Dreams and Thorns

 Dreams and Thorns by Cindy Downes (July 24, 2026)

“Your dreams will come true in August.” Thus proclaimed the fortune cookie I opened today at my FLAMS group luncheon. The problem is that I don’t have dreams.

Perhaps life has robbed me of dreams or life challenges has taught me that dreams are fairy tales. I tend to take a more realistic view of life. 

I’m an avid practitioner of the Stoic philosophy which goes along with our other writing prompt, “Accept that you can’t control everything; let go.”

I find that life is easier to manage when I discard ideas of dreams coming true and instead focused on accepting what life brings me and then making the best of it. To help me remember this, I hung four wall plaques in my apartment that contain the following words which I read almost daily:

1.     Accept what is.

2.     Let go of what was.

3.     Have faith in what will be.

4.     Believe in yourself.

These reminders keep me grounded when dreams crash and life exposes the thorns of daily living. Then I say to myself, 

·      “I can only control myself.”

·      “I am not responsible for how others act or think.”

·      “I am only responsible for how I respond to them.”

So, August . . .

No, I don’t have dreams for August. Instead, I choose to live each day as if it were my last. I’m going to enjoy the air I breathe, the people with whom I interact, and the activities which I pursue. 

As the inevitable thorns reach out to prick me, I will continue to push through, carefully; and, come what may, exit on the other side, hopefully, mostly unscathed. 

Do I have goals? Yes, of course I do. But goals to me aren’t dreams. Goals are based on what I believe about myself – what I can accomplish. Not some fantastical dream that is unrealistic.

So, the bottom line is this: I am looking forward to August and to every month after that, fortune cookie or not. 

Grief is strange. Not at all how I imagined it.

For instance, I’ve developed an aversion to going into Houston. I didn’t realize it until a friend suggested we visit a museum downtown. The thought set me into a panic, but I didn’t know why.

In the middle of the night, I woke and realized I can’t go anywhere that connects me to Bill’s memory.

I tried to drive through Houston the other day to reach the north side and visit his memorial site. I went the wrong direction. I hit roadblocks. Someone nearly hit me and it began to rain. It was as if the was universe was saying, “Don’t go there right now.” So, I turned around and came home. 

Grief has paralyzed me from traveling to Houston. 

My cousins wanted to visit me in April – something I’d looked forward to since I moving to Galveston. We began making plans. Then they called to confirm dates before booking travel and I panicked. I couldn’t do it. Why? I’m not sure. It just felt overwhelming. So, I told them not to come. 

Grief has paralyzed me from enjoying company from out of town. 

When Bill first passed, 90% of my income stopped. I was sure I’d end up on the street. I began looking for a job, cutting expenses, and reading everything I could about saving and investing. 

Should I leave my beautiful new apartment?  Stay here and get a job? Start a home business? Maybe I should move somewhere cheaper – off the island or even out of state? 

Now, almost two months later, I see my finances more clearly. I am financially strong. I have less, yes, but it’s more than enough for my needs. There’s no need to panic. I can stay where I am and enjoy a good life.

And yet I woke in the middle of the night worrying about spending too much money on a Sam’s Club order and how I could return it on my way to see Bill. 

Oh, I don’t do that anymore. 

Grief has paralyzed me from thinking logically.

They tell me this will gradually pass, and I believe it will. In the meantime, I have a message that pops up on my phone every day, “Don’t make any decisions.” 

So that’s what I’m doing—making no big decisions. Taking one day at a time. Waiting for my heart to heal. 

That’s what grief is. 

How long does grief last?

I’m grieving today. . . 

I thought I’d get through this quickly; after all, I’d been grieving for years. But that grief was tangled with everything else that came with being a caregiver: worry, stress, resentment, fear, sadness, and loneliness.

Now all that remains is sadness. Loneliness. Anger at myself for not being a better wife. Regret that we never got to enjoy the retirement we imagined.

When my thoughts return to him, they go back to our early years of marriage, when life felt expansive—our travels, our closeness, his gentle care for me, and my joy in taking care of him: cooking his favorite foods, making a home he was proud of.

I remember the long drives across the country, stopping at small diners, searching for out-of-the-way bookstores where I could buy children’s books from ages past. He would drive and drive while I sat back and watched the scenery. That was our favorite thing—to enjoy the countryside, share simple meals, and talk.

This ending was not what I wanted. I wanted a happily-ever-after. I wanted us to grow old together and pass away peacefully after a long, shared life. That was not to be.

Instead, I am left with fragments of a marriage that was once good, and later heartbreaking.

Slowly, the hard years are fading, and I am grateful. They are not worth holding onto. We had so many good years—just not enough. . . 

A New Writing Adventure

I thought I would end this blog, but I've decided to keep writing in it. In the meantime, I have started a new blog called, The Single-Serving Life on Substack where I focus on cooking for one, mostly. Here is the link if you are interested. 

The Single-Serving Life

Simple ideas for enjoying life on your own.

Final Resting Place

On December 15, 2025, my children and I laid Bill to rest. We gathered for a simple military service at the Houston Veterans Memorial, where his urn now rests in the memorial wall. There was comfort in the simplicity, and gratitude for a moment of stillness after a long journey.

Posting just for the beautiful memories . . .

I love flowers. They brighten my day, lift my spirits, and give me that peaceful feeling of walking in nature. During my bereavement, I was gifted these beautiful bouquets. I'm posting them here simply to remember how they made my days a little brighter. 

The Delay in Survivor Benefits—and Why It Matters

I’m writing this to encourage future widows and widowers of modest means, like myself, to prepare ahead for the financial realities that follow the death of a spouse. Even if you and your partner currently have similar incomes, losing just one household check creates a sudden shift in lifestyle.

In our case, we had two Social Security checks; his was larger than mine. He also had two pensions. As his widow, I’ll receive his Social Security instead of my own (because mine was smaller) and a portion of his pensions. On paper, that may not sound too alarming. But here’s the part I didn’t fully understand until it happened: the transition is not immediate.

Within days of his death, all of his income stopped. Every penny. Gone.

The only money coming into my account was my small Social Security check. Yes, I will eventually receive his benefits and pensions, but “eventually” is the key word. As the surviving spouse, I am the one who has to file every form, make every phone call, and then wait while agencies “make a decision.” Phone call wait times range from a few minutes to a few hours. Appointment availability runs from weeks to months. And once everything is finally submitted, you may still wait 30–60 days for the new payments to begin. Back pay will come, but you still have to live in the meantime.

And the surprises didn't stop there. In the process of handling these transitions, I contacted our auto/home insurance company. Because the policy was in his name, I was required to apply for my own. My premium is now $100 more per month — even though nothing about my driving or living conditions changed! I even lost the safe-driver discount I earned because technically it was credited under his policy, not mine. Just like that, the $200 discount vanished.

Fortunately, my medical insurance was not affected, but that may not be true for everyone. It’s worth verifying before you’re forced to navigate a similar scenario.

Thankfully, over the past few years, I intentionally restructured our finances so we were not living on our full household income; and I built a savings cushion for “someday,” not knowing how soon that day would arrive. It required real trade-offs: moving to less expensive housing, giving up certain comforts, and living within a budget. The effort made all the difference. Without it, this transition would have been far more difficult.

I’m sharing this because many of us don't realize there can be a delay in receiving survivor benefits. For those living paycheck to paycheck, that gap can be especially difficult. And for anyone who has never tested life on one income, now is the time to see what that would look like. Build an emergency fund if you can. Practice living on one-income. Your future self will thank you.

And while you’re tending to financial things, please consider meeting with an elder-care attorney. Update your wills, medical and financial powers of attorney, beneficiary designations, and funeral plans. Having these documents in place made the difference between chaos and clarity for me. Without them, the early days after my husband’s death would have been far more difficult. (A friend of mine mentioned - make sure you have each other's passwords. And get at least 10 death certificates - she had to use one 17 years after her spouse's death!)

Do yourself a kindness: take care of these things now.

A Day of Progress (and Tomato Basil Soup)

On Tuesday, I finally received the death certificates I needed to start tackling the next round of paperwork. At 4:30 p.m., I called Social Security to apply for spouse death benefits—only to discover the wait time was going to be two hours. Absolutely not. So, I decided to try again first thing Wednesday morning.

At 7:59 a.m., I called back and got right in! It took about 30 minutes to complete everything over the phone, and I felt relieved… until the representative told me I would still need to bring a death certificate to the office in person.

“Can’t I do it online somehow?” I asked.

Nope. Not possible. So she booked the earliest appointment available anywhere in the Houston area: January 17th. Almost five weeks away. UGH. She mentioned I could try going to the League City office without an appointment and hope for the best.

I hung up the phone, grabbed my keys, and drove straight there.

I arrived at 9:07 a.m. and—miracle of miracles—there were hardly any people waiting. I was in and out within ten minutes! What a relief to have that part done.

On the way home, I stopped to do some Christmas shopping for my grandpets at the local pet shop. Wow… dog food is expensive. I’m glad my new dog, Poochini, doesn’t eat much – LOL! 

Once home, I uploaded my documents to the VA and began my applications for Surviving Spouse benefits and funeral reimbursement. That wrapped up yesterday’s paperwork—today’s stack awaits.

Next, I treated myself to lunch with a friend and played Canasta at OLLI, which was a much-needed break from the paperwork grind.

Later in the afternoon, a package arrived—a gift from dear friends who are also walking through Alzheimer’s in their own family. Their thoughtfulness really touched me. It was a Spoonful of Comfort box, filled with two large containers of Tomato Basil soup, six cookies, several dinner rolls, and even a ladle. What a beautiful idea. I want to remember this as it brought such comfort at just the right moment.

Of course, I ate a cookie first—it was delicious! The soup and rolls made the perfect dinner.

Today’s plan: more paperwork, Canasta at OLLI, and a bit of writing. Slowly but surely, I’m getting things done. 

 

Shelly was the strong one today. . .

Today we picked up Bill’s urn. I say we because I had to call Shelly to help me — I couldn’t get myself there on my own. The moment they brought the urn out, I lost it. I wasn’t functioning. Shelly stepped in automatically, talking to the funeral staff, taking the instructions for the flag, handling the paperwork for the Houston Veterans Memorial.

And me?
I just kept writing the check. That’s all I did. While she was being the adult in the room, I sat there crying and signing my name like it was the only thing I was capable of.

When it was time to leave, she carried the urn. I cried the entire way home.

Back at the apartment, she said she’d keep the urn, the flag, and the paperwork until Monday. I agreed without thinking. She stayed with me until I calmed down, and then she left — still carrying everything I should have been taking responsibility for.

And here’s the part I hate to admit. I’m relieved she has it all. Relieved to the point where I didn’t even stop to think about the weight I was putting on her until after she left. 

But I’m also deeply grateful. She stepped in without a word, without making me feel worse, without asking for anything. She just did what needed to be done.

Today, I couldn’t be strong. Shelly was — and I’m thankful for her in a way I can hardly put into words. 

Surprise! What I Didn't Expect After the Passing of My Husband

I thought I had prepared for this. Bill had been declining for years, and I had slowly adjusted to the ongoing grief that comes with watching someone you love fade. I knew he was suffering, and part of me was ready for him to have peace. When he passed, I felt relief—briefly. Two days later, the real grief arrived.

I didn’t expect how sad I would be. Every time I see his photo or think about the life we had, I cry. I miss the old Bill. I miss having a “person”—someone who loved me, supported me, and enjoyed the simple routines of life with me. I miss hearing, “That was delicious,” when I fixed his favorite meal or “You look nice” when I dressed up for him. Those were constants in the early years. The last few years were different, but now that he’s gone, I can only seem to remember the good ones, and that brings its own sadness.

I also didn’t expect how quickly my income would drop. I knew it would happen, but the speed was shocking. Social Security immediately stopped his benefit. The VA disability pension was deposited and then immediately withdrawn. One of his pensions stayed only because it was the end of the month; a week later, that too was reduced. I will eventually receive his Social Security and, most likely, a smaller VA surviving spouse benefit, but nothing can even be applied for until the death certificates arrive. How long will that take? Who know? Fortunately, I had saved his VA money, so I’m prepared for the short-term gap. But I wonder how many widows and widowers know how fast these financial changes hit.

We aren’t having a service, and I’m not part of a church or work community. There is no gathering where people line up to hug you, no casserole deliveries, no flowers sent to a funeral home. What I didn’t expect was how comfort would show up anyway, just from different places. Quiet walks around town. Flowers from my daughter’s friend. A sympathy card from someone I hadn’t heard from in years. Laughing with friends at Dickens on the Strand. Simple meals with my kids.

And then there’s Poochini—the animated dog I brought home from the VA. He barks, wags his tail, and greets me whenever I walk into the apartment. Odd as it sounds, there is comfort in that kind of steady presence.

I’ve also been surprised at how quickly I’ve slipped into rebuilding mode. I’m making plans, seeing friends, organizing my finances, and exploring new business ideas. I expected to be immobilized by grief for months, but instead I’m already taking steps forward. I didn’t anticipate that.

What I’ve learned is that loss rarely looks the way you think it will. And that’s what I didn’t expect.

More Changes. . .

While completing VA paperwork yesterday, I reached the line that asked for the dates of my marriage to Bill—start and end. Seeing those two words side by side hit me hard. It made me realize, in a very official way, that my marriage ended the day Bill died. I don’t think that reality had fully landed until I typed those numbers into the boxes.

That realization didn’t leave me unchanged. This morning, I changed my Facebook profile to “Widowed,” and I took off my wedding rings. Some of my readers may think I’m callous for doing this so soon; but the truth is, I’ve been a widow for many years. Those who understand dementia know that goodbye happens long before death. 

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Bill was the perfect husband for me. He gave me a very good life and two children who are the best part of it. We had good years together, as well as difficult ones. In fact, as of December 26, we would have been married for 55 years; and I will always be grateful for the time we had together.

I did everything I could to make Bill’s last years as comfortable as possible. He deserved that. But they were incredibly difficult years, and they took a toll on me. I’m approaching 76 now, and I want to reclaim some of the life that was put on hold while I cared for him. I know he would want that for me – just as I would want it for him if our roles had been reversed.

I tried wearing the rings on my right hand, but they don’t fit. Maybe, in time, I’ll have the engagement ring re-set into something new. For now, it’s tucked away safely, along with all the memories we shared. Bill will never be forgotten, but it’s time for me to move forward. 

My new therapy pet . . .Poochini

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. 

Here's the link to the Joy for All Companion website. Also a link to a link to the Alzheimer's store where you can get a discount. Also my link to Amazon where I will receive an Amazon referral fee. (Thank you if you choose this!)

The Long Goodbye is Over

 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.

Make it stop . . .

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. 

Morning Inspiration

 This inspiration came at just the right time. Today, I've been told by my Anchor Hospice social worker that I should preplan Bill's funeral (and mine!). UGH! Getting old is the pits! Of course, as my father-in-law used to say, "Consider the alternative!"

So, I went on the Malloy Funeral Home website hoping I could it all online. Nope, might have to go in. Not my favorite thing to do! I am not good with funerals or funeral homes. A new thing to stretch Cindy Downes. . .

I called the funeral home and got someone who didn't know what to do. So, I get to postpone it to tomorrow!

UPDATE: I met with Tiffany on Wednesday and made the funeral arrangements for both Bill and me. It wasn’t nearly as difficult as I expected. Tiffany immediately put me at ease and gave me all the information I needed—and then some. I actually walked out of the mortuary in a surprisingly good mood.

Bill will be interred at the Houston Veterans Memorial in Houston, Texas, with a full veteran’s ceremony, including taps and a flag presentation. It’s exactly what he would have wanted.

Since Shelly is the “keeper of the ashes” in our family, I gave her a choice about what to do with mine. I could go with Bill to the Veterans Memorial, or I could be turned into “memorial stones.” She loved that idea, and so do I. She’ll be able to place them in her garden. I only wish I could have had stones from my mom—they’re truly beautiful.

One more task checked off the list.

The Next Stage - Hospice Care

Today, I made the decision to place Bill under hospice care. He has declined much faster during these last six months; and now, he is in the last stages of dementia. My goal is to ensure that he remains as comfortable and free from pain as possible during this last transition. The VA uses Anchor Hospice. They were gracious, informative, and took the time to answer all my questions. So far, I am very happy with them.

This has been one of the hardest decisions of my life, even though I know it’s the right one. I was happy to learn that Medicare pays for hospice. What a blessing that is!

I appreciate your good thoughts and understanding as I navigate this next chapter.

Caregiving - PBS Documentary

Everyone in the United States should watch this video from PBS. As it says, there are four kinds of people in the world:

Those who have been caregivers.
Those who currently are caregivers.
Those who will be caregivers
And those who need caregiving.

This film documents the history of caregiving in the United States and reveals the state and the stakes of care in America today. Please share.

https://www.pbs.org/video/caregiving/

Gratitude Journaling

I got up this morning with the realization that, in spite of my difficulties, I am a very blessed person. So, I decided it was time to write another gratitude blog. Here goes:

I get to live in a beautiful apartment that's perfect for me. First, there's a kitchen filled with everything I need for my experiments in the culinary arts.  I have appliances for every application and spices of every kind. I can grind my own wheat, bake my own bread, make a simple, grilled cheese sandwich, or prepare an international feast from scratch - Indian, French, or my current favorite, Mediterranean. 

I have a craft room where I can practice my art - whether it's making birthday cards, sublimating mugs, or creating 3-D pictures of turtles and flowers. I can work alone or with my very special "crafty chicks," a gathering I look forward to every month.

A Roland piano sits my main living area where I see it every day, a reminder that music is always within reach to soothe my soul. I sit down two or three times a day, learning to play just a bit better than the day before. 

My bedroom is a work in progress, decorated in purple and rose – colors that make me feel peaceful and provide a safe space to rest. Butterflies float on the walls, around pictures of outdoor scenery and signs that read: "Accept what is," "Let go of what was," Have faith in what will be," and "Believe in yourself." These remind me of my Stoic philosophy to live each day as it comes. 

I have storage, too - enough for both my "treasures" and my hurricane supplies!  In fact, my closet is so spacious I'm about to set up my sewing machine and serger inside to make sewing more convenient. I put these tools away several years ago because I have no one to sew for, but maybe I can use them now to sew children's clothes for someone else as way to give back.

Finally, I have a pool – four feet of cool, clear, blue water where I can swim my 20 minutes of laps each day to stay fit and "trim." Well, trimmer! LOL! 

In addition to having this perfect-for-me place to live, I have wonderful people in my life. I have two, very special children who take good care of their "mama" making sure I don't go off the deep end! They help me with hard decisions and remind me to take care of myself as well as Bill.

I have friends and relatives who make life exciting with fun "adventures." We share meals at fine dining spots, quirky Hobbit-like cafes, and local diners. We visit museums, attend plays,  and go to the symphony. We play Canasta, Cribbage, and Swoop, challenging each other to keep our memories sharp. We explore unique places, near and far – sometimes even lying on the floor, mesmerized by dazzling lights. And best of all, they put up with my idiosyncrasies and listen when I need to process the emotional roller coaster of Bill being in memory care.

What else could a person want? I am truly blessed. 

An Emotional Day

What a day. So many emotions – happiness, sadness, anger, gratefulness - all crammed into one day. 

The happiness was seeing my son, Wil, and his new dog, Freya, a white husky. Spending the last few days with them was a welcome distraction from losing Oreo.

Today brought the sadness. Wil, headed back to Austin, stopping at the VA so we could visit Bill together. I brought Bill outside to meet Freya. On the way, Bill said, I'm going to see "Oreo." I didn’t correct him-it would have been too upsetting. He was already agitated.

Outside, he recognized Wil right away but was frightened by Freya. Our visit was short; Bill wanted to go back to the safety of his pod. Inside, he grew more anxious, repeating, "help me, help me," over and over, with an occasional "I love you" thrown in as well. In his hallway, he kept saying, "help me hallway, we're back in my hallway, my hallway, help me." It's so hard to hear the confusion in his mind. 

Back in his pod, one of the other residents began shouting at Bill to stop it, even threatening him. At that point, I took Bill and went to find his aide before a fight broke out. I finally spotted her by the nurses' station limping and holding her hip as if she was in pain. She was in the process of taking a medication of some sort. Now, I was angry. "How can she take care of these patients when she's in pain? How can she help get Bill in and out of the Hoya lift or move him around on the bed to change him? Why isn't she at home healing while a capable aide takes her place?" I understand that she may not have sick time, but that doesn't help my husband. 

We finally got Bill settled, and I went to find the head nurse. I discussed the issue and she assured me the problem would be addressed. I left as there was nothing else I could do. 

Generally, I find the care at the VA very good. This was a definite outlier and it makes it hard to leave Bill knowing things like this happen. But what can I do? 

My gratefulness is for a Trader Joe staff member. I stop there occasionally when I'm in Houston because I love Trader Joes! As the staff member packed my freezer bag for me, we chatted about Galveston and Bill. When she finished checking me out, she asked, "What is your favorite color?" I told her purple. She insisted I wait at the register and left. Shortly, she returned with two beautiful bouquets of purple-pink flowers all neatly packed in a bucket with water and wrapped in two paper bags. It was a lovely gesture!

 I'm so grateful for the kind people in my life. It makes all the other emotions less painful.