Who Will Be There When I Forget?
A Personal Reflection on Facing Alzheimer's Risk Without Children
I've asked myself this question more times than I can count. It lingers in the back of my mind like a shadow that grows longer with each passing year.
I am a single woman. I have no children. And Alzheimer's disease runs through my family like a haunting inheritance I cannot outrun.
I know this road intimately because I've walked it beside my mother for over six years. I know the devastation, the confusion, the endless caregiving hours, the fear that accompanies every decline. I know what Alzheimer's takes and what it demands.
But here's the question that keeps me awake at night, the one that tightens around my chest when I allow myself to think too far ahead:
When it's my turn, who will be there for me?
Walking Beside My Mother's Alzheimer's Journey
When my mother received her Alzheimer's diagnosis, I thought the hardest part would be the medical complexity. The doctor's words arrived clinical and sterile: "Alzheimer's disease. Progressive. Degenerative."
But the reality that unfolded was anything but clinical.
Caregiving became all-consuming. It pulled me into a vortex of responsibility, love, grief, and obligation that redefined my entire existence. My career shifted. My identity transformed. I became her study partner through Leqembi clinical trials, her advocate, her memory keeper, her constant.
It was also—and I'm grateful for this—deeply communal. There were family members to lean on during crisis moments. Friends who brought meals. Support groups that held space for my grief. The incredible research team that became part of our extended care network.
But even surrounded by support, I often found myself thinking: What happens when it's me?
I am single. I don't have children. There's no one standing in line waiting to catch me if I fall. No one whose life I've shaped since birth, no one who carries my DNA and my stories forward, no one obligated by blood and love to show up when I can no longer show up for myself.
That thought terrifies me.
The Silent Fear of Aging Without Children
Society doesn't often speak about people like me. There's an unspoken cultural assumption that aging means you'll have adult children to lean on, a spouse to help carry the load, or extended family nearby to step in when things get hard.
For those of us who don't have those relationships—or don't have them in a reliable, sustainable way—the future looks fundamentally different.
It looks lonely. It looks uncertain. It looks like freefall without a safety net.
When my mom grew confused and frightened in the middle of the night, there was someone there to hold her hand and whisper reassurance. When she needed someone to manage complex medication schedules, coordinate with neurologists, monitor for ARIA, track infusion appointments, and fight insurance battles—there was someone there to manage it all.
But who will do that for me?
Who will notice when I start repeating myself? Who will catch the subtle changes that signal something's wrong? Who will advocate fiercely when I can no longer advocate for myself?
Practical Questions Nobody Wants to Ask
Alzheimer's is a disease that strips away autonomy piece by agonizing piece. First memory, then reasoning, then judgment, then independence. Eventually, it leaves you needing complete care for every aspect of daily living.
For someone without children or a committed partner, planning for that kind of comprehensive, round-the-clock care feels like standing on the edge of a cliff and looking down into fog so thick you can't see the bottom.
The questions that haunt me:
How much money will I actually need? I've run the numbers. Long-term memory care costs $5,000-$10,000 monthly in most areas. Over 10-15 years? The math is staggering.
Will there even be enough professional caregivers available? We're already facing a massive shortage. By the time I might need care, will there be anyone left?
Will I be treated with compassion by strangers, or neglected because there's no family advocate fighting for me? I've heard the horror stories. I've seen the facilities where people without visitors languish.
Who will make medical decisions when I can't? Who determines when to start treatment, when to stop, what quality of life means?
And here's the question that breaks me completely: who will love me through it?
Because caregiving isn't just tasks and logistics. It's not just medication management and appointment coordination. It's love. It's showing up when someone is scared and confused. It's holding them when they cry. It's giving them dignity when the disease systematically strips away their ability to maintain it themselves. It's remembering who they were when they can no longer remember themselves.
How do you plan for love when you don't have family to give it?
Imagining My Future
There are nights—more than I'd like to admit—when I lie awake and picture myself sitting alone in a sterile room, unable to recall the faces of people I once loved deeply, with no familiar hand to reach for.
The fear doesn't just visit. It crushes me.
People often tell me, "You'll be fine, someone will be there." But who? Do they mean friends who have their own aging parents, their own children, their own overwhelming lives? Paid caregivers who might cycle in and out every few months because of burnout and better opportunities elsewhere? Well-meaning volunteers who come a few hours a week but don't truly know me?
Sometimes the cruelest part of this thought exercise is arriving at the answer I don't want to face: maybe no one.
Maybe I'll be the woman other residents' families feel sorry for. The one sitting alone during visiting hours. The one staff members see as a patient rather than a person, because there's no family member reminding them I was once vibrant, accomplished, loved.
Why I Still Hold Onto Hope
And yet—and this is where I refuse to let fear win completely—I am not without hope.
I've witnessed miracles unfold in Alzheimer's research that I couldn't have imagined when Mom and I started this journey in 2019. My mother is part of groundbreaking clinical trials that genuinely changed the trajectory of her disease. Treatments like Leqembi and Kisunla exist now. More are in the pipeline.
I know better than most people that the future may not mirror the past—that my story may not be my mother's story. That by the time I might face symptoms, we may have even more effective interventions. Prevention strategies. Maybe even reversal.
Science is moving faster than ever.
But what if it's not fast enough? What if my story is still my mother's story?
That is the precarious balance I live in every single day—hope on one side, fear on the other, trying desperately not to fall off either edge.
Reimagining Community and Care
The question then transforms: How do women like me not just survive, but thrive? How do single, childless people with a family history of Alzheimer's create a realistic plan built on honest assessment rather than denial or wishful thinking?
I believe with everything in me that the answer lies in reimagining what community means and how care can work.
New Models We Need:
Caregiver Co-ops – Groups of people who commit to supporting one another through aging and illness, creating chosen family structures with actual systems and agreements
Intentional Living Communities – Housing designed specifically for aging adults who want connection and mutual care woven into daily life, not isolation
Expanded Professional Care Options – Policy changes that make professional, affordable, dignified care accessible regardless of family structure
Legal Frameworks – Better systems for appointing advocates, making healthcare proxies, and ensuring someone you trust has authority to act on your behalf
What if we stopped assuming traditional family caregiving is the only viable model—and started building innovative alternatives that actually work for the 21st century?
Speaking the Fear Out Loud
That's why I'm writing this deeply personal piece. That's why I'm letting you see my vulnerability and my terror.
Because silence doesn't serve us. Silence makes us invisible.
And there are so many of us—women and men—who are quietly, privately wondering: who will be there when I forget?
According to recent data, over 35% of Americans aged 45-64 have no children. That number is growing. We're not outliers. We're not anomalies. We're a significant portion of the population, and we deserve acknowledgment and solutions.
I don't want to be invisible. I don't want my story to disappear before it even begins. I don't want to become a cautionary tale or a statistic that makes other people grateful they have children.
I want to face this fear directly, and I want to invite others to face it with me.
A Call to Prepare
So maybe the truth is this: Yes, I am afraid. Yes, I feel deeply vulnerable. Yes, I lie awake wondering if my future will be one of loneliness and cognitive decline.
But I am also strong. I am also part of a movement pushing Alzheimer's research forward faster than ever before. I am also building a business specifically designed to help families navigate these impossible questions. I am also creating resources that didn't exist when my mother and I needed them.
And maybe—just maybe—by speaking these fears out loud, by refusing to pretend everything will magically work out, by demanding we build better systems and options, I'll help create a world where no one has to face Alzheimer's alone.
Because in the end, Alzheimer's isn't just about forgetting—it's about remembering what matters most.
And what matters most is connection. Community. Dignity. Love.
So I will keep asking the question. I will keep fighting for better answers. I will keep building resources and relationships and systems that acknowledge reality while reaching toward hope.
Who will be there when I forget?
I'm working every day to make sure the answer is: Someone. A community. A system that works. A world that cares.
If You're Asking This Too, You're Not Alone
If you've been silently carrying this same fear—wondering how to prepare for Alzheimer's or another form of dementia, especially if you're single or without children—I want you to know you're not alone in this.
There are concrete steps you can take right now:
✓ Legal planning – Healthcare proxy, durable power of attorney, advance directives
✓ Financial assessment – Long-term care insurance, realistic cost projections
✓ Community building – Identifying people you trust, having explicit conversations
✓ Treatment exploration – Understanding prevention strategies and current options
✓ Advocacy planning – Designating someone to fight for you when you can't fight for yourself
At Memory Treatment Advisors, this is exactly the kind of conversation I hold space for. I help individuals and families create personalized roadmaps for prevention, treatment options, and long-term care planning that acknowledge your unique situation without judgment.
We face these questions together—with clarity, courage, and concrete action steps.
👉 Schedule your free 10-minute clarity call today: memorytreatmentadvisors.com/schedule
Because you don't have to walk this path alone—even if you're single, even if you don't have children, even if you're terrified.
We'll figure it out together.
