In our house, we are determined to take just one day at a time, relying on God, and not to jump into the future and steal the joy God is giving us today.

Our journey began in 2005, and the years since then have been filled with surprises, challenges, grief—and blessings. Many blessings.

No matter how I sacrifice or what I know, love is the key that gives caregiving its power.

The song doesn’t describe how our life has turned out. But it does describe the commitment I’m holding on to.

I really wanted to care for my dad. But I found myself with a bad attitude trying to handle all the new responsibilities. What could I do?

When we lose a loved one to death, we experience the year of “firsts”—first birthday, anniversary, Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas—without the loved one. But in my journey with Mom, “firsts” have come unexpectedly, at random times, over a four- or five-year period. 

I’ve struggled with four major issues as a long-distance caregiver while watching my mom’s condition deteriorate.

Although my 95-year-old father did not have dementia, he needed our care for the five years he lived in our home. We couldn’t have walked that path without the help of many others.

I wrote this poem the night Howard gave me a beautiful diamond, more than 50 years ago. I’m as committed to him today as I was then.

“I've come to rejoice in the small victories and make them big.“

I was never quick to ask for help from others. I had to get over that quickly. There comes a time when you must ask for help. You cannot do this alone.

He cared for his wife with pancreatic cancer for almost three years. This is not an Alzheimer’s story, but it expresses emotions common to many caregivers.

Sometimes I’m just tired. But then I count my blessings and decide I have enough strength to take one more day at a time.

If caregiving was considered a superhero gift, my mother, Sheila, could have been the star of the franchise. And then one day I was forced to wear the cape myself.

Today’s shared story is curated from several pieces of correspondence with Paul Boatman, retired professor, chaplain, and counselor in Lincoln, Illinois.

Her condition was what it was. She didn’t have the capacity to respond to it differently or change anything. Only I could make changes. And how she was doing was significantly affected by how I was doing.

Today’s Shared Story comes from Valerie Reed, Mason, Ohio. Her husband, Dave, suffers from physical injuries as traumatic as any outcome from an Alzheimer’s diagnosis.