I want to start this post by being honest about what my days actually looked like during the height of my mother’s care. Because before I can talk about creating memories in the middle of caregiving I need you to understand what the middle of caregiving actually felt like. 

My day started anywhere between 4:30 and 5:00 in the morning. Every morning. Seven days a week. 

I would wake up, get my mother changed, get her situated, give her her medications, make her breakfast, make her lunch, make her a snack, and set everything by the table where she could reach it. And then I would rush off to work for eight hours. Sometimes four if that was all I could manage that day. During my lunch break I would sometimes drive back home just to check on her. To change her if needed. To make sure she was okay and had everything she needed. If my brother could come by that day I had a little more breathing room. If he couldn’t it was on me to figure it out. 

When I got off work it was either a pharmacy run or a grocery store run or rushing home to get her to a doctor’s appointment or just rushing home to get back to her care. 

My day would not end until midnight. 

4:30 in the morning to midnight. Seven days a week. No days off. 

And I want you to hold that in your mind as you read the rest of this post. Because in the middle of all of that, in the middle of that relentless schedule, we still found moments. We still laughed. We still created memories. We still showed up for each other in ways that had nothing to do with medications or doctor appointments or blood pressure readings. 

And those moments are the ones I carry with me now. 

Keeping Her in Her Role 

My mother was the brightest person I have ever known. And I mean that in the most literal way. She received a full ride scholarship to USC. She taught high school math. Her mind was extraordinary. 

So when she got sick one of my greatest fears was watching her lose that edge. And I was not going to let that happen without a fight. 

I made sure she had Sudoku puzzles. She loved them. They were her thing. She could work through those puzzles with the same sharp focus she brought to everything in her life. I still cannot figure out how to do a Sudoku puzzle to this day. But I made sure she had them. Because keeping her mind engaged and challenged was just as important to me as keeping her comfortable and safe. 

She also did Bible trivia with our cousin regularly. Another way to keep that brilliant mind active and connected and in conversation with people she loved. 

But it was not just about mental stimulation. It was about making sure she still had a role. Still had purpose. Still felt needed. Because she was needed. Not just as my mother. But as herself. 

So I put her in charge of her own medications. She was responsible for reminding me when it was time for a refill. That kept her engaged in her own care. It created muscle memory. It took something off my plate. And most importantly it told her without words that I still trusted her. That she was still capable. That she still had something to contribute. 

When I noticed a slight decline I did not want to admit it. Because admitting it meant acknowledging something I was not ready to face. So instead I kept challenging her. Kept engaging her. Kept giving her things to do that honored who she was. 

Because she was still her. Right up until the end. 

Her Job Was Always to Do the Grits 

There are certain things I did not start cooking until after my mother passed away. Her salmon and eggs. Her grits. Her oat milk cream. Those were her jobs. I did not want to know how to make them. I did not care to learn. Because learning them felt like accepting that she was not going to be there to make them anymore. And I was not ready for that. 

I remember one morning I wanted grits. My mother was in her wheelchair at that point. So I got everything ready in the kitchen. Every ingredient. Every pot. Everything she needed. And then I wheeled her in. 

She did not hesitate. She did not need help. She just got to work. 

Her job was always to do the grits. And that morning in that kitchen in her wheelchair she did the grits. 

I also made sure my nieces spent time with their grandmother in a real way. When they would come over I would send them to her. Go ask grandma how to make this. Go ask grandma how to do that. Because I wanted them to learn from her. I wanted her to teach them. I wanted her to feel what she was, the matriarch, the one who knew things, the one whose knowledge was worth seeking out. 

That was not just about cooking. That was about dignity. That was about making sure she knew that what she carried in her was still valuable and still needed and still being passed down. 

Making Every Day Count 

My mother was one of the quietest people I have ever known. A quiet spirit. Meek. Gentle. When she spoke she spoke volumes but she did not speak often or loudly. And she did not ask for much. Especially as she got sicker. Because she knew I was tired. She knew the weight I was carrying. And she did not want to add to it. 

So she did not ask me to take her places. She did not ask for outings or adventures. She tried to protect me even from her own wishes. 

But I paid attention. And I made sure that even the necessary days became something more. 

When she had lab work or a doctor’s appointment we made a day out of it. Maybe we would stop and visit a relative on the way home. Maybe we would drive past landmarks she had not seen in a while. Streets she used to walk. Neighborhoods she remembered. Places that held something for her. 

And we would eat. Because my mother was a foodie. A quiet, specific, particular foodie who knew exactly what she wanted and where she wanted it from. 

She could want one thing from one place and a drink from another place and a cookie from somewhere completely different. And she would have me driving all over the city to put that meal together. One stop for this. Another stop for that. Across town for something else entirely. And I would get so frustrated because I knew she was barely going to eat any of it. She was going to take a bite of this and a bite of that and be perfectly satisfied. 

I still do the exact same thing now. Drive across town for one item from one place and something else from somewhere completely different. I am her. I got it from her. And I would not trade that for anything. 

Her favorite was Chinese food. Mexican food. And at this one mom and pop spot she loved she would always get the same thing. Fried zucchini strings and a root beer blended float. That was her go to. Any time we were out that was what she wanted. 

And now on her birthday and on the anniversary of the day she passed our family gets root beer floats together. Because she is still at the table with us. She always will be. 

Five Things You Can Do to Create Memories for Your Loved One 

You have read my story. You have seen what I did and how I did it. Now the question is what can you do. 

Because caregiving is more than managing medications and doctor appointments and the logistics of keeping someone alive. It is more than that. It is humanizing the experience. It is making sure the person you are caring for still feels like a person. Still feels seen. Still feels like they are living and not just being kept alive. 

Here are five things you can start doing today. 

1. Turn every outing into something more. You are already going to the lab appointment. You are already going to the doctor. While you are out, make it mean something. Stop at their favorite restaurant. Drive past a neighborhood they used to know. Visit someone they love. It does not have to be elaborate. It just has to be intentional. That one extra stop tells them this day was about more than just their diagnosis. 

2. Keep them in their role. What have they always done? What has always been their job? Find that thing and let them keep doing it. Get everything ready and step back. Let them finish it. Let them be the one who knows how. Because they are still capable. They still have something to give. And letting them give it reminds them that they are still themselves. 

3. Keep their mind engaged. Whatever they have always loved mentally, make sure they still have access to it. Puzzles. Trivia. Games. Conversations about things they know deeply. Do not let the illness set the ceiling on what they can do. Keep challenging them. Keep meeting them where their mind is. Because their mind is still theirs. 

4. Build food traditions around them. Find their favorites and make them happen. The dish only they can make. The restaurant they have always loved. The thing they always order. Make those moments regular. And when they are gone keep those traditions going in their honor. Food has a way of keeping people present long after they have left the table. 

5. Give them purpose every single day. Let them teach. Let them lead. Let them be the expert. Put them in charge of something that matters even if it is something small. Because feeling needed is one of the most powerful human experiences there is. And the person you are caring for still needs to feel that. Every day. Not just on the good days. Every day. 

This is what it means to humanize the caregiving experience. Not just for them. For you too. Because when you create space for joy and memory and purpose inside of the hard you are not just keeping them alive. You are living together. And that is what they will remember. And that is what you will carry when they are gone. 

It is more than caring. It is humanizing the experience. 

For caregiver wellness resources and tools visit our Resources page at caregiverplaybook.org/caregiver-resources 

And if you need support navigating your caregiving journey book a free 15 minute consultation at calendly.com/caregiverplaybook 

You do not have to figure this out alone. I promise you that. 

Delcinya Myles Founder, The Caregiver Playbook Inc.