Dementia Family Pathways

02/27/2026

Dementia = brain failure
Dementia is a symptom of something going wrong with the brain.

02/15/2026

Parkinson’s disease is one of 80+ types of dementia (brain failure).

Compensation may be available.

02/14/2026

02/07/2026

The terrible truth I learned in a hospital ER is that for an elderly person, sitting in a favorite recliner is like sitting on a concrete block.

I didn't understand that until 3:47 AM on a Tuesday, when my phone rang with my mom's nursing home saying she needed to go to the ER immediately.

Not a fall. Not a stroke.

A pressure sore. Stage 3.

I'll never forget the ER doctor pulling back the bandage.

The wound was the size of a baseball, deep enough that I could see... I can't even write it.

My hands were shaking so hard I had to sit down.

"How long has she been sitting in that recliner?" he asked, not unkindly.

"She loves that chair," I whispered. "It's the one thing she has left that's hers. She sits there watching her shows, looking out the window. It's where she's comfortable."

He nodded slowly. "I understand. But you need to know something about elderly skin."

What he told me in the next three minutes changed everything I thought I knew about keeping my mom safe.
He said when we age, we lose the natural padding in our buttocks. The fat layer that used to cushion our tailbone and sit bones disappears.

"Your mother is essentially sitting bone-on-surface now," he explained. "And here's what most people don't realize..."

He pulled up a diagram on his tablet.

"When an elderly person sits on a regular cushion, even a thick, expensive one, their body weight creates pressure points on those bones. The cushion compresses down to almost nothing under those specific spots. It's physics."

I thought about all the cushions I'd bought. The memory foam one from Amazon. The gel one from Walgreens. The "orthopedic" one I'd spent $60 on.

She'd complained they all "went flat" or "got hard" after a while.

I thought she was just being picky.

"But it feels soft when I touch it," I said weakly.

"Touch it with your finger. Now imagine 130 pounds concentrated on a two-inch area of bone, for eight hours a day. The foam compresses completely. The gel spreads out to the sides. And underneath? Bone on chair. Bone on concrete."

He drew a simple diagram. "Blood flow gets cut off. Skin dies. Tissue dies. You get what we're treating tonight."

My throat closed up.

This was my fault.

I'd been putting bandaids on a problem I didn't understand.

I'd been Googling "best cushion for elderly" and buying whatever had good reviews, thinking soft meant safe.

I spent the next week in what I call my "dark education."

While Mom was in the hospital getting wound care twice a day—I cannot describe what that looked like, but she cried, and I cried—I researched pressure injuries like my life depended on it.

I learned that 95% of pressure sores are preventable. That number haunted me.

I learned that hospitals use special "pressure redistribution" mattresses that cost $5,000+ because they understand this physics problem.

They don't just add MORE padding.

They actually redistribute weight away from bone.

I learned that the most dangerous thing you can do is use a soft cushion that compresses, because it tricks you into thinking there's protection when there isn't.

I found an article written by a wound care nurse. She said something that made me stop scrolling at 2:30 AM:

"Foam cushions bottom out. They feel soft to the touch but provide zero protection under sustained weight. The person might as well be sitting on the floor."

I thought about Mom's favorite cushion. How I'd squeeze it and think, "This is soft, this is good."

How I'd never thought to sit on it for eight hours and check if it still felt soft then.

I started calling wound care specialists. Physical therapists. Occupational therapists.

One OT finally explained it in a way that made sense:

"You need something that works like water," she said. "When you put your hand in water, the water moves around your hand. It supports every surface area equally. No pressure points. That's what medical-grade gel technology does, it flows and redistributes."

"But I bought a gel cushion," I said. "It didn't work."

"Was it actually gel? Or was it gel-infused memory foam?" she asked.

"Because those are completely different. Gel-infused foam still compresses. What you need is a cushion where the gel itself is the structure. Grid technology. Honeycomb cells that collapse and distribute."

I felt something shift in my chest. A tiny crack of hope.

This was the thing nobody had told me. The thing that wasn't in any of the Amazon reviews.

When Mom came home three weeks later, with a wound that would take four more months to heal, I had transformed her chair.

Not with another foam cushion.

With a medical-grade gel cushion that used what they called "column-buckling technology."

When weight presses down, the gel columns collapse and spread the pressure outward, like water. It doesn't compress flat. It can't bottom out.

The OT who assessed Mom said, "This is what we use in rehab. This is the real thing."

The first day, Mom sat for two hours while I watched her like a hawk, terrified.

When she stood up, I checked. No red marks. None.

I cried in the bathroom for ten minutes.

It's been eight months now.

Mom still sits in her recliner every day, watching her shows, looking out at the birds. She can have that dignity. That small joy.

But now I can breathe.

I check her skin every evening, that's my new ritual, and she tolerates it because she knows, and there's nothing.

Pink, healthy skin. No red marks. No breakdown.

The wound care nurse who comes monthly now just for monitoring said last week, "Whatever you're doing, keep doing it. This is exactly what prevention looks like."

I wish someone had explained this to me two years ago.

I wish I'd understood that "pressure redistribution" isn't marketing speak… it's physics.

It's the difference between protecting skin and destroying it.

I wish I'd known that the $30 foam cushion, no matter how thick, was never going to work.

Because foam compresses under sustained weight. That's what foam does.

I wish I'd known that elderly bodies need medical-grade solutions, not consumer-grade comfort products.

But mostly, I wish I'd understood sooner that my mom's body had changed, and what used to be comfortable, a regular cushion, a regular chair, had become dangerous.

If you're reading this and your parent spends hours in a chair every day…

If you've noticed red marks, or they complain their cushion "went flat," or you keep buying new cushions hoping the next one will work…

If you're feeling that low-grade panic I lived with for months, that sense that something isn't right but you don't know what to do…

Please understand what I learned at 3 AM in that hospital:

Soft doesn't mean safe.

Thick doesn't mean protective.

"Gel-infused" doesn't mean actual gel technology.

Your parent's bones need something that redistributes pressure, not something that just compresses under their weight. They need what hospitals use, scaled down for home.

Because 95% of pressure sores are preventable. But only if you understand what you're actually trying to prevent.

I learned that the hard way. You don't have to.

Volosso

01/12/2026

“Home” is someplace familiar; someplace with familiar sounds, music, smells, tastes, sights, photographs, fabrics, blankets, furniture and people.
You can create “home” by bringing as many of the familiar items wherever she is today and by having a Memory Book to help her tell her stories. 🏠

10/22/2025

If ever I’m living with dementia (brain failure), I’d like my family to hang this wish list up on the wall where I live and do the following:
1. Every time you enter the room announce yourself. “Hi Mom. It’s ___.”
NEVER ask, “Do you know who I am?”That will cause me anxiety. I want you to do everything you can to decrease my stress.
2. I want my friends and family to embrace my reality. Go with my flow.
3. If I think my spouse is still alive, or if I think we’re visiting my parents for dinner, let me believe those things. I’ll be much happier for it.
4. Don’t argue with me about what is true for me versus what is true for you.
5. If I am not sure who you are, do not take it personally. My timeline is confusing to me. I’m doing the best I can. Don’t embarrass me.
6. If I can no longer use utensils, do not start feeding me. Instead, switch me to a finger-food diet and see if I can still feed myself. If you want to help, use hand-under-hand so I feel as if Im feeding myself .
7. If I am sad or anxious, hold my hand and listen. Do not tell me that my feelings are unfounded.
8. I don’t want to be treated like a child. Talk to me like the adult that I am.
9. If I appear to still want to enjoy the things that I’ve always enjoyed, help me find a way to do those things. I might do things differently, but help me do those things anyway (such as exercising, reading and visiting with friends).
10. Ask me to tell you a story from my past and refer to that story when I seem anxious. Remember my stories for me and use photos to help me remember my stories, too.
11. If I become agitated, take the time to figure out what is bothering me. Perhaps I have unmet needs but can no longer explain what my needs are.
12. Treat me the way you would want to be treated if you were living with brain failure. It can happen to anyone.
13. Make sure that there are plenty of snacks for me in the house. If I get hungry I might get angry but be unable to explain why.
14. Don’t talk about me as if I’m not in the room. I’m living with brain failure but I’m still here.
15. Don’t feel guilty if you cannot care for me 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. It’s not your fault and you’ve done your best. Find someone who can help you, or choose a great new place for me to live.
16. If I live in a dementia care community, please visit me often.
17. Don’t act frustrated if I mix up names, events or places. Take a deep breath. It’s not my fault. I’m living with brain failure. Imagine how frustrated I am that I can no remember things clearly.
18. Make sure I always have my favorite music playing within earshot. If I start to sing, encourage me - even if my voice is off key.
19. If I pick up items and carry them around, allow me to do so (if safe). Then return those items to their original place later.
20. Include me in parties and family gatherings, especially the holidays.
21. Know that I still like receiving hugs or handshakes.
22. Remember that I am still the person you know and love. I am living with brain failure and that changes everything.

ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴀsᴛᴇ in Honor of someone you know or knew who has/had dementia.

In Honor of all those I know, love and lost to Dementia. Alzheimer’s is the best known form of dementia but there are 80 different types of dementia.

For a free dementia training go to:
www.DementiaSOS.com