Someone at the VA donated a Joy for All Companion therapy pet dog to every veteran in memory care at the Richard A. Anderson Veterans Home. Bill had one, but he never really interacted with it. After he died, I brought it home simply because it was cute. What I didn’t expect was how much comfort and happiness it would bring me during this season of grief. No, it doesn’t replace Bill or my sweet dog Oreo, but it has been a surprising source of companionship.
This little dog yawns, pants, barks, and whines. Its eyes blink, its head moves, and when I walk in the door—or even just cross the room—it greets me with a cheerful bark. Sometimes it “falls asleep,” only to wake up and chatter at me again. I know it’s just a stuffed therapy animal, but it feels so real that I often forget. I even catch myself talking to it.
If you know someone living with dementia, someone newly widowed, or anyone who could use a bit of friendly company, I highly recommend one of these pets. They aren’t inexpensive, but if it’s within your means, they’re worth every penny.
As for mine, I’ve named him Poochini, inspired by Giacomo Puccini, the composer of the opera, Madame Butterfly. The name feels perfect - a musical nod and a butterfly's reminder of new life. Now, every time Poochini barks, I look ahead to the new life waiting for me.
My husband, Bill, passed from this life on Monday, November 24, 2025, at 4:10 p.m.
What began as an infected wound ultimately ended Bill’s long struggle with Alzheimer’s. When the VA called on November 21 to say he was running a fever, I drove up the next day to visit him. I could see that he wasn’t doing well. On Sunday, November 22, they told me he was “transitioning,” his body was beginning to shut down.
Wil drove down from Austin Sunday night. On Monday morning, the three of us ate breakfast together; then Wil and I drove to the VA while Shelly stayed to watch Freya.
Irene, the hospice nurse assessed the situation and said, “It could be an hour, possibly a day, but death was imminent.”
We spent the day saying our goodbyes as we watched his body struggle to hold on. The team kept him as comfortable as possible, giving him medication as needed. By 3:45 p.m., we knew it wouldn’t be much longer.
I had never seen someone die before. It was emotional and difficult to witness. Bill was in very good health other than Alzheimer’s, and he fought like hell as his organs began to shut down, one by one.
Around 3:50 p.m., his eyes rolled back and his vitals stopped. Irene looked at me with a shake of her indicating this could be the end. She began the countdown on her watch. After two minutes, I texted the kids and told them Bill had passed. (Wil had stepped out of the room for a moment.) However, no sooner had I done so when Bill jerked up and gasped another long, crackling breath. He was not giving up, yet.
I jumped up in shock. “What is happening?”
Irene explained that this was not unusual. “His heart is so strong, and it doesn’t want to give up.”
However, at 4:05, he ceased all signs of life again. Wil had returned and we were holding Bill’s hands, one on each side. Irene started the countdown. This time, Bill did not revive. he was gone at 4:10 p.m. His body was worn from the battle, but I could see that he was finally at peace.
Irene called the mortuary while the staff prepared Bill’s body for travel, finally draping him with an American flag.
The Veteran’s home played taps as our procession made its way out of the building and into the parking lot. After a few words from the staff, Bill was placed in the waiting vehicle for the ride back to Galveston.
This morning, I am both heartbroken and grateful. Heartbroken that my companion of 55 years, through good times and bad, is gone. But, grateful that the relentless cruelty of Alzheimer’s has finally ended. Bill is no longer suffering from pain, confusion, and fear. He is free at last.
And I am free at last - free to grieve, to cherish the years I had with him, and to move forward with my life. Will I see him again? I don’t know. I don’t have the answer to that question. All I know is that he is no longer suffering, and that is what matters to me.
I walk in and find Bill lying in bed, a thin white sheet covering his deformed frame which looks more like death than life. I reach out to comfort him, attempting to rub his outstretched arm, but quickly snap back in shock when I feel bones where tissue used to be. His muscles have atrophied, and now even his fatty tissue is wasting away. There isn’t much left of my husband.
The nurse tells me he has a bedsore that's become infected, so now—on top of the morphine for pain and the medications to keep him calm—they’ve added antibiotics, hoping to keep him from developing sepsis.
Bill opens his mouth as if to speak. Nothing comes out. But I notice his teeth, discolored from so many drugs. Bill always took good care of his teeth. He would be horrified to see them now.
Sadie, the hospice nurse, says they’re trying to find out why Bill is so combative when the aides try to bathe him. It has become so bad, they are now waking him at 4 am to give him his pain medications in hopes he’ll be more docile when the aides come at 6. They are not sure whether his combativeness is pain or something else. He can’t tell them.
“Hi, Bill,” I say. “How are you? Are you okay?” His eyes move, but I can tell he isn’t really seeing me. He looks like he’s trying to speak, but no sound comes out. I lean closer, hoping to catch a word, a phrase—anything—but still nothing.
I wonder what’s going on in his mind. He’s in a strange place. He can barely move. He can’t see; his eyes lost most of their vision years ago. That part isn’t new, but it must be more frightening now.
I feel completely helpless. What can I do? How can I make this better? How can I help him? But the horrible truth hits me again: I can’t. There is nothing I can do. I can only watch him die, one cell at a time.
I want it to stop. I want to shout at someone, anyone: Please make him better. Please stop this torture. How much more does this man have to endure? How much more do I have to endure?
But there is only silence.
I pick up my purse and leave my husband of 55 years in the hands of the hospice nurses. My soul can take no more . . . not today.
