The Foot Rub Safari

I walked in the other day and found Dad kneeling at Mom’s feet.

She’d been outside working in the yard—dirt under her nails, grass clinging to her shoes, that good, satisfied kind of tired you get after tending to something alive and growing.

And there he was. Rubbing her feet like it was a sacred mission.

According to Dad? They were “full of dirt and grass… a true wilderness experience.” Dead serious.

“She hasn’t washed her feet in days!” he announced. “She’s really letting herself go.”

Mom shot me that look. The one that says, Do not encourage him. Do. Not.

Then Dad shifted into full documentary narrator mode. Brows furrowed. Voice deep and authoritative. “I have to make sure she actually washes them. Otherwise, she just stands in the water like a statue. I’m the one taking care of her!”

I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.

Because if you know our reality, the inversion is almost poetic. Dad is the one living with memory loss. Dad is the one who sometimes needs gentle reminders about showers, soap, and what day it actually is.

And yet here he was—fully convinced he was the hygiene supervisor. The wilderness guide overseeing a perilous river crossing.

In his version of events, Mom had gone feral. A barefoot spider monkey roaming the yard.

And he was on safari, tasked with restoring civilization one foot at a time.

Mom just shook her head, rolled her eyes, and let him continue—like he was prepping her for a foot-model audition after a month in the Amazon.

Here’s the tender part.

This is what memory loss does. It flips roles. It bends time. It scrambles who is caring for whom.

It can be disorienting. Sometimes even frustrating. But beneath the confusion, something steady remains. Instinct. Connection. Love.

Because even in his safari storyline, he was still doing what he’s done for decades—caring for her.

He may have misplaced the facts. He may have borrowed a narrative from something he once heard. His brain may be filling in gaps with imagination.

But his hands were gentle. His focus was sincere. He was present.

Caregiving has taught me that not every story needs correcting. Sometimes you just look for the heart inside it.

Yes, his memory has holes. Yes, his imagination is running full throttle.

But his devotion? That’s intact.

Even if he believes he’s rescuing a jungle-dwelling spider monkey in need of emergency spa intervention.

Love you, Mama. You’re the real MVP. Even when Dad swears you’ve gone wild and he’s the only thing standing between you and the wilderness.

And honestly? I’m just grateful the safari ended in a foot rub. ❤️