Sundowning All Day

This weekend was different.

My mom has experienced sundowning before, but it usually came in the evening. This time, it lasted nearly the entire weekend. Every question became an argument. Every suggestion became a discussion. Peace seemed just out of reach.

By the end of forty-eight hours, I wasn't simply tired—I was emotionally, mentally, and physically exhausted.

I found myself trying every strategy I knew. I redirected. I reassured. I explained. I prayed. I distracted. I reasoned.

Nothing seemed to help.

I often believe my job is to stop the agitation. I search for the right words, the right routine, or the right solution that will restore peace. But sometimes there isn't a strategy that immediately works because the agitation itself may be communicating something I cannot yet see.

That realization changed everything for me.

What if sundowning isn't simply difficult behavior?

What if it is communication?

Children who have not yet developed language often communicate through their behavior. They cry, cling, refuse, or become restless because they cannot explain what they need.

Perhaps Alzheimer's disease brings my mom back to that same place.

If she can no longer tell me what is wrong, maybe she is trying to show me.

Maybe "No" means, "I'm scared."

Maybe anger means, "I'm overwhelmed."

Maybe pacing means, "Something doesn't feel right."

Maybe arguing means, "Nothing around me makes sense anymore."

Her brain is changing in ways neither of us can control. As Alzheimer's progresses, it gradually loses its ability to regulate emotions, process the environment, and recover from stress. What once appeared only at sunset can begin lasting throughout the day.

Instead of asking, "How do I stop this behavior?" I found myself asking a different question.

"What is my mom trying to tell me?"

Perhaps she is saying:

• "I'm in pain."
• "I'm hungry."
• "I'm thirsty."
• "I need the bathroom."
• "I'm tired."
• "My medication doesn't feel right."
• "Everything around me is too loud."
• "Everything around me is unfamiliar."
• "I'm frightened."
• "I don't understand what's happening."
• "I don't have the words anymore."

Changing the question changed my heart.

Instead of seeing opposition, I began looking for unmet needs.

Instead of correcting, I became curious.

Instead of convincing, I began listening differently.

This season is requiring me to become a different kind of caregiver.

Every progression of Alzheimer's asks me to let go of yesterday's strategies and discover new ways to love the person standing in front of me today.

This weekend reminded me that caregiving isn't about having all the answers.

It's about remaining present while searching for them.

When I feel overwhelmed, I remind myself to stay C.A.L.M.

C — Check physical needs

• Is she in pain?
• Does she need the bathroom?
• Is she hungry or thirsty?
• Does she have a fever or infection?
• Has she taken her medications?

A — Accept her reality

• Validate her feelings.
• Don't argue.
• Meet her where she is rather than trying to bring her back to where I wish she could be.

L — Lower stimulation

• Turn off the television.
• Speak softly.
• Reduce noise and visitors.
• Create a peaceful environment.

M — Meet emotional needs

• Hold her hand.
• Play familiar music.
• Pray with her.
• Surround her with comforting objects.
• Offer reassurance more than explanations.

These four simple letters have become more than an acronym.

They have become my posture.

I cannot always calm the disease.

But I can become a calming presence within it.

Perhaps that's what love looks like in the later stages of Alzheimer's.

Not fixing.

Not arguing.

Not winning.

Simply walking beside my mom as her world no longer makes sense, holding her hand and reminding her—through my presence—that she is safe, she is loved, and she is not alone.

This weekend taught me that "Keep Calm and Carry On" isn't about pretending caregiving is easy.

It's about choosing peace when everything around me feels uncertain.

Because sometimes the greatest gift I can offer my mom is not an answer.

It's a calm heart that quietly says,

"I'm here, Mama. We'll walk through this together."