Donna walked the hospital halls for over thirty years. White shoes. Clipboard. Calm voice. She answered questions with steady hands and spoke gently when things were falling apart. Some people cry in grief. Some get loud. She just stood still and listened.
She was a nurse. A good one. The kind families remembered even after the beds were empty.
She didn’t always want to write. At first, she just wanted to help. But over time, helping changed. Bodies failed. Minds unraveled. And there were too many words that didn’t make sense and too few that really mattered.
So she started writing.
Not to sound smart. Not to impress. She wrote like she spoke—clearly. Simply. Like someone who had seen pain and didn’t flinch. She called her Substack If I Get Dementia. She wrote it for caregivers. For the quiet ones in the back of the room. For the tired sons, the scared daughters, the spouses who were becoming strangers to the people they loved most.
She had been there.
Her father had Alzheimer’s. When he got aggressive, no one had answers. Just nods. Just forms. She didn’t cry in the lobby. She learned more. She studied harder. He wasn’t a problem to be fixed. He was a man who deserved dignity. And that changed everything.
Later, her husband was diagnosed too. Another slow goodbye. Another reminder that love doesn’t always look like holding hands—it looks like holding on when nothing feels familiar anymore.
She had seen what dementia did. Not just to the patient—but to the family. To the people left picking up pieces of someone still breathing. She wrote for them.
Each post was a step. Practical advice laced with quiet empathy. How to plan. What to say. When to let go. How to enter their world when they can’t come back to yours.
She didn’t sugarcoat it.
There were good days and bad days and days where the smell of bread made someone cry without knowing why. She explained the limbic system. The smell-memory connection. The brain’s quiet chaos. But she didn’t dwell there. She knew most people reading were sitting at kitchen tables with bills unpaid and dishes in the sink, not thinking about brain science. They just wanted to know what to do when Mom wandered outside barefoot again.
So Donna wrote about that.
And they read. Thousands of them. Strangers who felt less alone. Who clung to her words the way you hold a railing in the dark.
She said things like:
“You can’t bring them back to your reality. You have to step into theirs.”
“They’re still the same person you’ve always loved. Just different now.”
She made it sound simple. It wasn’t.
Behind every sentence was a thousand unspoken things. Memories of patients who forgot their own names. Of adult children weeping in elevators. Of nurses who burned out and never came back. She didn’t tell all those stories. She didn’t have to.
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That’s how she wrote. The emotion was under the surface. In the weight between words.
She believed caregivers weren’t just support staff—they were lifelines. That they deserved better than pamphlets and platitudes. They deserved clear information, solid community, and someone who wouldn’t flinch at their worst questions.
What if I resent them?
What if I’m tired of trying?
What if I miss the person they used to be?
She didn’t judge.
She knew those thoughts. Sat with them. Walked with them. Wrote them down and wrapped them in light.
And people kept coming.
Nurses. Spouses. Daughters. Grandsons. People who never thought they’d have to learn how to change diapers for someone who once tucked them in at night. People who didn’t want sympathy. They wanted tools. And someone who’d been there.
Donna gave them both.
She also kept her own life moving. She had written a book. Started more newsletters. Even published fiction. Writing, she said, gave her rest. A way to breathe.
The world was loud. Everyone shouting. Telling caregivers what they should feel. She didn’t add to the noise. She wrote small stories that passed on light.
She didn’t like how people spoke about dementia like it was the end. Like it erased a person. She didn’t see it that way. She believed identity was more than memory. That love didn’t need logic. That sitting beside someone in their fog could be holy ground.
She saw meaning in the mess.
The brokenness wasn’t the point. The way people showed up in it—that’s what mattered.
She wrote about the moments that didn’t make headlines. A wife shaves her husband’s face because he forgot how. A daughter singing hymns to her father in a whisper. A grandson holding his grandfather’s hand while he asked the same question twenty times.
Love isn’t always loud.
Sometimes it’s a routine. A Post-it note. A playlist of songs from 1953.
Sometimes it’s just staying.
That’s what Donna taught. With every post. Every line. That the staying matters. That understanding doesn’t always come with answers, but it does come with presence.
She knew the clinical terms. But she spoke human.
Because she believed understanding should never be a luxury. That health care wasn’t just about charts and doses—it was about people. Their stories. Their fears. Their small victories.
She kept showing up, online and off, even when she was tired. Especially when she was tired.
Because that’s what caregivers do.
And maybe that’s why her words reached so many.
She didn’t write as a voice from above. She wrote from beside you. From the same trenches. With the same pain. With hope that didn’t need polish to shine.
She would never call herself a hero. But there’s a kind of strength in quiet devotion. In writing for the people no one sees. In telling the truth, gently.
She helped people walk the hardest roads—not by pointing at maps, but by taking the step beside them.
And that’s a story worth telling.
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Inspiration for This Story.
This story was inspired by Donna Chandler’s life of service—as a nurse, a caregiver, and a writer. With over three decades in nursing and firsthand experience caring for loved ones with dementia, Donna brings both professional knowledge and personal truth to her work. Her Substack, If I Get Dementia, is more than a newsletter—it’s a lifeline for caregivers navigating one of life’s hardest roads. What inspired this story was Donna’s quiet strength, her empathy in the trenches, and her belief that love, dignity, and understanding should guide every step of the caregiving journey. She writes not to impress—but to serve.
—John Rinaldo
About Donna.
Donna Chandler is a Marriage & Family Therapist, now retired but still licensed. She writes to encourage herself to find peace, hope and simplicity in a complex world. She hopes some of what she writes will resonate with others. Blending her deep clinical expertise with personal caregiving insight, Donna creates clear, compassionate content that empowers others facing similar journeys. Through her Substack newsletter If I Get Dementia, she translates complex medical information into practical, human-centered guidance. Her mission is simple yet powerful: to provide caregivers with the understanding, tools, and hope they need—because everyone deserves information they can actually use, and no one should walk this path alone.
This is a lovely article about me. I hardly feel worthy, but I appreciate you for writing it. Thank you! 💜
Hey John
Simply impressed by Donna 👌🏻
Donna’s long walk is to remember for forever 👏👏👏👏🦾
And they read. Thousands of them. Strangers who felt less alone. Who clung to her words the way you hold a railing in the dark.
Wow these lines are like a therapy to read and get some comfort 🙂