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- You're Allowed to Laugh
When you catch yourself smiling at something your husband said—even though it makes no sense—and then feel guilty for finding humor in his confusion, you've stumbled into one of caregiving's most painful paradoxes.
Last Tuesday, your husband asked you if you'd seen his "time machine" (he meant the TV remote). When you handed it to him, he looked at it seriously and said, "I think we need new batteries for the flux capacitor." You laughed. Really laughed. And then, within the same breath, felt the weight of grief settle back over you because the man who used to quote "Back to the Future" perfectly now genuinely seemed confused about what century you were in.
That moment held everything: love, loss, absurdity, connection, heartbreak, and yes—joy.
If you've been told you need to "find the silver lining" one more time, you might scream. If one more well-meaning friend suggests you "just stay positive," you might want to hand them your life for a week and see how much positive thinking helps at 3 a.m. during the fifth clothing change of the night.
After years in these trenches, I’ve learned you don't have to choose between sorrow and joy. They live together now. And learning to let yourself experience moments of genuine happiness—without guilt, without feeling like you're betraying the gravity of your situation—might be one of the most important things you do for both of you.
You Have Permission to Feel Happy
The guilt comes fast, doesn't it? You're watching a funny movie and you laugh, and immediately you think: How can I be laughing when he can't follow the plot anymore? You're out with a friend for coffee and you realize you haven't thought about dementia for twenty whole minutes, and you feel like you've abandoned your post.
You haven't.
Experiencing moments of happiness doesn't diminish your love or minimize your grief. It doesn't mean you're not taking this seriously or that you don't understand the weight of what you're facing. It means you're human. It means you're surviving.
I remember the first time I went out to dinner with friends after my husband's diagnosis. I was genuinely enjoying myself, telling stories, laughing at jokes. And then I caught sight of my reflection in the restaurant window, smiling, and I felt like an imposter. Like I was playing the role of someone whose life was normal when nothing about my life was normal anymore.
A trusted friend later helped me understand that joy and sorrow aren't opponents. They're companions. When we try to suppress one, we diminish both. The moments of lightness don't erase the heavy moments—they give us the strength to carry them.
Your person would want you to laugh. Think about who they were before dementia—would they want you to seal yourself off from every moment of happiness? Or would they want you to grab those moments with both hands?
Creating Moments of Lightness and Connection
Some of your sweetest moments will happen during this disease. Not despite it, but somehow within it.
You don't have the conversations you used to have. He can't remember what happened yesterday or what you just said five minutes ago. But you can still have moments. And you’ll learn to create small pockets of lightness that work with where he is now, rather than mourning where he used to be.
Music may become your secret weapon. He might not remember your name some days, but he can still sing every word to "Unchained Melody." You have dance parties in the kitchen. Completely ridiculous, absolutely wonderful dance parties where you shuffle around in your socks and you don't care that he's wearing the same shirt he's worn for three days because you're moving to music and he's smiling.
Watch nature documentaries with the sound off and make up your own ridiculous narration. His versions may be completely nonsensical and utterly hilarious. You’re creating memories you never expected to have—different from the ones you thought you'd make, but real and precious nonetheless.
Learn to find joy in tiny victories. He fed the cat this morning without prompting. He laughed at something genuinely funny on TV. He reached for you hand during a walk. These aren't the big moments you used to wait for, but they're what you have now, and they matter.
Look for the openings. They're there. Your person might not be able to hold a conversation about current events, but maybe they light up when you show them old photographs. Maybe they can't help with dinner anymore, but they can still stir something in a bowl and feel useful. Maybe words are failing, but they still respond to gentle touch or familiar songs.
Laughter as Medicine (Even When It Feels Wrong)
There's a particular kind of laughter that happens in dementia caregiving, and it takes some getting used to. It's the laughter that erupts in absurd moments. It's the coping mechanism that keeps you from crying when your husband introduces you as his sister for the third time today.
The first time you laugh at something that "shouldn't" be funny, you were horrified at yourself. Your husband had put his shoes in the refrigerator and his sandwich in the shoe closet. When you discovered this, you stood there holding a cold shoe and you just... laughed. It was either that or dissolve into tears, and you were too tired to cry.
That laughter didn't mean you found dementia funny. It meant you found a moment of absurdity in the midst of heartbreak, and your body chose lightness instead of darkness. And you know what? It helped. It released something that had been wound too tight.
Some days, dark humor is what gets you through. When your husband asks you if you are coming to bed (at 12 p.m., when you'd just gotten up 2 hours ago), you told him you were waiting for the sun to go down. He seemed satisfied with that answer. Later, you told a friend this story and you both laughed until you cried. Was it sad? Yes. Was it also kind of hilarious? Also, yes.
Give yourself permission for this kind of laughter. It doesn't make you callous. It makes you resilient.
Balancing Grief and Gratitude
You used to think you had to fix your feelings into one category or another. Either you were grieving or you were grateful. Either you were sad or you were okay.
But the truth is messier and more complicated.
You can be heartbroken that your husband no longer knows what year it is and simultaneously grateful that he still knows your face. You can grieve the future you're not going to have and feel thankful for this present moment when he's calm and peaceful. You can be exhausted and touched by his dependence on you, frustrated and loving, overwhelmed and blessed—all before breakfast.
Some mornings you wake up and the first thought is grief. Other mornings, you wake up and feel grateful you have another day together. Most mornings, you feel both at once, and you've learned to let that be okay.
You keep a small notebook by your bed, and some nights you write down one hard thing and one sweet thing from the day. The entries are simple: "Hard: He didn't recognize his own mother on the phone. Sweet: He held my hand during our whole walk." Writing them down helps you see that both things are true. Both things can exist.
You don't have to make a "gratitude journal" if that feels like one more task you don't have energy for. But when a moment of genuine thankfulness arises—when you feel a flicker of appreciation for something small—let yourself feel it fully. Don't push it away because it seems inappropriate given everything else you're dealing with.
The grief isn't going anywhere. It will wait. So, when joy shows up, even for five minutes, open the door.
Moving Forward with Both Hands Full
You’ll stop waiting for this to get easier. You’ll stop expecting to arrive at some peaceful acceptance where you’re somehow okay with watching the person you love slowly disappear. That's not coming, and that's okay.
What you have instead is this: a life that holds more complexity than you ever imagined possible. A heart that's somehow learned to break and heal at the same time. And a growing collection of moments—some painful, some unexpectedly sweet—that are teaching you things about love and resilience you never knew you needed to learn.
You're not doing this wrong when you laugh during hard times. You're not failing when you feel happiness creep in alongside your sorrow. You're surviving. You're finding a way to live inside an impossible situation. And that takes more courage than most people will ever understand.
Your Action Plan
This Week:
Notice one moment that brings you genuine joy, however small. Don't analyze it or feel guilty about it—just notice it and let yourself feel it.
Give yourself permission to laugh at something absurd without immediately following it with an apology or explanation.
Try one activity that used to bring you pleasure before caregiving consumed everything. Even fifteen minutes counts.
This Month:
Create a "joy list" of simple activities that work with your person's current abilities: listening to music, looking at photos, sitting outside, gentle touch, favorite foods.
Reach out to one friend who makes you laugh and schedule a phone call or coffee date.
Start keeping track (mentally or on paper) of one hard thing and one sweet thing each day. You don't have to do anything with this information—just notice that both exist.
Ongoing:
Practice saying "both/and" instead of "either/or." Both grief and gratitude. Both exhaustion and love. Both heartbreak and hope.
Build small moments of lightness into your daily routine. They don't have to be big. They just have to be yours.
Remember that taking care of yourself—including allowing yourself to experience joy—is how you sustain yourself for this marathon you're running.
You're carrying something impossibly heavy. You're also still alive, still here, still capable of feeling moments of lightness. Both things are true. Both things matter.
With you in this,
Donna
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