lover too long gone.

His own life was filled with death —
his wives, lost one by one —
but he kept living, aspiring, writing.
He kept writing from himself,
from the lives too common to be noticed,
except in how he saw them.

He was edited without consent.
Mocked while breathing.
Cited only after burial.
He died barely known, only partially respected,
but his shadow came to dinner generations later —
quoted, canonized, dissected, misunderstood.
He was loud because he had to be.
Desperate not for vanity — but for visibility.
And still, he wrote.
Even when he was starving on the street.

---

And then, there is Dickinson.
She wrote from upstairs.
Not just in her house — but in her head.
Her poems were rooms — compact, peculiar,
exquisitely furnished with silence.
Publishing, she once said, was “as foreign to me as Firmament to Fin,”
and yet, still she reached.
Reached through letters, through guarded friendship,
through slant rhyme and punctuation that knew more than it said.

She did not hunger for fame like Poe,
but she did wonder whether poetry, left unread, could still matter.
She questioned the echo, but still sent out sound.

She lived a life pressed inward —
unmarried, unseen, often unread.
But the poems kept arriving,
as if the language itself chose her and not the other way around.

She wrote toward an audience
that perhaps she never believed would come.
Yet here we are —
and still,
she wrote,
even for the audience of self.

---

To the Natural Writer
You didn’t choose this. It arrived as a birthmark, inside and out.
You write not for a reason, but because the words insist.
You don’t always want an audience. You just want the page to stop looking empty.
You’re already enough. The pen knew that before you did.

To the Born Poet
You feel in metaphor. Ache in enjambment.
Life hands you salt, and you shape it into song.
You weren’t taught this. You just breathe this way.
Let your strange rhythm stay strange — it’s where the music lives.

To the Aspiring Writer
You squint into the light of other voices,
wondering if yours belongs there too.
You study the form, chase the feeling,
tinker and discard and revise.
That longing isn’t weakness. It’s the beginning.
Keep reaching. You’re closer than you know.

To the Commercial Aspirer
You count the clicks. Watch the trends.
Sharpen the hook until it glints.
But somewhere beneath the packaging, a story waits —
one that still matters when the numbers don’t.
Don’t lose it chasing applause. It’s why you began.

---

And so, I return to where I started.

I don’t write for the market.
I don’t write for applause.
I don’t write to convince anyone that I’m a writer.

I write because I have to.
Because silence itches.
Because thoughts stack like bricks
until a sentence lets them fall.

And yes, I share what I write.
Not to be discovered, but to be accompanied.
To say: if you recognize this feeling, take the next seat.
I’m not waiting for you, but I welcome you.

That is the grace of writing —
not to be seen,
but to keep seeing.
Not to be validated,
but to remain true.

That’s where this ends.
And where I always begin.

---

Afterword:

Edgar Allan Poe lived, and lives on, eternally.
Emily Dickinson lived, and lives on, immortally.

I don’t write for others. I write because I must.
I don't need validation as a writer,
because I have always been one —
Naturally.

So I have written. So I have said.
And so, this is who I am,
and who many of you are too.

The ones who Write.

Copyright June 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

Return to Me - A Poem of Male Perspective

 

Return to Me

Go from me, but return to me—
always and forever.
Leave me in peace,
but return to me,
noisily—we must be together.

Be silent for me,
but let me hear you breathe.
Free me from your presence,
yet let me feel that you are still there.

Let me be alone
for little whiles,
until I grow lonely
for your voice, your sounds.

Remove yourself from my sight,
yet let me see you
in the corner of my eye.
Give me solitude—
but cradle me in your arms,
providing me with the warmth
that proves to me I am still alive.

Let me be.
Be with me.
Both, at the same time.

Your love sometimes smothers me,
but it’s the only air I want to breathe.
My love for you is quiet and deep—
but in my eyes, it always shines.

Quietly, but not silently,
for I am a man,
and you must learn to see
between my unspoken lines.

Copyright June 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

Caregiving Unzipped: Rug Burns and the Divine Comedy of the Hearing Aid

This isn’t a rant, but it is a ridiculous story I feel the need to share — one that ended with rug burns on my knees and me staring at the ceiling in disbelief at the absurdity of it. And again this morning.

I’m going to call them diapers. Not “adult briefs.” Not “pullups.” Don’t fault me for that. Especially after last night, they were and are diapers, in every sense of the word.

It all started innocently enough. I let Dad sleep in later than usual. Figured, why not let him rest a little longer? I’d been giving him fluids and his medications throughout the day, so I thought all the bases were covered.

They weren’t.

When I finally sat him up, to get him up for the rest of the day, I noticed wet spots on his pajama shorts — right around where the catheter tube exits. My first thought: Oh no, the tube’s leaking. But it wasn’t a leak.

It was diarrhea.

It had been collecting in his diaper and had started to seep out — right where the catheter exits. The thing is, just two hours earlier, when I had him up for medications, everything was fine. No indication this storm was brewing. I should’ve remembered the golden rule of caregiving: After sitting someone up in a diaper, check the diaper before you let them lie back down. Because sometimes, just the act of sitting or standing is enough to get things… moving.

What makes this all feel especially ironic is that my most-viewed YouTube video is me explaining which side of a Depend pull-up goes in front. One viewer even dubbed me “the diaper man.” And oh, did I live up to that title last night.

Now, as anyone who’s done this long enough knows, most adult diapers are designed for urine. They might absorb a gallon of that, but diarrhea? Not a chance. There are specific briefs made for fecal incontinence — and I do have them — but I only use them when I know, because they’re more expensive and I try to be careful with money. But I didn’t know I’d need them until it was too late.

And what I found in that diaper… well, let’s just say it was no match for even the best marketing promises. It was everywhere. Front, back, middle, down a leg. I sprang into action like I was responding to a hazardous spill. I grabbed the absorbent pads, got him on his feet, helped him shuffle to the shower. Peeled those diapers off and launched into cleaning mode.

He fought me through the entire process. Didn’t want to be cleaned. Kept saying he wanted to go back to the bed to lie back down. It was like chasing a muddy dog through a very small bathroom. I used at least ten pads. Had to clean his feet three — no, four — times. And we still weren’t done. As I walked him back to the bed, more came out.

I realized at some point during this struggle that I was burning up. The kind of heat that makes you stop and wonder if you're coming down with something — only to discover the thermostat had been left too high. It was 97°F outside. I hadn’t cranked up the AC enough. My shirt was soaked, my glasses fogged, and I had flashbacks of saunas I never meant to enter. That’s the caregiver balance: we set the temperature to keep our aging loved ones comfortable. But that usually means we’re dancing right on the edge of overheating ourselves. Just a few degrees too far, and we’re suddenly working in a greenhouse.

Eventually, he was clean, dressed, seated in his chair, sipping coffee. Then he asked for a snack. I brought him two mini cupcakes — the kind with the paper liners. He had them, smiled, and all seemed calm.

Until I brought his meds and he looked up and said, “I can’t find my left hearing aid.”

Of course he couldn’t.

I frisked him like TSA. Checked shirt, pants, neck, hair. Tore apart his leather recliner — cushions, crevices, only finding tons of snack remnants and a penny or two. Nothing. I turned it over. Searched the side tables, behind the couch, around the couch.

Then the bed — sheet by sheet, pillow by pillow. No hearing aid. I asked, only halfway joking, “Did you throw it? Did you swallow it?”

My knees, already raw from the earlier clean-up crawl, were back down on the carpet again. I lifted the couch one-handed like some delusional superhero, prompting a twinge in my lower back that reminded me of birthdays gone by. Can I still do it? Yes. Will I regret it? Also yes.

Finally, I just stood there. Looking at Dad. Him blinking at me like he was wondering what all the fuss was about.

And then — I remembered the cupcakes.

I walked back into the kitchen, stared at the plates, and there it was: nestled deep inside one of the cupcake liners, blending in just enough to vanish. His hearing aid — hidden in chocolate-stained paper like the world’s saddest Happy Meal toy.

I laughed. I yelled at the ceiling. And I thanked every force in the universe that I hadn’t taken the trash out yet.

Even now, I catch myself drifting back into that moment — shaking my head like someone who just stepped out of a carnival funhouse. It wasn’t my worst day as a caregiver. But it was the most ridiculous. The most head-spinning. The most “what on earth is happening right now” kind of night I’ve had in a while.

My back still aches. My knees still sting. But I know I’ll find a way to laugh at this. That’s what I do. That’s what saves me.

I always call this my life in pants. And yes, it’s unzipped. Now you know where that name came from.

The Good Guy Myth (And the TokTik Wives) - The Poem

He sat in the glow of a neon regret,
Mumbling tales of the one who just left.
“She ditched me,” he said, “for some tattooed brute—
I texted her poems, I kissed both her boots!”

But loyalty’s not love, and kindness can fade,
If it’s wrapped in routine that’s poorly displayed.
Maybe he was the best she could do—
At that time, in that place—but that doesn’t make it true.

The man was worn in, shaped by the groove,
Married with kids, with little to prove.
He loved her still, though the sparks had cooled—
They weren’t newlyweds, they were seasoned and tooled.

She longed for the magic they'd felt at the start,
Mistook daily love for a vanishing art.
But once you’re well-worn and the shine has flown,
There’s no rewinding what time has known.

She thought she was MILF—forgot what it meant,
Mistaking desire for lifelong intent.
No one weds a MILF, not stone-cold and wise,
Unless liquor’s fog clouds over their eyes.

Now enter the scroll queens, bold with a plan,
Broadcasting heartbreak from the palm of their hand.
They leapt with a smirk, sure the grass would be lush,
Fueled by TokTik and a midlife crush.

They were nearly expired, but still on the shelf,
Not yet past the date—but far from fresh stealth.
No longer “new car,” not vintage, just… used,
With a bit of a squeak and a slightly bruised fuse.

They lit lonely hearts like a curated flame,
Preached “follow me” under freedom’s name.
But they weren’t just running—they wanted a crowd,
To cheer for the leap, to echo out loud.

They couldn’t bear solitude’s bitter incline,
So they summoned companions to sit in their brine.
Not swimming, not soaring—just circling the drain,
Warmed by the shared, slow-simmering pain.

The watchers, inspired, now dream of escape,
Of ditching the “meh” for a tempting update.
But dreams don’t date, and filters fade fast,
And not every exit leads to a better last.

So spare me the tales of good guys and bad—
Of devils with abs and saints who were sad.
There are no white knights or villains in ties,
No moral reward when connection dies.

The Good Guy Myth? That is for the dogs—
It still doesn’t make that guy best in show.
And women who can smell that,
Lead those by the nose.

There are no good guys or bad guys—just guys,
And some wear regret like a well-worn disguise.

From TokTik confessions to neon-drenched lies,
This play keeps repeating—but few question why.

Final Positions:

The man sits in the strip club, dollars at ready,
Complaining that women don’t want the good guy,
While slipping the folded bill steady.

The woman sits on a barstool,
Glaring at couples alight,
Complaining the good ones are taken—
Forgetting she once had one at night.

Author’s Note: Yes, it's TokTik. No, that’s not a typo. But thank you for reading.

Copyright June 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

When Sad Turns Dangerous: Drawing the Line in Dementia Care

 

You Don’t Owe Blind Loyalty to a Memory
For caregivers facing the hard line between sadness and danger.

There’s a difference between distress and destruction. Confusion, paranoia, or emotional outbursts can be painful — but this post speaks to something more: when behavior becomes unsafe.

Dementia is heartbreaking. Losing someone to confusion, memory loss, and withdrawal can feel like mourning the living. That’s sad — and many caregivers endure it with love, devotion, and tolerance.

But sometimes, what comes through isn’t just confusion or forgetfulness. It’s destruction. It’s danger.

Dementia can unmask traits that were always buried — cruelty, control, entitlement. Or it can twist someone into a person they never were: aggressive, volatile, sexually inappropriate.

That can look like:

• Relentless verbal abuse or threats
• Destroying furniture, breaking objects, punching walls
• Inappropriate grooming behaviors toward family members
• Physical violence, stalking, or delusional accusations
• Unwanted sexual attention directed at adult family members, caregivers —
  or in rare and disturbing cases, even pets
  This can include delusions of romance or fixation

Let’s put dementia and its associated brain damage off to the side. If someone had a traumatic brain injury or schizophrenia and started behaving this way, we wouldn’t say, “That’s just the illness.” We’d say, “This isn’t safe.” We’d get help. We’d demand sedation. We’d draw a line.

Dementia should be treated the same way.

You don’t owe blind loyalty to a memory — to who someone used to be. Love doesn’t mean accepting harm — no matter the cause. It means recognizing when care becomes self-erasure.

Protect yourself. Protect others. Grieve if you must — but don’t excuse what’s become dangerous. This isn’t abandonment. It’s survival. Not just for yourself, but for others. Your tolerance and acceptance should never outweigh the risk to others. Expecting them to accept it — assuming they will understand — is not only intolerable, it is criminal.

And yet — before it turned, you gave what few can: love to someone who may not have known you at all. You fed them, held their hand, wiped their face, waited patiently for a name that never came. You remembered them when they forgot you. That matters. That is love.

But love does not require you to vanish. And when what remains begins to harm, you are allowed to say — this is no longer them. And I am still me.

Those Creative Few – Of Critics, Creators, and What Remains (Poem)

 

Those Creative Few

The creative mind is more often than not,
Assailed by those who have not the mind to even try,
And by those who have tried, but failed.

Critics criticize both major and minor,
Professionally or personally, or both.
They themselves do not uniquely create;
They disembowel and pick bones clean,
Spilling the blood and tearing out the sinew,
Discounting, disregarding, and dismissing the soul within.

Devoid of originality, bereft of concept and creativity,
Flawed and pedestrian, themselves ignorant of it,
They require and demand flawless postulation,
And seamless construction of a standardized derivation...
Of something that is in itself a non-derivative work of genius...
And of individuality.

An impossible perfection no one can define, yet everyone demands.

Those who can create, create.
Those who cannot create, destroy.
Yet, that destruction is a creation too,
Of nicely turned words, polite phrases,
Colorful and engaging,
Soliloquies, both light and heavy handed,
Written or spoken, or both.

Opinions offered up to all by a less creative mind,
By those who cannot understand that subtle or gross imperfection is art.
It is birth.
It is Life.
It is soul.
It is real.

And it is Truth.

It is the artist, the poet, the writer, and the sculptor,
And all those who create that which is tangible and intangible,
Creation that touches and moves the heart and soul and mind of a few of the many,
Or even a single one of the multitudes;

Yes—even a single one, forever moved, is enough.
For in that stirred heart,
The creator lives on—
As a name, as a title, as a stanza that time remembers.

The reviewer, evaluator, analyst, judge, family authority, and critic,
Those self-obsessed dismissive connoisseurs of other people's talents and art,
Their words and works and opinions fade quickly, lost or bargain-binned, discounted.
What they once dismissed, they quietly entombed—
The artist's work, reduced to records, unconsidered, and institutionalized.
Forgotten, or set into archives that no one will ever access, or discover,
Often skimmed past on an index card;

Critics are never remembered,
But the creative and creations, the very few, they endure.
Beyond the critics, modern or in generations to come,
Always and in all times, criticized and analyzed,

Still, they endure.

Immortal... for as long as they can be.

Those Creative Few.

Copyright June 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

For Every Caregiver Who’s Been Called a Thief

 

For Every Caregiver Who’s Been Called a Thief
— And the Truth That Won’t Be Silenced

I recently read a post by someone whose loved one did everything “right” — asked the family what they wanted, worked with attorneys, wrote it all down, included a no-contest clause — and still, they’re being accused. Of manipulation. Of coercion. Of theft. It stirred something deep, because the pattern is so familiar. So I wrote this.

---

When You’ve Been There, and They Haven’t

This story hits a nerve — because it’s the same movie playing in too many homes. Families fracture. The ones who disappeared when things got hard often return only once there’s something to inherit — open hands, pointed fingers.

Caregiving is not a leisurely favor. It’s unpaid, isolating, emotionally exhausting work that wears down your health, your finances, and often your very identity. But too often, people who never lived a single day of that reality assume you just stayed home watching TV — like you were doing nothing while someone else’s life fell apart.

Even some healthcare professionals casually dismiss the toll — because they go home after their shift. We are home. They’ll talk about residency like it was the pinnacle of sacrifice. But they could still clock out. We didn’t. This? This is 24/7. No escape. No reprieve.

---

When the Will Speaks Truth

If a loved one chooses to honor that caregiving by making intentional legal choices, it should be sacred. But those decisions unsettle the people who were absent — who didn’t want to be there, and now don’t like what the will reveals about who they weren’t. They try to shame the one who stayed. Not because they deserve anything. But because the paperwork is proof — and they want it undone.

---

The Myth of “Family Money”

They’ll call it “family money.” Funny how it’s only family when you inherit it. When it’s theirs, it’s theirs. But when it comes from your parent — the one you cared for — suddenly it belongs to everyone. Let’s be honest: most inheritances aren’t old estates. They’re the result of decades of work, saving, and sacrifice. It’s their life. And they chose to leave it to the one who showed up when no one else would.

---

Silence as Power

And yes — it’s brutal to stay silent while someone tarnishes your name online. Every instinct wants to shout, to defend, to drop the receipts. But I’ve learned — through gritted teeth and bitten lips — that most public arguments aren’t about truth. They’re about spectacle. They make your grief into content.

If you say anything at all, say it once. Calm. Clear:

“My loved one made their decisions with full clarity and intention. Their wishes are documented, legal, and final. I will honor those choices, and I will not engage in public arguments about them.”

Then step back — not because you’ve surrendered, but because you’ve already fought the battle that mattered. You were there. You showed up. No tantrum, thread, or tantrum cloaked in justice can erase that.

---

You Know Who Knows

The people who truly saw you — who stood beside you when the rest of the world disappeared — they’re already in your corner. And the ones who choose to believe the noise? They were never going to believe you anyway.

Let them have their shadows. You’ve lived in the light.

---

(This post grew while I wrote it — started as a reply, became something fuller. If it helps anyone find their words or their clarity, feel free to share. These truths need room to stand.)

James Blunt - Monsters (Official Music Video)

It was like this song was written for and about my father and me. It made me cry — really cry — in a way a man doesn’t casually do. Tears rolling down my face in a flood. Hand over my mouth, trying to stifle the sounds rising from the core of me. James Blunt’s voice was enough. But the video… oh my. It unlocked years of tears and compartmentalized grief. It didn’t just crack the door — I thought nothing could get through — it obliterated it.

You can replace "father" with "mother," "husband," "wife," or whoever it is for you. Because you’ll know, when you hear it, who this song will speak for — and to.

For my fellow caregivers — especially the men — I urge you to watch. Not casually. Carve out a space and time when you can feel this. And give yourself room to recover.

It didn’t break me. It released me in a way I can’t fully explain. It didn’t add pressure — it eased it. It broke my heart, and somehow began to repair it. I didn’t see this coming. It just… came. And I cried. For what felt like a very long time.

It speaks to every man who’s been taught to shoulder pain without shedding it — every caregiver who’s tucked their grief into quiet corners just to make it through the day.

Family Caregiving Days: This Urine is Clear!

 

This house is... clear." A line perfectly delivered with Southern flair by Zelda Rubinstein in Poltergeist (1982) popped into my mind as I looked at the urine in Dad's collection bag this morning.

Dad has a UTI... again. I think it's the same UTI he had months ago, that the VA geriatric center treated with antibiotics, and then still had when the Home-Based Primary Care program took over and treated with another round of antibiotics. It didn't work, apparently. Now, this week we have a new 10-day round of antibiotics. After a few days of using it, I see today the urine is yellow and clear after overnight collection for the first time in a long time.

So, I felt in the mood to share this—and the image.

Some days are better days than others. Caregiving isn’t glamorous, but sometimes a movie quote sneaks in at just the right moment to keep you going. Today, we take the win.

Dementia Has No Soul - A Poem of Truth

Dementia Has No Soul 

There is no before. No after.
Only now. Only loss unfolding.
Once, there were lives.
Now, only fragments remain.

The father is the father no more,
yet still he is.
The mother is the mother no more,
yet still she is.

The husband no longer knows the wife’s face.
He believes her to be the mother.
The father sees his wife—
but it is the daughter instead.

The wife is not who she once was.
The mother sees a lover—
but it is the son who stands before her.
The mother sees a stranger—
but the daughter is the one standing there.

Roles dissolve, identities blur.
Recognition slips through time’s fingers—
What was once familiar is now uncertain.
What was once certain—
is gone.

The besieged, the person—
they lose their authority, dignity, privacy, memory.
They lose everything they hold and value.

Overtaken.
Surrounded.
Consumed.

Some make it to the very end—
themselves, every step of the way.
Others lose themselves, more and more—
every step of the way.
Most don’t remember what they’ve lost.
Only that they have lost.
Are losing.
Yet do not know—
They do not know why.

And some—
some change to the reverse of who they used to be.
Angry. Bewildered. A corruption of themselves.
Afraid, but cannot express it.
Lost, but cannot accept it.
Derailed—
but trust blindly that they are on the track.
In denial, completely—never seeing, never suspecting.

It is a miscarriage of self.

Dementia, that disease that is not a disease,
A manifestation of diseases, singular and plural,
Variations, but the same at the root:

Brain damage.

It thrashes—rewires, misfires, warps what is known into something unrecognizable.
Memories fracture, faces melt into strangers, truths scatter like shattered glass.
It does not whisper—it demands, replacing certainty with chaos.
It does not steal—it devours.
It does not walk—it runs and leaps.
It does not whisper—it shouts—
Leaving behind only echoes no one fully recognizes.

Dualities that destroy many lives at once.

The caregivers:

They are the ones who take command.
The ones who hold the ground.
The ones who suffer alongside,
For as long as they are able.

They are known by many names—
The ones who care, the ones who love.
The nurses, the cooks, the cleaners.
The parents, or the ones who deny.
The hated ones, or the accused,
The strangers.

Every day is the same day for them.
Every night, the same worries.

The accidents, the falls, the wanderings,
The fears, the screams, the pains,
The phantasms.

Sleep comes in fragments, if at all.
They wake at the imagined scream before it happens.
Shocked into motion—only to find silence. False alarms. False hope.
They close their eyes.
Another sound. The next panic. The next fear.
The body never fully rests.

Their concentration—always heightened,
Yet also numbed by fears.
Always fearful of every loud sound.
And every quiet sound too.

Paranoid ears listen closely,
The known, the unknown, the familiar,
and the dreaded, the too quiet, the too loud sounds,
The nerve-racking ones.
The bone-chilling ones.
The heart-stopping ones.

They believe patience will be enough.
They believe love will be enough.
It isn’t.

The small cracks form first.
Missteps, forgotten pills, frustration swallowed whole.
Then come the fractures—nights of unanswered questions, screams, wandering feet.
And then, there is no control. No stopping it.
Only adapting. Only surviving.

In the early days of caregiving—
Those innocent beginning days—
They walk in,
More confident than not.
Knowing enough, they feel.
Feeling capable, in their earnest heart.

They find they are not.
Not in knowledge or capability.
Not in strength.
Not in durability.

They learn the hard lessons over time.
They fail as often as they succeed.
They prevail over great adversity—
And founder over the simplest of tasks.

They learn their way step by painful step,
Reaching the plateaus, only to see more to reach,
Stepping over their own lines drawn in the sand,
One step beyond that point they thought they would never go,
Beyond what they feel they can endure.
But they do endure, until they are fully broken.

They are never who they used to be.
Or who they seek to be.
Or who they think they can be.
They are forever changed, irreversibly.

The burden. Their loved one.
Their family. Their friend.
Their past—which is so very present.

Mother, father, sister, brother, husband, wife.
Family—by blood, by marriage, or by proxy.
Adoption too—even if it is a friend.

Dualities that destroy many lives at once.

Dementia, it takes, and takes, and never gives—
except for the silent pains we hold inside.
Until, inevitably, at last, we cannot reign them in,
And loudly curse the world and our own lives.

There are no happy songs about dementia.
And if there are—
no one can hear them.

Copyright June 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

Janis Ian Wrote it Better at Seventeen - A Poem of Youth and Angst

Why did I say it?
What was this power it had over me,
those words of castigation,
impassioned by a weary, immature, and overstimulated mind.

"Why me?"

It held sway.
Evoked, without permission,
it came often to my lips,
turning calm days into harsh oppressions,
happy moments into hours of blaming, envy, and self-recriminations.
Leeching from the depths of me,
emptying myself of every satisfaction.

Those days became the longest day—
drawn out, bled out,
physically exhausting,
and deeply soul-draining.

It was like losing part of myself.
When I said it, I felt completely alone,
Misunderstood, disregarded, always angry,
Murmuring vague obscenities,
not then understanding their source.

Melancholy — what a cruel teacher.
It shadowed everything,
warping self-perception,
twisting what should have been growth into something uncertain,
mocking every attempt at confidence.

Puberty—the master of deception.
Turning admiration into obsession,
desire into self-loathing,
reality into a distorted mirror of what I thought I was supposed to be.

Mania. Self-abuse. Confusion.
I always felt deflated — later on,
In my dubious integrity.

Hormones are merciless,
Emotions, unpredictable.
Thoughts, untethered,
The body — traitorous.
It changed everything.
For me, and most—but not those privileged few,
who grew instantaneous, already perfected—
untouched by the storm, while we stood exposed.

The deep weeping of my soul,
like a child locked out in the cold,
estranged and miserable,
rejected by those I desired contact with most,
or only imagined, never endeavored.

The eyes of that child did not see reality,
only the emotions behind it all.
Selfish, in the way most children can be,
and some adults will always be.

Why did I say it?

Back then I knew why.
Today, I am no longer that person.

"Why me?"

I don't know why.

Copyright June 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

Caregiving Unzipped: Mr. Poo-in-the-Pants

 

I Am Not an Angel

I get tired of acquaintances and family calling me that—an angel. Saying how great I am as a caregiver. Oh, it’s nice to hear, sure. But when that’s all they do? When they just say it and move on? It annoys me.

Them saying it is enough for them. For me? I’d like a little help. Maybe visit my dad sometimes. Maybe send me a box of frosted angel cookies. (Let’s go for accuracy here.) But such is life.

I am not an angel. I am not Florence Nightingale. I do what I can, as I can do it. It is not always smooth sailing. And even if it was, that would make me a sailor. And you know what kind of language sailors use.

I guess I am indeed a sailor.

Caregiving, but Make It Personal

When we care for a loved one—especially a parent—backstory bleeds into how we interact with them. That’s unavoidable.

How a man treats another man, how he treats a woman—it can be very different. My interactions with my father are wildly different than those I had with my mother. I say things to my dad that I would never, not ever, have said to my mom. That’s just the way it is.

I try to inject humor into our relationship as caregiver and caree. That said, if it’s funny to me, I don’t care too much if it’s funny to him. I’m too worn thin by the daily grind to vet my jokes before I make them.

Some of my jokes are at his expense. Some are at my own expense. Often, it’s both.

Case Study: Mr. Poo-in-the-Pants

"Dad," I say. "Time to get up. I need to change your underwear. They need it. I can smell it."

"What? I don’t need my underwear changed. They’re fine. Just let me sleep."

"No," I say. "I can smell it. You’ve got poo or wet poo in your underwear. A lot of it. If I can smell it from here? It’s serious."

"No, I don’t!" he grumbles.

"Yes, you do. So get up, Mr. Poo-in-the-Pants."

He gives me The Look—the universal signal of parental disapproval. Then:

"I’m fine."

"Up and at 'em, Mr. Poo-in-the-Pants! Be a man! Sit up!"

"I am a man," he says.

"Then act like it. Let’s go. Sit up, Mister!"

And—grudgingly—he does.

Oh, I know. Some people would never say such things to their father. But I am not you, and you are not me.

The Long Story Behind the Short Words

There are 16 years of caregiving backstory here. And I turned 62 as of June 1st as of this year. My dad and I have history.

The “like a man” bit? That’s a bleed-through from childhood, my teenage years, and younger adulthood. Dad always said that to me.

"Act like a man!"
"Take it like a man!"
"Men don’t cry! Are you a man or not?"

I can’t help myself sometimes. Not out of spite, not out of bitterness. But probably, in some way, it’s a payback.

It works, though. It gets him to grudgingly agree.

But Mr. Poo-in-the-Pants? That one’s for me.

Because some days, when he’s being especially obstinate?

I need the laugh.