Unexpected Humor in Caring for a Parent with Lewy Body Dementia

in LeoFinancelast month

First off, let me say this: caring for a parent with Lewy Body Dementia is no walk in the park. Unless, of course, that walk in the park includes impromptu detours, a talking squirrel, and your mom insisting that the squirrel is her long-lost cousin, Maureen.

Source

Then, yeah, it’s exactly like that.

Lewy Body Dementia is a quirky mix of memory issues, hallucinations, and cognitive swings that make every day an adventure—and I say "adventure" the way Frodo probably did when he first saw Mount Doom.

Some days are manageable, even sweet, but other days feel like I’m on the set of a sitcom written by someone who just discovered plot twists.

Ghosts and Forgotten Keys

This morning, my mom casually dropped a bombshell: “Oh, by the way, your Aunt Lisa called. She said you forgot your keys, and she’ll let you in.”

Aunt Lisa, bless her heart, has been dead for nine years.
(Yes, you read that right—dead.)

Now, at first, I froze.

I wasn’t sure if I should laugh, cry, or check the locks.

But I opted for humor because, let’s face it, a dead aunt with a spare set of keys is objectively funny.

I couldn’t resist:
“Well, that’s awfully nice of Aunt Lisa. I hope she also dusted the place while she was there.”

Mom didn’t blink. “Don’t be ridiculous. Lisa never dusts her house.”

Touché, Mom. Touché.

Dad’s Still Working Late

Speaking of the dead, my father has been gone for four years now.

He was the hardworking owner of a local tavern for 43 years, which, if you do the math, is basically a lifetime in bartender years.

He worked seven days a week and somehow still managed to know every customer by name and drink order.

Yet, at least twice a week, my mom asks me, “What time is your father getting home?”

At first, I tried the logical approach: “Mom, Dad passed away, remember?”

Her response? “Oh, don’t be silly. He’s probably just stuck at the bar talking to customers. That man never knows when it is time stop drinking to come home.”

Now, I just roll with it. “Yeah, you know Dad. I’ll bet he’s out there solving world peace with a Heineken.”

Sometimes, I’ll even joke that he called to say he’s running late, and she nods knowingly, like she’s in on the conspiracy. It’s oddly comforting in a way.

My Nana, the Magic Maid

But the true showstopper happened last week. Mom sat me down with a look of utmost seriousness—like we were about to negotiate a peace treaty—and asked, “Where is your grandmother going to sleep tonight?”

Let me pause here for dramatic effect: my grandmother has been dead for 23 years.

Still, I played along. “Uh, probably in her bed?”

Mom shook her head. “No, no, no. She needs to go home to take care of the house. Who’s going to clean it?”

For context, my grandmother was a legendary neat freak.

We used to joke that if you stood still too long in her house, she’d dust you. Mom called her “the magic maid” because, no matter what, the house was spotless.

Especially if no one had been home for hours, it would somehow sparkle.

So, I did what any self-respecting son would do:

I grabbed a duster, waved it dramatically, and said, “Don’t worry, Mom. The magic maid has trained me well.”

We both started laughing, and for a moment, everything felt normal.

Finding Humor in the Chaos

Living with someone who has Lewy Body Dementia is like being in a constant state of improv.

You never know what the next scene will bring.

Some days, it’s frustrating—like when Mom insists the neighbor’s cat is plotting against her—but other days, it’s filled with moments so absurd you couldn’t make them up if you tried.

Humor has become our lifeline.

It’s how I cope when the days get heavy, which, let’s be real, they often do. Laughter doesn’t cure the disease, but it does make the hard moments feel a little lighter.

Lessons in Patience (and Comedy)

If I’ve learned anything, it’s this: patience is key.

Patience and a good sense of humor.

Okay, and maybe wine. (I’m kidding. Kind of.)

There’s something oddly beautiful about seeing life through my mom’s perspective, even if it’s skewed by dementia.

When she tells me about the “people in the living room” who are apparently throwing a party, I can’t help but smile.

Sure, it is not be real, but her face lights up like it is.

And honestly, how often do we get to experience that kind of pure joy as adults?

Wrapping It Up

At the end of the day, caring for someone with Lewy Body Dementia is a wild ride. It’s equal parts exhausting, heartbreaking, and unexpectedly hilarious.

You learn to embrace the chaos, find humor in the madness, and cherish the moments of clarity and connection when they come.

So, if you ever find yourself in a similar situation, my advice is this: laugh when you can, cry when you need to, and always keep a spare set of keys—because you never know when your dead aunt might call to remind you you’ve forgotten them.

Cheers to the journey, friends. 🥂

Posted Using INLEO