Boom! Just Wait...

💥 Boom! Just Wait…

When dementia and mischief collide, there’s always a story waiting to unfold.

Every caregiver knows this rhythm. Some days are peaceful. Gentle. Predictable. And some days? They’re a little explosive.

Dad was in one of his ornery moods—the kind that roll in like summer storms: quick, loud, and a touch dramatic. In my world, they’re occasional. In Mom’s world? Let’s just say she sees them more frequently.

He sat there, arms crossed, looking exactly like a tween who’d just been grounded. Brow furrowed. Lower lip tight. Plotting.

“They won’t let me light fireworks,” he muttered. “They won’t let me do anything.”

Mom gave that long, practiced sigh—the one that carries decades of marriage and at least five carefully layered reserves of patience.

And then—the grin.

“I did sneak a box of poppers, though.”

Of course he did.

That sparkle in his eye? That’s the giveaway. The disease may tangle his sentences sometimes. It may shuffle names and timelines. But that spark? Still razor-sharp.

You see, even with cognitive decline, parts of him remain fiercely intact. The parts tied to emotion. Habit. Humor. That stubborn streak of independence that refuses to be quietly shelved.

When he feels limited—when the world starts feeling smaller than it used to—something in him wakes up. And that’s when the creativity kicks in.

Now, let me tell you the story the way he might tell it.

“You should’ve seen my face when I found that box of poppers,” he’d say. “Like striking gold.”

He glanced around, making sure none of the “other kids” were watching. Picked it up. Gave it a little shake. That faint rattle inside? Music to his ears. “Oh yeah,” he thought. “This is gonna be fun.”

He slipped it into his pocket like contraband.

First test run? “Boom!”

He tossed one at the floor. It cracked just right—loud enough to startle, loud enough to satisfy. He laughed. “Oh, I can make people dance with these.”

Someone asked who he had in mind. He smiled slow. “Well… their name starts with an M.”

He wouldn’t say more. Could be Mom. Could be me. Could be anyone brave enough to walk past him at the wrong moment.

“A good magician never gives away his secrets,” he’d say.

And that’s the thing.

Even when dementia makes certain words slippery, the personality underneath stays remarkably steady. The humor. The timing. The pure delight in making someone jump three feet in the air and then grin like he just won something.

There’s still life bursting through him—like those tiny paper-wrapped poppers waiting for impact.

As caregivers, we talk a lot about safety. Limits. Supervision. And yes—those things matter deeply.

But so does dignity. So does letting a grown man feel clever. So does recognizing that mischief can be a form of autonomy.

He doesn’t want to be treated like a child. So he finds ways—harmless, noisy, slightly dramatic ways—to remind us he’s still very much in the game.

And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Because in the middle of appointments and medication schedules and the slow, relentless adjustments dementia demands, these moments are gold.

They’re messy. They’re unpredictable. They keep you on your toes. But they are full of heart.

“Alright, Dad,” I told him. “You better watch yourself. You know what they say… all’s fair in love and war—and caregiving.”

He just laughed.

Love you, Pops. Thank you for keeping us guessing.

And here’s what I’ve learned—again and again.

When memory fades, laughter doesn’t have to. Humor can be a bridge. It lightens tension. Preserves dignity. Reminds everyone that underneath the diagnosis is the same person who always loved a good prank.

Sometimes love looks like careful supervision. Sometimes it looks like patience.

And sometimes? It sounds like a giggle after a “boom.” ❤️