I accepted help when it was offered. But time and again, I wasn’t sure I really needed it.

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.

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.

Does her appearance today really matter? I’m thinking about why I always answer “yes.”

Everyday, “normal” people all around me are limited by some fog I may not see and they may not understand.

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.

I’ve written much about loss and grief. A note from a friend leads me to one more possible label for my experience.

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?

If accommodation is healthy and normal, why does it feel like such a burden to the caregiver?

“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.

52 years . . . and I almost forgot!

Sometimes memories from 20 years ago make us sad. Sometimes they do something more. That’s what happened for us this week.

These are not new thoughts to me. But now I find they’re guiding me in ways I wouldn’t have imagined.

We’re glad she seems generally healthy. But sometimes we grow weary with figuring out the diseases daily damaging her brain.

How is this moment preparing me for the opportunities to come? What will they be, and will I be ready? While dealing with today, I do well to think about tomorrow.

I can tell you exactly what it meant for me to have Covid. Evelyn suffered, too, but we could only guess at how she felt.

“Writing is an act of ego.” I’ll agree. But as readers write in response to these posts, I see how writing can be about so much more than the writer.

Finally! I have quit talking about a task I was dreading. I’m struck by how I never anticipated I would do this.

Rather than deny my advance (or is it slide?) toward 80, I’ve decided to pause and take stock of what I’m learning about life from this crossroads.

The support group leader doesn’t seem too concerned about me. I’m not, either!