When Love Means Letting Others Stand Watch

A reflection on the guilt of stepping away from caregiving and the realization that love isn't measured by constant presence.

Photo by Fairuz Naufal Zaki on Unsplash

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One of the quiet cruelties of dementia is that it has robbed dad of his ability to tell me what he needs, while reminding me that something is always required. 

Every day I play an endless guessing game of interpreting spontaneous and disconnected cues. Watching and listening for meaning in fragments of words, restless hands, half-closed eyes. Dad’s needs shift randomly. Comfort is unpredictable. Relief is temporary. 

As a caregiver, I live in a state of low-grade vigilance, always scanning for signs of distress, always preparing for the next decision, and always asking myself: Am I doing the right thing? Is this enough? Is it too much?

The vigilance is exhausting. And its weight grows heavier when guilt arrives because I stepped away and allowed paid caregivers to sit the long hours, stand vigil through the night, and carry the emotional weight of endless repetition. 

Without fail, the inner voices rise up in protest. It should be you. You’re his child. You should be in the room. He could die and you won’t be there.

The voices are relentless. They don’t care that I’m human. They don’t care that I’ve already given days, weeks, and months of my life in focused attention and emotional labor. They don’t care that my nervous system is frayed, that my body needs sleep, or that my mind is struggling to hold itself together.

To them, demonstrating love requires my immediate and constant presence.

But love is not that simple.

I still have a home that requires upkeep. Pets that need feeding and care. A husband and children who are carrying their own grief and stress. Jobs that must pay the bills and keep the lights on. And the fragile, shelved parts of myself—dreams, hopes, and plans—that don’t disappear simply because someone I love is dying.

Balancing all of this feels like I’m living in the middle of a tug-of-war—pulled in every direction at once. No matter what I do, something gets neglected. No matter what I choose, it feels like a failure somewhere else.

So, I must remind myself…

Outsourcing care doesn’t mean outsourcing love. Allowing another person to sit in the room doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned my role in dad’s life. It means I’m acknowledging my limits and recognizing that endurance matters too. Caring for someone with dementia is a long, grueling road. And no one should have to survive it by white-knuckling it alone.

And yet, even knowing this, the guilt persists.

It shows up when I run errands instead of sitting bedside. When I sleep while someone else listens for breathing changes. When I choose to tend to the living parts of my life instead of hovering over the dying ones. It whispers that rest is selfish, that relief is disloyal, that stepping away is a moral failure.

But it isn’t.

Caregiving is not measured by hours logged or physical proximity. It’s measured by faithfulness over time. By the willingness to return again and again—even though I’m tired. By the humility to accept help. By the courage to admit that I cannot be everything, all the time, to everyone.

Standing vigil doesn’t not always mean sitting in a chair beside a bed. Sometimes it means making sure the support system around dad is steady, compassionate, and safe—while I step out to breathe, to live, and to remember who I am outside of this season.

That, too, is a form of love and devotion.