Caregivers Collective | Reading time: ~ 6 minutes
It was a Monday in December. I had decided to go to the gym - one of those small windows of time I'd carved out for myself - but first, I was going to make a quick stop. A little retail therapy for a cute and cozy little something for the house listed on Marketplace. I figured I'd grab it on my way. Easy errand. Ten minutes, tops.
I was in the middle of the transaction with the seller when my phone buzzed. My husband. I didn't pick up - I was literally mid-handoff, cash in hand. Then he called again immediately.
When someone calls back-to-back like that, you know. You just know something is wrong.
I answered.
"He's on the Floor"
My husband had heard a loud thump come from my dad's room. When he walked in, my dad was on the floor - unresponsive. He was breathing. He had a heartbeat. But he wasn't responding.
After about a minute or so, my dad came to.
I told my husband I was on my way and practically ran to my car. The drive home was this strange mix of fear and a kind of quiet acceptance I wasn't expecting. We've entered a new phase. I remember thinking that exact thought, almost calmly, even as my heart was racing. Two and a half years of caregiving has a way of preparing you for things you never actually think will happen.
When I got home, my dad was alert. He was sitting up on the side of the bed, looking weary - and a little confused about why I seemed so concerned. When I told him we needed to take him to the hospital, he brushed it off. It was unnecessary, he said. No big deal. He seemed to have already forgotten what happened - which, if you've been caring for someone with dementia, you recognize immediately as both a blessing and a heartbreak.
I noticed he had scraped the top of his forearm pretty badly from the fall and I went to grab the first aid kit.
The Moment Everything Changed
I saw down next to him and was about to start cleaning his wound when I looked up and his eyes began rolling back and he leaned his back onto the bed.
I panicked - though I kept my composure as best I could. I thought OK, this is super serious. I loudly said to my husband, "Call 911." My dad came back around, and then slipped away again - losing consciousness twice before the paramedics arrived.
The paramedics from the fire department arrived within five minutes. Five or six of them filed into my dad's bedroom - big guys in full gear, filing up this small room where my father sleeps, asking him baseline questions in calm, practiced voices. It all felt surreal. The kind of moment that feels like a strange dream.
The Questions I Wasn't Ready For
One of the paramedics turned to me and asked what medications my dad was taking.
I was ready for this one - been ready for this one. I kept all his medication bottles in a large clear plastic ziplock bag, with a small note taped to it listing the name of each medication and how often he took it. I'd put that system together myself and felt good about it.
Then he asked about the dose.
I'd already shared the name and how often, but the paramedics needed the amount. The milligrams.
I said I didn't know - give me a second. I opened the bag and pulled out each bottle one by one, flipping them around to find the label, reading off the doses as I found them. It took longer than it should have. And I remember feeling a quiet shame standing there - not because I had failed, but because I had been so close to being prepared. I had all the information at my fingertips, except the dose that the paramedic needed. Those seconds, minutes can make a big difference during an emergency.
A quick note on the difference, because it matters.
A "dose" is the specific amount taken at one time - for example, one 10mg tablet.
A "dosage" is the full picture - the dose, how often, and when. One 10mg tablet, twice a day, morning and night.
I had the dosage schedule, but I didn't have the dose amounts written down anywhere I could instantly access. That's what the paramedic needed. That's what I had to find when I was spinning around each medication bottle.
I made a mental note standing in that room: if there's ever a next time, I will have that information on a single sheet of paper, ready to hand over in seconds.
He Was Okay. And We Made Our Flight After All
My dad ended up being dehydrated with low blood pressure. His other tests came back normal, but because of his age, they kept him overnight for observation. He was thankfully back home the next day.
Wait. Did I mention that my husband, my daughter, and I were set to fly out to Virginia two days after my dad's medical emergency, to visit my in-laws for Christmas?
This whole experience was upsetting - no doubt - and not just because I was scared for my dad's health. It underscored something I already knew deep down: I needed this trip to happen. The idea of it being taken away felt like more than I could handle on top of everything else, but we were able to make our flight with peace of mind knowing he was going to be OK. My sister came to pick him up the morning of our trip and off we went.
What I Did Differently After That Day
When we got home from Virginia, one of the first things I did was sit down and write out every medication my dad takes - brand name, generic name, exact dose, time of day, days of the week. All of it. One one sheet of paper.
I printed two copies - one inside the ziplock plastic bag with his meds and the second got posted on the fridge.
It sounds so simple. It is simple. But in the chaos of caregiving, simple things tend to fall through the cracks - especially when your loved one has dementia or some type of memory-impairment condition and they're unable to remind you, or advocate for themselves, or communicate to the paramedic.
That responsibility is yours. And having it written down, completely, in a place everyone can find it - that's not just organization. That's preparation for the moments you hope never come, but have to be ready for anyway.
A Tool I Built So You Don't Have to Scramble
After that experience, I formalized what I'd been doing for years into something I could actually hand to anyone who walked into my home to help with my dad's care.
The Important Medical Information form I created covers everything that matters in an urgent moment - emergency contacts; a complete medication list with brand name, generic name, dose, time of day, and days of the week; allergy information; insurance details; doctor info; and more. All on one page. Print it post it somewhere easily accessible, and email if you wish to anyone who might need it.
It's the sheet I wish I'd fully filled out the December afternoon.
Get the Important Medical Information form here - $4
Also available as part of the full Fundamental Caregiving Packet bundle, designed specifically for new caregivers managing their loved one's care at home - $9
If you're caring for someone with dementia or other type of memory-impairment condition, I want to say this directly: your loved one cannot advocate for themselves in an emergency. They may not remember what happened. They may not be able to answer first responder's questions. They may not even be able to tell you something is wrong before it becomes urgent.
It becomes even more important for their medical information to live outside of both of you. Written down, Accessible Complete. You can't expect yourself to figure it out in the moment. Do it now, while everything is calm, and you'll be more ready than you think.
You've got this. And Caregivers Collective is here when you need it.
Has something unexpected happened in your caregiving journey that changed how you prepare? Drop a comment below - this community is here for exactly these conversations.
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