If a picture can be worth a thousand words, maybe several pictures can take the place of the 750 or so I write here every Wednesday. Snapshots from a summer visit here . . .

Along with the tears have come several smiles. Even living with Alzheimer’s, I’m learning to nurture a sense of humor.

I never would have imagined the unparalleled rugged splendor comprising this corner of the Canadian Rockies. And I never would have planned to see it without Evelyn.

For the sake of memory, I want to share here a couple of the unbidden tributes to Evelyn that have come from readers of this blog.

“There’s no future in going down the ‘if-only’ rabbit hole,” she told me. And now, years later, I’m coming to understand what good advice that was.

Amid all the hubbub about abortion in the national conversation today, I’ve made a decision about myself and several others I know. Caregivers are pro-life.

I’ve formed a playlist called “Comfort.” That’s exactly what I find when I play songs from it.

As I’ve taken up the duties my wife handled without fanfare, I’m almost overwhelmed with how much I took for granted.

Soon after we received the diagnosis, a friend knew I needed this book. Now I recommend it to anyone I know facing unanswered questions.

“I want to go see my parents,” she says, and I grieve a little, because the home she’s seeking just is not there.

Let me tell you about the support group I attend and HFC, the foundation that’s making it possible.

How do you pray when you’re caring for someone with a progressive, debilitating disease? How do you pray for someone else facing a diagnosis that offers little hope? And, really, why pray at all?

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.