Blog
You say I seem to be doing well. I really hope you’re right
I’m alone in a way I haven’t experienced for many decades. I am getting used to it. Slowly.
Three days from the last 16: Shock, grief . . . comfort and gratitude
These moments stand strong in my memory of two weeks unlike any other I’ve experienced.
A new experience. But with the deep grief comes unequaled gratitude
I’ve never experienced such grief, or such profound reasons to be grateful.
What we expected sometime. And what we didn’t expect this week
We knew Evelyn would leave us. We had no idea it would be so soon.
The damnable dilemma of accepting a difficult reality: ‘Never’
She will never need to wear that coat again.
Never. It’s difficult for me to say that out loud.
Move on! How I’m learning to face the too-much-stuff dilemma
It’s interesting to see how different one feels about his stuff when pressured with the impossibility of storing it all.
Looking back, looking ahead: hand and in hand, no matter what
Life goes in circles, they say. Holding a hand will help us keep our equilibrium—and communicate our love.
Not me! For too long no one heard me speak this four-letter word
I accepted help when it was offered. But time and again, I wasn’t sure I really needed it.
An inside look at Evelyn’s situation now: It’s a roller coaster
The hospice nurse told me to expect good days and bad days—like a roller coaster. It’s an apt comparison. And I remember: Sometimes roller coasters make me sick.
Another move. Another question of timing. Another search for balance.
Those who may be surprised or skeptical or confused about my decision haven’t said so, but if they had, I’d understand. It may seem to others—some days it seems to me—like I’m making this move too soon.
An easy question with no simple answer: Why am I doing this?
Does her appearance today really matter? I’m thinking about why I always answer “yes.”
Evelyn is in a fog. But I’m coming to realize she’s not the only one
Everyday, “normal” people all around me are limited by some fog I may not see and they may not understand.
Experiencing the hardest part of Alzheimer’s. She’s in a fog
A unique workshop helped me experience the world through the senses of an Alzheimer’s patient. And now I see that Evelyn has been in a fog.
Trauma: another word for the stress a caregiver experiences?
I’ve written much about loss and grief. A note from a friend leads me to one more possible label for my experience.
Obvious but unspoken: Evelyn is going to die. (But maybe not soon)
The starkness of the words in black type on a white screen prods us to want more information. Why are we—why am I—surprised by something so certain?
How and why caregivers order their days around another’s needs
If accommodation is healthy and normal, why does it feel like such a burden to the caregiver?
Since we are our memory, what does this mean for her—and for me?
“We ARE our memory,” a friend said to me. And this adds another layer of sadness—and resolve—as I watch my wife’s memory fade and falter.
June 22, 2025: It’s an important date, but I almost forgot why
52 years . . . and I almost forgot!
A voice from the past, a reflection that makes us sad—and proud
Sometimes memories from 20 years ago make us sad. Sometimes they do something more. That’s what happened for us this week.
Confirming today the truth of two conclusions reached long ago
These are not new thoughts to me. But now I find they’re guiding me in ways I wouldn’t have imagined.