Part 3: The Short-Lived Transition and the Reality of Memory Care
Welcome to Part 3 of my four-part series on caring for aging parents. If you missed the beginning, you can catch up on Part 1 and Part 2.
At the time of my dad’s initial move-in, we told him it was only a temporary arrangement in order to get him to agree. His primary "job" was simply to gain back the twenty pounds he had lost. In his mind, he believed he could stay there to eat his meals and then return home to sleep, going back and forth between both places. He didn't like being around "old people." My initial plan was to slowly bring items over from his home to help him settle in.
That plan didn't last long. Just one week after moving in, he ended up in urgent care. He had gone out walking the night before, dementia kicked in, and he completely lost his way. Early the next morning, I received a frantic phone call. Thanks to the location tracker on his phone, I was able to find him. He had fallen several times, with scrapes on his hands and soiled pants. I pleaded with my dad not to go outside the community for walks—or at least to notify the front desk when leaving—but he continued to do so anyway.
To support his transition to assisted living, I began visiting him two to three times a week. I used to take my mom out for lunch once a week, but nearly all my personal time shifted to my dad, whom I had previously seen about once a month. Balancing this was a challenge alongside my responsibilities at home with three school-aged children and a husband who worked from home.
Dad simply didn't want to be there. Having spent his career on a college campus, he missed the youth and energy of students; now, he was surrounded by gray hair, walkers, and canes. I would eat with him in the dining room and encourage him to join daily games and activities, but he had no interest. When we ate together, I would chat with other residents and invite them over, but whenever I wasn't there, he preferred to eat alone. Just as he did at his condo, he spent hours in his room watching YouTube and listening to music. Because it was an assisted living facility, he had the freedom to come and go as he pleased, which initially seemed like a benefit for his daily walks.
That freedom quickly became a major hazard. He made several attempts to walk all the way back to his apartment—a 6.5-mile trip that took roughly two and a half hours on foot. While that distance was manageable for him physically given his history of regular exercise, the combination of dementia and his stubborn determination to leave made it dangerous. One time, my mom even drove him back to his condo, where it became nearly impossible to convince him to return.
I understood why he longed to be home, but he was in no condition to live independently. Beyond his severe weight loss, he had developed noticeable hoarding behaviors. Stacks of papers and books covered the floors and tables. He collected discarded food wrappers and plastic containers. He cut paper towels into small squares and kept them in neat piles around the house. Boxes of tissues were scattered everywhere, and Depends were hung up to dry—he had been washing soiled undergarments to reuse them. The clutter had escalated to a degree that felt a little like an episode of Hoarders.
It was an incredibly stressful period. I was new to navigating dementia and felt helpless trying to prevent him from wandering. On top of that, my dad—who rarely called me in the past—started phoning me four to five times a day, pleading to move out. Desperate for guidance, I called the Alzheimer’s Association helpline countless times to ask how to communicate with him during these moments. What do I say when he insists on going home? How do I handle questions about his car and driving? It was then that I learned about "therapeutic fibbing"—the practice of telling compassionate, protective untruths to ensure a dementia patient's safety and peace of mind.
Six weeks after his initial move, we scheduled a second move-in day to bring over the rest of his favorite belongings and make his space feel cozy. I brought his record player, his collection of LPs, his large-screen TV, and even installed an electric bidet.
Despite our efforts, his stay in assisted living lasted just under three months. His repeated wandering ultimately made him a safety liability for the facility. The incidents stacked up quickly:
The Intersection: One cold, dark night, I tracked his location using Find My iPhone and found him standing on a busy street corner with traffic passing by. I brought him back, hoping the experience would deter him from wandering again.
The Police Call: On another evening, the tracker showed he was out again. Unable to reach him myself, I called the local police department, who located him and safely escorted him back.
The ER Visit: During another walk, he fell multiple times. A passing couple noticed his injuries, helped him, and dropped him off at the facility. Because he had a head wound, he was sent to the emergency room for treatment before being discharged back to assisted living.
It became clear that we needed a secure setting where he could not leave unassisted. That meant transitioning to memory care.
While waiting for his application and paperwork to clear, he stayed at my house for six days. Living with him 24/7 provided my first direct, uninterrupted window into his condition. The first two days were fine, but by the third night, he began pacing, snooping, and sifting through my belongings. My husband observed how attached Dad was to me during the times I wasn't home, noting that Dad spent the whole time asking and waiting for me—much like a toddler at daycare constantly asking for mom. It was a hard time having my dad home, but after spending 24/7 with him, I felt at ease moving him to memory care where there were people to look after him at all hours.
Blessings, Michelle
← Previous: Part 2: When Dementia Creeps In | Read Next: Part 4 (Coming Soon) →
