My last post for at least a while: Reflecting on a journey’s end
I didn’t imagine where this journey would take us. That was my conclusion after taking some time to skim through the many columns I’ve posted here since the second Wednesday in March three years ago.
Of course, I always knew Evelyn’s condition was terminal. Among the residents where Evelyn lived, we saw another death almost every month. But Evelyn’s death was just an idea to me, not a promise I was prepared to accept. Consider my first post from this year, January 1, 2025:
I’m curious about the future as I watch her slow decline. Will this continue in a gentle descent for years to come? Or will her condition someday degenerate quickly into a new level of need? Evelyn could pass away tomorrow, or she could live five more years. I wonder what I’ll say about her condition when I look back on it 12 months from now.
I wasn’t expecting to have her for only 10 more months. Just a few weeks earlier (December 11, 2024), I had written this:
Last Christmas: “Evelyn’s doing fine.”
Evelyn’s doing fine. The hospice nurse tells me all her vitals are good. She eats and seems to sleep well. We still get smiles from her, and she’s still reading aloud anything we put in front of her. She’s content and almost always pleasant and generally well cared for.
But by late this summer, only the last sentence of that paragraph was still true. She was eating less and sleeping more. She hardly smiled and had quit reading. And yet the hospice nurse didn’t report any signs of her imminent demise. When it came, I was surprised.
Dealing with surprises
But that was not the first surprise. Dealing with surprises is the task of every Alzheimer’s caregiver. The constant stream of change was certainly a challenge for me. Again and again, I had only begun to adjust to something new when I was faced with a different situation. Change was the theme in dozens of posts here.
Our memorial service, October 15.
Today I’m dealing only with one overshadowing change. Evelyn is forever gone.
I have come to the end of the journey I sought to describe in these Wednesday posts. I’m no longer a caregiver; my attention these days is deciding how to care for myself. I’m trying not to falter while considering new paths. Everyone says, “Give yourself time. Be easy on yourself.” I’m trying to figure out how to do that.
Embracing more changes
But I must confess that reading through old blog posts Monday night plunged me into another wave of grief and five minutes of full-throated sobs. The grief attacks without warning. I’m working to accept it without wallowing in it. I must believe time is my friend.
And so I gladly anticipate a new year. Soon I’ll move to a refurbished garden home in a community committed to giving its residents positive experiences. I’m making plans to travel with friends and family. I’m deciding between two opportunities for grief counseling, and I may choose both.
I’ll decide where and what to write.
At least a couple have told me they’ll miss this blog. My kids encouraged me to post here if I want to write and not to post if I don’t feel compelled to do so. I’m torn, but I’ve decided this is a good time to take a break. We’ll see what the new year brings.
Considering what I’ve learned
For now, I’ll end with the aspirational close of my very first post at this site, March 9, 2022. Speaking specifically to other caregivers, I wrote this:
. . . let’s not waste our time while we walk this uncomfortable path. Let’s discover what we can learn along the way, how we can grow because of the struggle. Let’s not curse the forgetting. Let’s remember.
Frankly, it’s painful for me to remember. I grieve how Alzheimer’s attacked Evelyn even more than I grieve how it left me alone.
And I’m still deciding what the experience has taught me. For now, I feel confident with two conclusions:
• Great joy and deep grief can coexist at the same time. Along every turn in this journey, I’ve profoundly experienced both.
• God is faithful to those who seek him. Again and again, circumstances have combined to make our experience easier. The skeptic might call these coincidental. I hear the voices of so many who say they’re praying for us, and I call it providential.
Now it’s time to watch for what I can learn as a 75-year-old widower. I don’t expect that to be easy, either. But I’m fully convinced that God is willing to help me. Remembering him will be my first and biggest challenge.
Occasionally, someone asks me what kind of traffic this blog has received. Here are some answers.
Since the first post March 9, 2022, 72,000 unique visitors have made 130,000 visits to the blog. Last year, there were 43,000 visits by 24,000 unique visitors. This year so far, there have been 33,000 visits by 18,000 unique visitors.
Top five most-read posts
May 20, 2022. Shared story: I’m just as committed now as I was 50 years ago.
By Martha Brammer. 2,152 viewsApril 3, 2024. Too soon? Too late? Right? Wrong? I have made a difficult decision. 1,258 views
November 3, 2023. Shared story: How caregiving has affirmed for me a simple truth. By Martha Brammer.
1,088 views
(Martha wrote two of the five top posts! I should have asked her to write more! I think I’ll encourage her to start her own blog.)October 8, 2025. What we expected sometime. And what we didn’t expect this week. 1,068 views
July 17, 2024. Stanley Tucci, Italian cooking, cancer, and the meaning of life. 1,034 views.
Frankly, I find these numbers difficult to believe. And, of course, there are more. According to the analytics, any number of posts have been seen 300 or 400 or more than 600 times.
If these figures are even half true, I’m amazed and humbled. Often when I’m in public with people I know, someone new tells me they’ve been reading my blog. That may mean they’ve read a post now and then; I don’t expect folks to read every week. But I’m always gratified—and surprised—that my rambling about coping with my reality somehow resonates with someone else’s.
I’m very grateful to the readers—many, but not all of them caregivers—who tell me hearing about our experience helps them deal with their own. I’ve prayed for God to use what I’m doing here. It’s helpful to believe he has granted that desire of my heart.