The Ice Cream Treasure Hunt (The Part We Don’t Talk About)

I’m hanging out with my dad—just me and him.

One of those days you don’t plan, but end up meaning everything.

We go get ice cream.

We buy him some new shoes.

We head home, grab lunch, and sit down watching a movie together.

Just a daughter and her dad.

And this caregiver...

Completely oblivious.

Because somewhere between the smiles, ice cream, conversation, the shoes, and the movie…

the cane was gone.

His purple cane.

The one he loves.

The one you better not comment on the color...

The next day I was volun-told, to get up and find that cane!!!!

So, my husband and I retraced our steps, this was a real treasure hunt. Thanks self!

We went back to the ice cream shop to ask if they had seen it.

The staff looked at me and said, half joking, “Well… does he really need it if he’s walking without it?”

I smiled and laughed, because I knew they didn’t mean anything by it. I pondered for a quick second.

But it is also one of those moments where you realize people just don’t know.

So I gently said, “It’s not that simple… he has dementia. He may not realize he needs it, but psychologically he depends on it.”

And then I added, “It’s purple… he loves it.”

The friendly guy laughed a little and said, “Yes, we have your dad's has a purple cane.”

Yay, this saves the lecture coming from my husband and my mother. I just wanted to hug this guy.

Because sometimes the smallest things matter the most.

Later that day, I take the cane home to my mom and dad.

And right on cue...mom begins to tell me about her overstimulating evening.

What looks like a missing cane turns into something much bigger.

The repeated questions.

The urgency.

The need to keep going until it’s resolved.

“Where’s my cane?”

“We need to find it.”

“Let’s go now.”

Again.

And again.

And again.

And if I’m being honest?

I could see the exhaustion written all over her face.

"I'm so sorry mom, bad dad!! You got me in trouble! Just kidding!"

She's tired.

It was late.

She hasn't been feeling well,

She's already given her whole day.

And now you’re retracing every step for the time they had together while trying to hold onto her patience.

This isn’t just forgetting.

This is perseveration.

Rumination.

Fixation.

The brain gets stuck.

To him, it’s not repetitive.

It’s unresolved.

So if we are wise, and we like our sanity, we must adapt.

Not perfectly. Not always gracefully. But intentionally.

We keep multiple canes so there’s always one nearby.

We create a “home” for important items and repeat it over and over—“Your cane lives right here.”

We attach a tracker so we’re not tearing the house apart at the end of the day.

We carry the essentials—sometimes in a small bag or crossbody—so the important things don’t get left behind.

Because it’s never just the cane.

It’s everything else too.

And at night, when the loop won’t stop, we stop trying to solve it.

We lower our voice.

We slow things down.

“We’re safe. We’ll find it in the morning.”

Not because it fixes it…

but because it helps him feel settled.

We’ve also learned that it’s not just about managing the moment.

It’s about creating comfort.

Music from his younger years can calm him almost instantly.

A familiar show playing in the background gives a sense of normalcy.

Reading the Bible or saying a prayer together brings a kind of peace that’s hard to explain, but easy to feel.

Sometimes we’ll sit and look through old family photos, and he’ll tell the same stories again.

And that’s okay.

Because in those moments, he’s not stuck.

He’s connected.

And sometimes, if I’m being really honest…

you have to find humor where you can.

I’ve caught myself thinking—there should be a device for this.

Like one of those retractable keychains.

He lets go of the cane and—snap—it comes right back to him.

Or an alarm that goes off, “Cane left behind.”

If only it were that simple.

Love you mom and we will do our best to prevent this problem moving forward.