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. 

No one wants to be less-than. No one wants to need help. But I’m learning that’s a mindset I just need to put behind me.

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

Report on a wonderful weekend: I’m learning to celebrate the glad while not denying the sad.

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.

For many dozens of weeks, I’ve been forming new habits, taking over new responsibilities, and adding more and more items to my subconscious “don’t forget” list. And today I don’t completely remember what it was like before my current state of constant on-call.

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 need slowly (or maybe not so slowly) to come to terms with the realization that caregiving is now my primary duty, not something added on or just accommodated.

“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.