THE NURSE WHO COULD TALK TO ANYONE 

I’ve always seen myself as someone who connects easily with others. Striking up conversations with strangers, finding common ground with people from all walks of life — it came naturally to me. I prided myself on being nonjudgmental and making others feel at ease, no matter their background or story.  

It’s one of the reasons I felt so drawn to nursing. That ability to build quick trust became one of my greatest strengths as a Registered Nurse. 

WHEN CONFIDENCE TURNS TO UNCERTAINTY 

But when I started working with patients with dementia, something shifted.  

For the first time in my career – maybe in my life – that ease didn’t come so naturally. The connection I had always relied on felt just out of reach. And that was a humbling experience. 

I expected my personality, my training, and my nursing background to be enough. Afterall, I had studied the symptoms. I understood the disease process. I had practiced communication strategies and memorized the medications and treatments used for common behaviors. I was prepared… or so I thought.  

But nothing quite prepared me for the real thing. 

I became rigid. Uncomfortable. Unsure of myself and my actions. I had been taught to speak to and treat my elders in a certain way, and suddenly, none of it seemed to apply. I was in a world of unknowns — and frankly, it baffled me. 

TRAINING ISN’T THE SAME AS EXPERIENCE 

The truth is, no amount of training can fully ready you for the emotional, unpredictable, often tender moments that come with caring for someone with dementia.  

And that’s okay. 

It’s okay if you feel uncomfortable at first. I did, too. 

I remember second-guessing my words, wondering if I was doing the right thing, feeling overwhelmed when a patient grew agitated or confused. I wanted to fix it. I wanted to connect. And sometimes —despite my best efforts — I felt like I was falling short. 

But what I’ve come to realize over time is this: Caring for someone with dementia is not about perfection. It’s about presence. 

THE MOMENT IT CLICKED 

I remember the exact moment it finally clicked — the moment I truly understood what it takes to work with someone living with dementia.  

I was caring for a patient in a dementia unit at a long-term care facility. She sat in her wheelchair, parked in the hallway, firmly refusing to return to her apartment. After trying every gentle nudge I could think of, I gave in and began changing her wound dressing right there in the hallway. 

As I worked, I heard footsteps approaching from around the corner. A Physical Therapist appeared, guiding another dementia patient beside him. He was trying to teach her how to use her walker safely, but she was growing more frustrated and agitated by the second. 

I paused, curious to see how he would respond. 

Then, something beautiful happened.  

He stopped. He turned to face her, looked into her eyes with calm assurance, and gently took the walker from her hands, setting it aside. 

Then, with a warm smile, he extended his hand and asked: 

“May I have this dance?” 

She giggled — an honest, childlike laugh — and placed her hand in his. And just like that, they began ballroom dancing down the hallway. Not walking. Not redirecting. Dancing. 

They floated down the corridor as staff, visitors, residents, and even physicians watched with wide smiles. Laughter filled the space as they moved together—completely immersed in the moment. 

And that’s when it hit me. 

WHAT I KNOW NOW 

There is no one-size-fits-all approach. What worked for one person on Monday may not work for another on Tuesday. And that’s okay.  

It’s okay to learn as you go. It’s okay to take a breath, to pause, to regroup. It’s okay to make mistakes — and it’s more than okay to forgive yourself for them. 

Because what matters most is that you show up. And that you keep showing up. That you offer kindness, patience, and grace — not just to the person you’re caring for, but to yourself as well. 

CONNECTION BEYOND WORDS 

Working with dementia patients has taught me that connection doesn’t always come from words. Sometimes it’s found in quiet companionship, a gentle touch, or a shared moment of laughter. Sometimes, simply being there — calm, steady, and compassionate — is enough. 

So if you’re new to this, if you’re struggling, if you’re wondering whether you’re doing it “right,” I want you to hear this clearly:  

You are not alone. 

It’s okay to ease into it. It’s okay if it doesn’t come naturally. And it’s absolutely okay to grow into the role over time. 

THE LONG AND WINDING ROAD 

Dementia care is a journey — one of empathy, adaptation, and continuous learning. And if your heart is in the right place, you’re already doing better than you think. 

-Brooke Glenn RN 

Who knew the 2016 Summer Olympics could help me figure out how to communicate with my mother.

I’ll get to that, but first, a little background.

My mother and I have never seen eye-to-eye and were great with arguments and eye rolls. When she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Disease around 2009, it got even harder. If you are reading this, I know you get it. Getting the same questions over and over again is exhausting, annoying, and infuriating. If you haven’t figured it out yet, the absolute worst thing you can do is say, “Mom, I just told you that three times in the last hour.”

Yep, trust me—it won’t work.

If your father (her husband) is an uber-high Type A and was in management his entire life, not having her remember or do what he said is also unpleasant.

My mother’s name was Fran. She stood 4’10½” at her tallest and weighed in at a solid 95 pounds for most of her life. She was a bundle of energy. She taught high school, and big football players cowed to her. Needless to say, she could hold her own and send you running with “that look.” She always said ‘dynamite comes in small packages,’ and Little Frannie proved that.

Fast forward to 2016.

She was hospitalized for something, probably an extreme UTI. While she was in the hospital, she was asking me about her friend Eustacius and whether she had decided to buy the house. I thought to myself, ‘who the heck is Eustacius, and what house are you talking about?’
I just kind of said I hadn’t talked to her and we moved on.
That was my first experience with Hospital-Induced Delirium. The National Institutes of Health defines it as “a temporary but severe form of mental impairment that can lead to longer hospital stays and negative long-term outcomes, commonly acquired by elderly patients in acute care settings. Up to a third of patients 70 years old and above experience delirium, and the rate is much higher for those in intensive care or undergoing surgery. Until recent decades, hospital-acquired delirium, which typically lasts anywhere from a couple of days to several weeks but can even last months, was chalked up to old age and not considered a condition to be prevented or treated.”
In layman’s terms, I would say it is like the “crazy” that comes with a UTI but multiplied maybe tenfold. In my experience, it cleared up the minute we got her out of the hospital environment.

Now, as to how the Olympics helped.

There was some controversy going on with the U.S. Swimming Team at the Rio Summer Olympics. Mother was in a rehab facility after the above-mentioned hospitalization and had a roommate who listened to the Olympics all day and night. This ended up burrowing into Mother’s head, and she felt certain the police were coming to arrest her because of some party and the damage that was done. She wanted to know
what my husband thought. I told her he knew nothing about it. I told her it was no big deal and I hadn’t seen any police around, so I was sure she didn’t need to worry.
After about three days, I finally walked out of the room for a little while and went back in and told her I checked with the nurses. They told me the police said they arrested the culprits and didn’t need to talk to her.

That was that. She was satisfied with that answer.

That was the moment when I realized that you need to get into the world of someone with dementia.

We feel so bad “lying” to our parents and loved ones, but we call it “situational fibbing” and, in my opinion, it is 100% acceptable.  Think about it this way-Your loved one wants to go see their parents, who have been dead 20 years.  What do you say?  I always said they were on vacation for a couple of weeks.  Why would you tell them they are dead and keep getting them upset every 15 minutes?   I found out after she passed, when I started volunteering for the Alzheimer’s Association, that this is a key tip. Their reality IS reality. Meet them there. Have fun. I think of it like improv. Just go with what they are experiencing. I found through this that humor was a great way for us to connect. When she had a hard time saying a word, I would just say, “Well, that was easy for YOU to say,” and laugh. She would laugh and say, “Nope, not really.”

What I learned:
* You cannot control the situation.
* Get into their reality.
* Find some “canned” answers for those repetitive questions and use them until they don’t work anymore (a dementia patient will not remember you already told them.)
* Find a communication style that works for you and your loved one. Ours was humor.
* Find resources. There are so many good resources to use. Do not be afraid to ask for help.
* Take care of yourself. It’s like on a plane—put on your oxygen before you help someone else.

As frustrated as you get (you will and it is OK—it is a real emotion), remember that it is ultimately an honor to care for them and these are days and memories you will cherish.

Caring for a loved one with dementia is one of the most demanding, emotionally taxing, and often isolating experiences a person can face. As counselors, we are uniquely positioned to support these unsung heroes—those who carry the weight of compassion fatigue, role reversal, and chronic grief with quiet resilience.

The Emotional Landscape of Dementia Caregiving

Caregivers of individuals with dementia often describe the experience as a “long goodbye.” Unlike other forms of loss, dementia progresses gradually, stealing pieces of a person’s identity over time. This slow erosion brings with it profound emotional distress:

• Ambiguous loss, where the person is physically present but psychologically absent
• Chronic sorrow, a persistent grief that resurfaces at every stage of decline
• Burnout and compassion fatigue, from the relentless nature of daily care

As therapists, it’s critical to acknowledge and validate these experiences. Caregivers often carry guilt for feeling frustrated or depleted—emotions that are normal and deserve compassionate exploration.

Therapeutic Goals for Dementia Caregivers

Effective counseling for these clients involves both emotional processing and practical empowerment. Key goals include:

• Naming the grief – Helping caregivers understand that their emotional response is not only valid but expected
• Boundary setting – Encouraging sustainable caregiving through shared responsibilities and outside support
• Identity preservation – Supporting caregivers in maintaining their sense of self outside of the caregiving role
• Psychoeducation – Providing information about dementia’s progression and behavioral changes to reduce anxiety and foster preparedness
• Mindfulness and regulation tools – Teaching caregivers to manage the stress of repetitive questions, aggression, or wandering with grounded emotional presence

Integrating Tools for Support

Many caregivers benefit from integrative strategies such as:
Narrative discussions that help to reframe their story from burdened to brave

Group therapy or support groups, which offer connection and a reminder: “You are not alone”
Creative interventions, including music and art, which can be shared with the loved one and serve as meaningful forms of connection.

The Caregiver’s Care Plan

Often, our most important role is helping caregivers create a self-care strategy that feels doable. That might include respite care referrals, gentle encouragement to reengage in activities they once enjoyed, or simply a safe space to cry and say, “This is hard.” Caregiving doesn’t come with a manual—but it does call for deep courage. And sometimes, that courage starts in the counseling room, or a hospital room or in a living room, with a single moment of being seen and heard.