Bathing-when the water feels wrong - not refusing-afraid..

SDianeL

I saw this on a Facebook post and hope this helps someone caring for their loved one. In the book "The 36 Hour Day" it lists some reasons your loved one doesn't bathe or shower: Fear, not remembering how to shower (there are steps), water too hot or cold, room too hot or cold, fear of falling, the water may actually hurt their skin. Make sure there is a seat, a hand held shower wand, get everything ready, body wash, wash cloths, towels, turn on the water for them. Choose a "shower day" and says it's "our shower day" even write it on a calendar. Schedule shower time when they are in a good mood. Right after breakfast worked for my DH. It doesn't work every time but if not, keep gently trying.

When the Water Feels Wrong Not Refusing — Afraid

Bathing as a moment of emotional overwhelm between mother and daughter

Bathing is often seen as a routine task — something to be done, scheduled, completed. But for someone living with dementia, it can become a moment of deep vulnerability. The water, the echo of the room, the unfamiliar hands, the loss of control — these are not minor discomforts. They are emotional triggers.

Anna is the daughter and dementia caregiver. Lillian is her mother, living with dementia. Their bond is layered with memory, tenderness, and the quiet grief of change. And for Anna, the task is never just to complete the bath. It is to protect her mother’s sense of safety, dignity, and emotional calm. She has learned that the bath doesn’t begin with water — it begins with presence. With noticing the tension in Lillian’s shoulders. With hearing the silence behind her resistance. With responding not through instruction, but through calm, grounded care.

This is where attuned care begins: not with the water, but with the presence that surrounds it.

Lillian had always bathed in the evening. A warm soak, soft towels, quiet music. It was her ritual. Her way of unwinding. Her way of feeling safe.

But now, the water isn’t safe.

She resists — not with words, but with her body. Her arms stiffen. Her breath quickens. Her eyes search the room, wide and unsettled. She doesn’t understand where she is, or why someone is asking her to undress.

Anna doesn’t push. She doesn’t explain. She slows down.

She speaks gently, narrating each step. “We’re going to warm the water now. I’ll stay right here.” She offers a soft cloth, lets Lillian hold it. She places a towel over her shoulders before anything begins. She waits for Lillian’s breathing to settle.

The bath becomes a rhythm. A shared moment. Not rushed. Not clinical. Just quiet care.

Over time, Lillian begins to trust the pattern. She still hesitates, but she no longer flinches. The water becomes familiar again — not because it changed, but because Anna did.

Bathing is not resistance. It is fear. And fear deserves gentleness, not urgency. In this moment, the daughter’s role is not to complete a task — it is to restore safety. To offer presence. To protect dignity. This is how it’s done. Through slow steps. Through soft words. Through knowing when to pause. Through love that listens.

Petra Kreuzer, Dementia Connection Australia ©

#DementiaConnectionAustralia

jgreen

Thank you! Beautiful piece and lots to consider for what we think of a ‘routine’.

Karen711

Very moving piece!

Thank you!

Maru

TY. Insightful article.