Life in the Gray Area

I really, really hate the gray.

With my dad who has vascular dementia, everything is 3-D chess. I can’t play chess, so this is even more of a problem than for others who can. Life used to feel relatively simple: coffee and pills in the morning, newspaper in the afternoon, dinner, channel/platform-changing for nighttime TV, and bedtime meds. Sure, we’ve noticed changes in him. Dan can see them more easily since he’s got a bit more distance. I am in it with the mannerisms, implied issues, obvious problems, and attitude color. I’m in it so deep that I can’t see the broad strokes very well.

What plunged me into the gray from the very tidy black and white was a recent virus that got him sick for three weeks. Then a fall. Then a CT scan that came back clear. Then another fall. And he refused a CT scan or trip to the clinic, despite his ribs hurting. (Un)fortunately, he knows there’s “not much that can be done” for hurt ribs from his own experience as well as that of his brother. You just kind of have to manage it. (I know. I tried to get him to go in for all the reasons that slip through the very wide cracks in his conclusion to just suffer his way through it.)

So, here we are, his side hurting, his virus mostly gone, and this new way of existing the past two days where he sleeps oddly long hours, doesn’t eat, and loves the idea of what he used to hate: walkers. He hasn’t just embraced the walker I just bought for him—one with a seat—he immediately sat in it and used it as a wheelchair at 10:30 last night when he made himself some toast.

In the meanwhile, I’m chiding myself, trying not to be a helicopter caregiver, but also knowing it takes one slip and it’s all downhill. Roly-poly, pell-mell, tumble bumble.

As I found myself experiencing this new Gray Area today, I was incredibly agitated. Normally, he hides in bed until noon or so, just preferring to be checked out. Then as mentioned the day continues. Today, Thursday, I was editing a book and working on a cover while he was sleeping this morning. I was nicely distracted and he was doing what was usually done. I checked on him once to give him Tylenol in case his ribs hurt, which they did, but no he did not want to go to the clinic, thanks for asking.

I finished what I was working on, sent it to the client, and then kind of ate my lunch and waited for him to appear. He didn’t. I went down at 1:15, he was fine. I went down at 2:15 and asked if he wanted to get up because he was spooking me a bit, no he did not. I don’t know. He seemed fine. Maybe he was perishing from a gentle brain bleed since he refused to get checked out.

Why did this suddenly feel like the years of living through the substance use disorders of others and needing to detach a little? The “okay, you’re an adult and making choices I don’t agree with and I need to accept that…and we all need to accept the consequences” thing. Because that’s the gist of it. Of course it feels reminiscent. A little PTSD-y.

So I overthought for another hour until he came upstairs. I think he was finally hungry. That’s a good sign. I’m not sure if my nervous system believed that, but my brain did. After I made him a bunch of protein-y soft eggs, banana slices, and super-wheaty toast, I talked through what I was thinking when he didn’t get up until three hours later than usual. I said that he didn’t even sleep that long when he was sick, so it was spooky. Then I also mentioned what was particularly worrying me: how it just takes a little slip for an elderly person to go into a really serious slide. He understood all of it. At that point.

We’ll see.

In true “I’ve done this before, I know what to do” fashion, I took time to look into memory care living options near us, thinking I still knew a lot from when we found an assisted living place for both my parents back in 2021 or so. But guess what: this time around, everything is different. The criteria have shifted, the needs are different, and so am I. And that’s not even getting into how to pay for it—I need to relearn his long-term care policy. I know it’s a good one, but I also learned the hard way that I don’t know everything about them. And that’s a blind spot for me at the moment.

Then there’s in-home help, too. Right now I’m the best option because it works for all of us. But when it doesn’t, I’ll need to get some help. I’ve already researched and started talking to a company about this, so I feel pretty good about it. But will we need it? When? Will they be good? Will he like them? Will his long-term care insurance cover it?

Sure, I’ve built mastery in so many ways, but not even that next step gets to be black and white. Still, as I whittle it down, I will eventually find what I’ve done before and feel a little more comfortable. That’s the theory, anyway.

I was also raking myself over the proverbial coals because I couldn’t figure out how to cope. What the right tool was for this particular situation. I cleaned. I started writing this. I took the garbage can to the road and got the dog outside. I stressed about how not to stress.

There are so many options for coping! I know a lot about all of this! Why can’t I figure this out?!

Then I realized that I was having a complex. Or I’m was spiraling. Or I was dysregulated. So many words for having a freakout. It doesn’t really matter which one I pick; my body already knew. My chest was tight, my thoughts were fast, my startle response was turned up high. If you were to look at me in the moment, I’d just look like I was being thoughtful. The duck vigorously paddling under the placid surface of the water.

And Dad’s downstairs none the wiser, listening to public radio. I’m upstairs sending a message to my prescriber, asking if we can increase my anti-anxiety meds, because methinks it’s time.

Adaptive help-seeking, baby. I needed a sec to remember that meds are to help us be even keel so we can use our skills, not proof that the skills have failed.

That sounds about right.

Fact-Checking the Gray Area

Here are some of the quiet beliefs underneath all of this, and how they look under my own Fact-Check Friday lens.

Belief: “If I could just figure out what’s going on, this wouldn’t feel like 3-D chess.”
Fact-check: False. It feels like 3-D chess because the situation is 3-D chess. The rules keep changing: virus, falls, clear scans, refusals, new sleep patterns, new assistive devices. The complexity isn’t something I can avoid or master, it’s baked into the job. And I hate not being able to see all the angles, not being able to make it simpler or more predictable for myself. And I just need to sit with that. And hopefully increase my anti-anxiety meds so it doesn’t hit so hard. (Frankly, other people wouldn’t even notice half the things that I’m tracking. It is what it is.)

Belief: “If he refuses care, my job is to accept it and detach.”
Fact-check: Incomplete. Yes, he’s an adult with a history of making his own medical choices. Also, he’s a vulnerable adult with vascular dementia whose judgment is impacted. I’m not wrong for remembering the substance-use years and feeling the old script (“detach, accept consequences”) try to run again. But this isn’t the same story. Caregiving here is a both/and: I’m honoring his autonomy while also appropriately advocating and watching for danger. Detachment is one tool, not the only one. Sometimes the hardest part is tolerating that I can’t fully control the outcome either way.

Belief: “One slip and it’s all downhill.”
Fact-check: Emotionally true, factually exaggerated. Things can change on a dime with elders, and my fear is grounded in reality. But the all-or-nothing version (“one slip and we’re doomed”) keeps my nervous system in permanent red alert. My actual history with him says: sometimes there are slips and clear scans and recoveries and weird in-between days. Reality is more stair-step than cliff, even if my body feels like it’s standing at the edge.

Belief: “If I know all the coping skills, I should always be able to pick the right one.”
Fact-check: False. Skills are tools, not magic spells. On days like this, my system is so flooded that remembering I have tools is the skill. Cleaning, taking the dog out, doom-scrolling memory care options, emailing my prescriber—these are all imperfect but real attempts to regulate. The goal isn’t to choose the perfect skill every time; it’s to keep choosing something that prevents me from disappearing into the spiral. I’m not failing; I’m just someone who struggles when there isn’t a clear, controllable plan.

Belief: “Needing more meds means I failed at using my skills.”
Fact-check: False. Meds and skills are teammates, not rivals. The point of medication is to bring the baseline down enough that skills are actually usable. Asking for a dosage adjustment is not a moral failure; it’s adaptive help-seeking. It’s me recognizing that my current toolkit needs a little chemical backup so I can keep showing up—for him and for myself. I moved Dad in with me because that setup was easier on both of us than him living alone in an apartment and calling me in distress all the time. That was a wise adjustment, not a failure; this is the same category.

And beneath all of this sits another quiet belief: “If I can just do this ‘right,’ maybe it won’t be as hard as it was with Mom.” I hope that’s true. I also know it might still be really hard, just in different ways. I don’t want a repeat of that level of drawn-out crisis if I can help it—part of my agitation now is wondering how my life is going to change from here, how far into the gray we’re about to go, and whether I’ll recognize myself on the other side. It really doesn’t feel like there’s any way to “win” whatever this is, but that’s something I need to deal with. (Another thing I need to deal with.)

How this Ties into Remapping

This whole episode is basically a live-fire exercise in remapping.

I’m remapping what “independent” looks like. Bed until noon used to be checked-out-but-fine; now it’s “is this lethargy, depression, or brain bleed?” The same behavior lives in a new context and takes on new meaning. And, who knows? He might be back to his old routine tomorrow! Gray! I moved him in with me because that context—him nearby, me reachable without crisis calls—was supposed to make both our lives easier, and for a while, it has. Now I’m watching the context shift again and wondering: what happens to my workday, my evenings, my brain, if his needs ramp up?

I’m remapping roles. I’m not just the daughter who respects his choices, and not just the clinician-adjacent person who insists on CT scans. I’m the person in the messy middle who has to hold both: his patterns, my knowledge, and the reality that there is no clean answer. I don’t get to be the one who fixes it or the one who walks away; I’m the one who stays and keeps adjusting.

I’m remapping my own history. The echoes of substance use disorder years show up, but this time, I notice the echo. I remember that it’s reminiscent, “a little PTSD-y,” and I let that inform me without fully driving the car. I can feel the urge to detach and say, “Well, he’s making his choices,” and I can also feel the part of me that knows he’s not in the same category as the past. That’s a different map than the one I had back then.

I’m remapping help-seeking. I’m moving from “I should be able to handle this with skills alone” to “I can message my prescriber and still be the person who knows skills.” Adaptive help-seeking becomes part of the terrain instead of a last-resort emergency exit. The same way moving him in was me adjusting the environment to make it livable, tweaking my meds is me adjusting my internal environment so I can keep living this life without burning out. And I know I can ask for help from others; that’s just a really big topic sometimes. Especially now.

The gray area isn’t a failure of the map; it’s the place where the old map no longer fits and the new one isn’t drawn yet. I’m literally charting it in real time—sentence by sentence, fall by fall, toast-by-walker at 10:30 p.m.—trying to believe that I don’t have to have it all under control to be doing it “right.” I just have to stay here, in the gray, long enough for the new lines to start appearing.