I thought being a nurse would make this easier.
It hasn’t.
I thought being a nurse would make this easier.
It hasn’t.
For more than twenty years, I’ve worked in healthcare. I’ve helped patients and families navigate medical emergencies, life-changing diagnoses, difficult decisions, and some of the worst days of their lives.
I know how to ask questions.
I know how to navigate complex healthcare systems.
I know how to advocate.
What I didn’t know was how different it feels when the patient is your own parent.
One day you’re building a career, raising children, planning vacations, showing homes, working shifts, paying mortgages, and wondering how retirement arrived so quickly.
The next, you’re helping your parents navigate doctor’s appointments, medication schedules, memory loss, legal documents, surgeries, and conversations you never imagined having.
For many of us in our 40s, 50s, and 60s, this isn’t a future concern.
It’s happening right now.
People often refer to us as the “sandwich generation”—caught between caring for aging parents while still supporting children, careers, and households of our own.
It’s an accurate description.
But it doesn’t fully capture the reality.
The reality is that caregiving often feels like a second or third full-time job layered on top of the first one.
Recently, my father underwent a significant surgery.
The surgery itself went well, and thankfully he is recovering.
But what it revealed was something I suspect many families experience.
When one parent becomes the primary caregiver for the other, it’s easy to focus all of your attention on the person with the diagnosis.
What you sometimes miss is everything the caregiver has quietly been carrying.
The appointments.
The medications.
The daily routines.
The constant supervision.
The emotional labor.
The thousand small tasks that nobody sees because they simply get done.
Even though I spend several days each week helping my parents, his surgery made me realize how much happens behind the scenes that I never fully appreciated.
It also forced me to confront an uncomfortable truth.
As both an ER nurse and REALTOR® in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley, people sometimes assume I have all the answers.
The truth is, I don’t.
Professionally, I understand healthcare systems, medical terminology, and patient advocacy.
Personally, I’m still searching for answers.
I’m still making phone calls.
I’m still researching resources.
I’m still trying to figure out what comes next.
And perhaps the most humbling realization of all is that even with decades of healthcare experience, I cannot fix Alzheimer’s disease.
I cannot predict what tomorrow will look like.
I cannot always find the perfect resource, the perfect provider, or the perfect solution.
Like so many families, I’m doing the best I can with the information available today.
Living in a rural community adds another layer of complexity.
One of the comments I hear most often is:
“Why don’t you just hire help?”
It’s a reasonable question.
But it assumes help is readily available.
In many rural communities throughout Virginia and the Shenandoah Valley, resources are limited. Home health agencies face staffing shortages. Specialized dementia services can be difficult to access. Transportation options may be limited. Wait lists can be long.
Many caregivers aren’t choosing between good and bad options.
They’re choosing between the options that actually exist.
And that reality can feel incredibly isolating.
Especially when you’re balancing caregiving responsibilities with work, family, and everyday life.
Then there are the questions.
“Can’t you just take off work?”
“You work for a hospital. Surely they understand.”
“Why is she still at home?”
“Maybe she’ll get better.”
Most people mean well.
I truly believe that.
But those questions also reveal how little we talk about Alzheimer’s disease, dementia, caregiving, and aging in America.
The truth is that Alzheimer’s doesn’t get better.
The truth is that employers, including hospitals, still have staffing needs and operational realities.
The truth is that every family is making the best decisions they can with the resources, finances, support systems, and information they have available.
And sometimes the truth is that family members you hoped would help simply don’t.
That’s painful to say out loud.
But it’s a reality for many caregivers.
We need to talk more openly about that too.
-Sincerely
Carolyn
therealtorrn 