The Great Dragon Fruit Caper

If you’ve ever cared for someone living with dementia, you know it’s rarely just about memory.

It’s about routine.

About sleep.

About noticing the tiny things that quietly throw everything off.

And sometimes?

It’s about outsmarting caffeine.

Dad’s newest love affair is with those deep maroon dragon fruit energy drinks. He calls them his “rocket juice.” He hates water with a passion that feels personal. Honestly, I think he’d consider goat milk before plain water.

We’ve had the conversation. You know the one.

Mom explains gently that the drinks keep him buzzing all night. That maybe they’re not helping his sleep. That maybe they’re making evenings harder than they need to be.

He nods.

“Okay,” he says, halo practically glowing. “I’ll cut back.”

Now, if you’re in this life, you know that nod. It’s sincere in the moment. Completely genuine.

And absolutely unreliable.

Because what we didn’t know was that he had already hidden six bottles around the house.

Six.

Under the recliner.

Behind the TV.

In the toolbox like he was preparing for a construction project fueled by dragon fruit.

Meanwhile, Mom hadn’t slept in two nights. She was exhausted, worried, wondering if something bigger was happening. Was this sundowning? Was his restlessness progressing? Should she call the doctor?

The mind can go to heavy places quickly when you’re caregiving.

Nope.

Not disease progression.

Just six cans of rocket fuel.

When she discovered the stash, she went full lockdown. Fort Knox. Every can confiscated. Every suspicious corner inspected. She probably would’ve checked the freezer if she thought he could tolerate a cold one.

Victory.

Or so she thought.

Because that’s when Dad made The Call.

He dialed my sister-in-law in his sweetest voice — the one that could sell snow in January.

“I’m out of my dragon fruit,” he said. “I’m parched over here. Can you pick me up some?”

Of course she said yes. She’s kind. She loves him. She had no idea she was being recruited into an underground operation.

Then he lowered his voice.

“Okay, but give them straight to me. Don’t tell your mom.”

If dementia doesn’t take charm, I don’t know what does.

Cue the entrance.

My sister-in-law arrives like Santa Claus, gift bag in hand, smiling. And there, standing in the doorway, arms crossed, is Mom.

Henrietta Leghorn herself.

Feathers metaphorically flying.

There was squawking. There was clucking. There was talk of betrayal in her own house.

My poor sister-in-law had absolutely no context. She walked in thinking she was delivering hydration. She walked into a full-blown dragon fruit intervention.

In a moment of equal parts exhaustion and theatrical flair, Mom packed Dad up and said, “Take him! Go have fun for the next twelve hours!”

And bless her heart, she did.

Two hours later, though, Dad was ready to come home. The great escape had lost its sparkle. She dropped him off, made sure he got inside, and peeled out like a NASCAR driver fleeing the scene.

Dad sat down calmly, sipping one of his newly delivered drinks, pretending not to notice the emotional tornado that had just passed through the living room.

And here’s where I soften.

Because behind the humor, there’s something real.

Dementia changes impulse control. It shifts judgment. It can make something stimulating — like caffeine — feel even more appealing. The brain isn’t weighing consequences the way it used to.

He wasn’t trying to sabotage Mom’s sleep.

He wasn’t plotting chaos.

He was thirsty. He liked the taste. He liked the boost. And in his mind, he solved the problem.

That’s the part we have to remember.

Intent and impact don’t always line up anymore.

And for caregivers, that gap is exhausting.

You’re trying to manage sleep cycles, medication timing, emotional regulation — and suddenly you’re dismantling a caffeine smuggling ring in your own house.

So yes, we laughed.

Because sometimes laughter is the only way to keep resentment from settling in. Sometimes you have to call it “The Great Dragon Fruit Caper” instead of “The Night We Almost Lost Our Minds.”

And we learned something important.

Tell everyone what’s going on.

Caregiving is a team sport, whether you plan it that way or not. If one person doesn’t know the backstory, a sweet-talking senior with a craving can turn the whole family into accomplices.

But here’s what I hold onto.

Even in the sneaking.

Even in the whispering.

Even in the “Don’t tell your mom.”

There was still that sparkle.

Still that personality.

Still that familiar man who has always been a little bit mischievous.

Dementia doesn’t create that. It just reshapes how it shows up.

So now the legend lives on.

The Great Dragon Fruit Caper.

A little chaos. A lot of clucking. One very hydrated, very sneaky Dad.

And a family learning, again and again, that caregiving isn’t about perfection.

It’s about adjusting. Communicating. Locking up the rocket fuel when necessary.

And loving each other through the ridiculous parts.

Especially the ridiculous parts.