🎵 “Who Are You” — EOA Alzheimer's, a Soccer Game, and the People Who Should Mind Their Business (the Who)
Our daughter came home from college this weekend.
That doesn't happen nearly as often as I'd like anymore. She's busy with school, work, her sorority, soccer, and generally having the life a college student should be having.
But this weekend was different.
Her college soccer team was playing at a university near us, so we were actually going to get to watch her play!
A whole weekend with our kid.
What a treat. (I made her an amazing "boo bag")
And for the most part, it really was.
She was home.
She and Rob rode bikes, played pickleball outside, had dinners together, and spent an hour sitting on the porch talking.
Just normal family stuff.
The kind of weekend you want when you're dealing with Early Onset Alzheimer's.
And then came Sunday.
⚽ A Pretty Normal Family Morning
We had a few things planned before the soccer game.
I dropped Rob off with his son, Jay, while our daughter and I ran to a quick family birthday party.
Rob got to spend the morning with his son, stepmother, and granddaughter.
They had a great time.
They played, had lunch, checked out some things around the neighborhood.
Nothing complicated.
Just a nice morning with family.
Then Jay brought Rob over to meet us at the soccer game.
Everyone was together.
The weather was nice.
Our daughter was in goal, doing a nice job.
What could possibly go wrong?
Oh, Alzheimer's.
You always find a way to join the party.
⚽ Wait. Why Are We Here?
The first half of the game went by fairly well.
But as it progressed, I could see Rob slowly losing interest.
He couldn't really follow what was happening on the field anymore.
He wasn't sure where our daughter was.
Now, keep in mind, she plays goalie.
She's not exactly running all over the field, hiding among 21 other players.
She's generally in one pretty identifiable spot.
But that didn't matter.
At halftime, his family got up to leave.
And naturally, Rob got up to leave with them.
I explained that we still had another half of soccer to watch.
So I got him some water, took him over to a shaded rest area, and we sat for about 15 minutes.
A little break.
A little reset.
Then we headed back to the stands.
And that's when he looked at me, completely earnest, and asked:
"Why are we still here?"
I explained that we were watching our daughter play soccer.
He looked confused.
"Who?"
I said, "Your daughter. Pea."
That's her nickname.
And suddenly his whole expression changed.
"Oh! Pea's here? Where is she?"
And there it was.
That little flash of recognition.
He was so excited.
And my heart just broke.
💔 The Weekend That Disappeared
Here's the part I need you to understand.
We had spent the entire weekend with our daughter.
She'd been at our house.
They'd ridden bikes.
They'd played pickleball.
They'd eaten together.
They'd sat on the porch talking for an hour.
He'd been with her all weekend.
And now, sitting at her soccer game, he didn't remember she was even in town.
Just like that.
Gone.
I could remind him.
I could explain.
I could point her out on the field.
And for a moment, he might connect the dots.
But the memories of the weekend?
They weren't there when he needed them.
And that's one of the cruelest parts of Alzheimer's.
You can spend an entire weekend making memories with someone who may not remember making them.
I remember every bit of it.
Our daughter will remember it.
But Rob?
He was genuinely surprised to learn she was there.
🚻 And Then Came the Bathroom Police
Eventually, the game ended.
We were waiting with the other parents for the players to come out.
Rob needed to use the bathroom again.
I asked him if he knew where it was.
"Yes."
Okay.
Off he went.
Straight toward the ladies' room.
Of course.
So I followed him and redirected him to the men's room.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing unusual in my world.
Just another little adjustment I make about a hundred times a day.
Except this time, we had an audience.
One of the other players' mothers, someone I didn't know, decided to offer her commentary.
In that snarky, condescending tone people sometimes use when they think you're being
bossy or controlling.
"What would he do without you?"
Oh.
Okay.
We're doing this?
I turned, smiled, and said:
"Probably be in a memory care home in diapers."
Silence.
Not a word.
Then I smiled again and added:
"I'm doing the best I can. Caregiving isn't easy."
And suddenly we had a group of parents who had absolutely no idea what to say.
Imagine that.
For the record, I wasn't trying to embarrass Rob and he was already in the toilet so he never heard.
I was tired. I missed a lot of the game patrolling him.
I had just spent two hours helping my husband navigate an event he couldn't understand, watching him forget why we were there, and trying to make sure he could still enjoy the day.
And some stranger decided she needed to critique how I was doing it.
Ma'am, you have no idea what you're looking at. I said he has Early Onset Alzheimers.
🩺 And Here Comes the Armchair Doctor
Of course, there's always one.
You know the type.
Someone hears the word Alzheimer's and suddenly has a theory.
This particular gentleman, who looked like he might actually be a doctor and was apparently from Miami, jumped into the conversation.
"Oh, he's on statins?"
Nope.
"Never had a health issue. Just bad genes, buddy."
And that was about all I had left in me.
I wasn't interested in discussing cholesterol medication, debating possible causes of Alzheimer's, or hearing somebody's latest medical theory while standing outside a college soccer field.
I wanted to go home.
I was done.
Not every conversation needs an amateur neurologist.
Sometimes a caregiver just needs people to be kind.
Or quiet.
Quiet is good too.
👀 The Disability You Can't See
Here's why I'm sharing this part.
Rob looks healthy.
He's physically fit.
He rides bikes.
He plays pickleball.
He works out.
If you passed him on the street, you probably wouldn't think anything was wrong.
You certainly wouldn't look at him and think Stage 5 Alzheimer's.
But you don't see what's happening inside his brain.
You don't see that he may not remember where the bathroom is.
You don't see that he can't follow a soccer game.
You don't see that he might need me to explain where we are, why we're there, and who we're waiting for.
You don't see the constant little decisions I'm making to help him function in public.
You just see a woman telling a grown man where to go.
And maybe you decide she's bossy.
Or controlling.
Or impatient.
Here's a thought.
Maybe she's caregiving.
Maybe she's helping someone with a disability you can't see.
Maybe she's trying to give him a normal afternoon while quietly managing a hundred things you know absolutely nothing about.
And maybe, just maybe, she doesn't need your opinion.
She needs a little grace.
❤️ "Oh, Pea! You're Here!"
And then came the final moment.
Our daughter finished the game and came down to meet us.
Rob saw her.
His face lit up.
"Oh, Pea! You're here! We just watched a game!"
There it was again.
That genuine excitement.
That happiness at seeing his daughter.
And that complete disconnect from everything we'd just experienced.
He knew her.
He was happy to see her.
But he hadn't been able to hold onto the reason we'd spent the afternoon sitting in those stands.
And I stood there thinking about how many times I had explained things that day.
How many times I'd redirected him.
How much of the weekend had already disappeared from his memory.
And how completely unaware the people standing around us were of any of it.
🎵 Who Are You?
I think that's what makes this disease so strange.
Sometimes Rob knows exactly who someone is.
Sometimes he needs a reminder.
Sometimes he recognizes a face but can't connect it to what's happening.
And sometimes he can spend an entire weekend with someone he loves, only to be genuinely surprised to see them a few hours later.
But here's what I keep coming back to.
He was happy to see her.
Both times.
When I reminded him she was playing soccer, he lit up.
When she walked out after the game, he lit up again.
Maybe he couldn't remember the weekend.
But he could still enjoy seeing his daughter in that moment.
And that matters.
We aren't going to stop making memories just because he can't always keep them.
We're going to keep riding bikes.
Playing pickleball.
Sitting on the porch.
Showing up for soccer games.
And doing our best to enjoy the time we have together.
Even when Alzheimer's makes it harder than it should be.
💜 One Last Thing
To the people who see someone redirecting their spouse, answering questions for them, helping them find a bathroom, or explaining something for the fifth time:
Please don't assume you know what's going on.
You might be watching someone manage a disability you cannot see.
You might be watching a caregiver who is exhausted but determined to give their person a normal day.
And if you're not sure what to say?
A smile works.
So does kindness.
And sometimes saying nothing at all is perfectly acceptable.
Because behind that healthy-looking man at the soccer game was a wife doing everything she could to keep him included.
And behind that wife was a mother who just wanted to watch her daughter play soccer.
Sometimes I would really love to be just the mom in the stands again.
But for now, I'm both.
And I'm doing the best I can.
💬 Disclaimer:
Keep in mind, I am writing this blog over years, not in one day- I repeat some things, but because it became more applicable today. I’m not a doctor, lawyer, therapist, or expert—just a wife trying to figure this out one day at a time. Everything shared here is based on our experience and things that have helped us along the way. Take what helps, leave what doesn’t, and always check with professionals when needed. I also use AI to help clean up my writing, organize thoughts, and pull together resources because honestly… caregiver brains are tired too. If something here helps another family feel less alone, then it’s worth sharing.
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