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

When I wrote that “How’s your wife doing?” may not be the most helpful question to ask, I evidently touched a nerve.

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.

The fact is that most of us—at some time or at some level, whether we realize it or not—gravitate toward bad news. But like most caregivers, I work to make everything seem good.

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.

Happy birthday? I’m not unhappy, but as I celebrate today I’ll focus on a more substantive emotion.

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.

We want to associate “joy” with “happiness,” but anyone coping with loss longs for something deeper. And this joy, when we find it, sometimes comes with pain.

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.

Any of us might seek a calling to something grand and important. But I’ve decided my calling today is the person right in front of me.

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

Many have told me “you must take care of yourself.” I’ve never disagreed, but I’m still figuring out how to do what they’re suggesting.

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.

Do you cry? I know I’m not the only one who puddles up often. And now that I’m a caregiver, I’m coming to understand what’s behind some of those tears.

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.

“I don’t know if I’m a companion or a caregiver.” “Why choose? Why can’t you be both?” There’s hope and joy for me in that answer.

I was a caretaker two years before I was willing publicly to wear the label. Today I’m thinking about what taking that step has accomplished for me.

Of everything added to my growing list of caregiver duties, to remember feels the most urgent.