At the beginning of the week, I found myself staring at a dozen bottles of medication. They weren’t mine. They belonged to my mother, who had moved in with us about two years ago. Her dementia had been progressing steadily, and each week brought small but unmistakable changes.
Some days were good. She’d pass the time reminiscing, reading, or watching for deer out the window. Other days were harder. On those days, she became painfully aware of what she was losing; her memory, her independence. And her tears came easily. It was heartbreaking to watch, especially knowing we couldn’t fix it. We had to learn, slowly and painfully, to simply be there with her. Acceptance didn’t come quickly. It came through shared tears and quiet moments.
Presence Over Productivity
That morning, I was sitting at the kitchen table, sorting her meds, checking what needed to be refilled, and preparing her pillbox for the week. She wandered in for her usual morning coffee and sat down across from me. I could tell from her expression that it might be one of the harder days.
On impulse, I slid the bottles toward her and asked, “Want to help me?”
We came up with a simple system. I’d call out the next medication, and she’d find the matching bottle and hand it to me. It was slow, clumsy, and full of repeats and reminders. A task that usually takes fifteen minutes took over an hour. I was falling behind on everything else I needed to do.
And yet, the whole day shifted. Her mood lifted. She smiled more. When I suggested a late breakfast at the diner, she was excited. Eager, even. Normally she was hesitant to leave the house, but not that day. The morning, slow and unplanned as it was, had grounded her. And in turn, it grounded me.
A Lesson Shared In Time
I’ve come to see that day as one of the many quiet lessons my mother taught me — not with words, but with presence.
We’ve all heard it: “The shortest distance between two points is a straight line.” It’s true. But it’s also one of the great myths of modern life — that the fastest way is always the best way. We spend so much time rushing to the next task, the next appointment, the next big thing, that we often miss what’s already in front of us.
That morning, I was reminded that sometimes the longer way around is the one worth taking. The slow pace gave my mother back a little piece of her independence. It gave me the gift of being fully with her, not just doing something for her.
That morning, we didn’t just fill a pillbox. We filled the day with meaning. She found her path, and I found mine, right there at the kitchen table.
Rod Price has spent his career in human services, supporting mental health and addiction recovery, and teaching courses on human behavior. A lifelong seeker of meaning through music, reflection, and quiet insight, he created Quiet Frontier as a space for thoughtful conversation in a noisy world.