The Night We Lost Grandpa—and I Realized I Had Lost Myself Too

Somewhere along the way, I stopped sleeping.

Not one bad night.

Not a rough week.

I mean the kind of exhaustion that settles into your personality.

I was working, raising children, managing a marriage and household, coordinating appointments, handling medications, sorting through finances, dealing with properties, answering calls, making decisions and trying to anticipate whatever crisis might come next.

And I felt completely alone.

The strange thing is, help actually existed.

I just wasn't asking the right people.

I had already told other caregivers about support groups.

I knew about counseling.

I knew about community resources.

I knew what I would have recommended professionally.

I made appointments for everybody.

Except me.

And slowly, I changed.

I became angry.

Bitter.

Short-tempered.

Condescending at times.

My empathy started disappearing.

So did my patience.

I pushed away some of the very people who were trying to help me and replaced vulnerability with:

“I don't need anybody.”

That became my armor.

Then came the panic attacks.

Still, I kept going.

Because caregivers become very good at convincing themselves that there is simply no time to fall apart.

I didn't recognize myself anymore.

And the saddest part was that I missed her.

I missed me.

I wondered constantly:

How long am I going to be responsible for all of this?

Eventually, Grandpa came to live with us.

By then, many of the financial crises had finally been addressed. Bills had been straightened out. Properties had been sold. Insurance policies had been handled.

I remember thinking maybe having him under our roof would make things easier.

There it is again.

Another adorable thought from an exhausted caregiver.

We gave many of his household belongings to family and brought the things that were most familiar to him.

His bed.

His comforter.

His television.

His dresser.

We wanted his room to feel like his.

Then we started learning about an entirely different category of caregiving.

Durable medical equipment.

Protective pads.

Pull-ups.

Dry shampoo.

Fidget items.

Home alarms.

Door safety.

Things I had professionally recommended to other families suddenly showed up in my own shopping cart.

And this time, I wasn't checking a box on a care plan.

I was trying to figure out how to keep Grandpa safe in my house.

Because my home wasn't his home.

His home was the place he had known for decades.

The place where he had been married.

Raised children.

Welcomed grandchildren.

Built routines.

Made memories.

Every evening, he wanted to go home.

And every evening, we tried to reassure him.

“You're safe.”

“You're loved.”

“You live here now.”

Sometimes that worked.

Sometimes it didn't.

And sometimes we learned that arguing with dementia was pointless.

So we would say:

“Okay, let's go home.”

We would get in the car.

Take a drive.

Circle around.

And come right back to my house.

Sometimes home isn't an address.

Sometimes it is a feeling you're trying desperately to recreate.

Grandpa often didn't know my name.

But somehow, he still remembered my husband.

Dementia made absolutely no sense.

During that first month, we were still learning what we needed to prepare for.

Some of these problems hadn't happened when Grandpa was living in his own home.

Now I had much closer supervision.

I knew whether he had eaten.

I knew when he showered.

I knew when his room had been cleaned.

I knew where his medications were.

I knew almost everything.

Or at least I thought I did.

Then came one freezing night that changed everything.

My husband had a routine.

He got up around 4:00 every morning to get ready for the gym, help get the boys ready for school and eventually head to work.

And every morning, he checked on Grandpa.

Except this morning, Grandpa wasn't there.

My husband came to me and said:

“He's gone.”

I heard those words completely differently.

I thought he meant Grandpa had died.

I froze.

I couldn't speak.

Couldn't move.

Couldn't think.

I just stood there.

My husband said it again.

“Get your shoes on. Call our friends. Your grandfather isn't in his room.”

And suddenly my brain came back online.

I called the police.

I called my closest friends.

And then, finally, I called my family.

That was one of the hardest calls I have ever made.

Because in my mind, I hadn't simply misplaced someone.

I had lost their father.

Their grandfather.

Someone they had trusted me to care for.

The shame was enormous.

I carried it for a long time.

We lived in a rural area.

Large county blocks.

Open land.

Water ravines.

Wildlife.

Properties that could stretch anywhere from one acre to thirty-five.

And all I could picture was Grandpa somewhere outside in a T-shirt, pajama pants and slippers.

No socks.

Cold.

Confused.

Alone.

Every terrible possibility went through my head.

Then we got the call.

He had been found.

Grandpa had walked quite a distance and ended up at another family's home.

They had a gun.

They initially believed someone might be trying to break into their house.

And I still get emotional thinking about what could have happened next.

But instead of reacting only out of fear, they paid attention.

They asked him questions.

His answers didn't make sense.

He was experiencing visual and auditory hallucinations.

He talked about children playing outside.

It was around three in the morning.

There were no children outside.

Something didn't add up.

And thank God that family recognized it.

They contacted law enforcement.

They gave Grandpa coffee.

They kept him warm.

They made him feel safe.

And they stayed with him until police arrived.

I never had the opportunity to meet that family.

I wish I had.

Because there are people who enter your life for only a few minutes and change the entire outcome of your story.

I still pray that God blesses that family—and the generations that come after them.

They could have responded differently.

They didn't.

They chose compassion.

When Grandpa finally walked through our door, I fell to my knees.

I was so grateful to see him.

And then I looked at his face.

That part broke my heart.

He was happy to see familiar faces.

But he was terrified.

He didn't understand why everyone was crying.

Why we were upset.

Why there were police involved.

Why everyone seemed relieved and frightened at the same time.

He knew something big had happened.

He just didn't know what.

And really, neither did I.

I called my mother.

I expected disappointment.

Maybe anger.

Maybe the question I had already been asking myself:

“How could you let this happen?”

Instead, she gave me grace.

More grace than she probably ever realized I needed.

And so did my family.

And my friends.

That night taught us about wandering.

It taught us that a person who had never tried to leave before could suddenly leave.

It taught us that locks, alarms and safety planning needed to change.

But it taught me something else too.

I had spent so much time trying to keep Grandpa safe that I hadn't noticed how unsafe I had become emotionally.

I was exhausted.

Anxious.

Angry.

Isolated.

Having panic attacks.

Losing compassion.

Pushing people away.

Making appointments for everyone except myself.

I had spent so much time caring for another person that somewhere along the way, I had disappeared from my own care plan.

I wish I could tell you that the lesson immediately fixed everything.

It didn't.

Caregiving rarely works that neatly.

But I began to understand something I now want every caregiver to hear:

You can love someone deeply and still become exhausted by caring for them.

You can know all the resources professionally and still fail to use them personally.

You can be competent and still need help.

And sometimes the person saying,

“I don't need anyone,”

is the person who desperately needs someone to sit beside them and say,

“You don't have to do all of this alone.”

Grandpa came home safely that morning.

Thank God.

But looking back, I think there were actually two people who needed to be found.

Grandpa.

And me.