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. . . 

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. 

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. 

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.

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. 

 

 

Oreo, My Companion is Gone

 My heart is broken. My sweet companion, Oreo, the one who stood by me through this struggle with Bill—is gone.

I came home from the airport and found her unresponsive, dehydrated, and with severe weight loss. She hadn’t been eating well before I left, but I blamed it on the food issue. She had always been fragile since she was a pup, needing special diets to stay well. Then, in the summer of 2024, we discovered a vegetarian food that she gave her new life. It was like a miracle—suddenly she was healthy, perky, and ready to walk with me again. We were enjoying life together, and I was elated.

But this summer, the company stopped making that food. “Not enough demand,” they said. I tried every other vegetarian brand I could find. I even experimented with making her food myself, desperate to find something she could eat without getting sick. Nothing really worked that she would eat. By the time I left for vacation, she was already picking at her food. I had stocked up on dry food from the original brand and saved three cans of the wet, thinking, When I get back, I’ll figure this out. She’s just being finicky.

But she wasn’t. She was dying. Her kidneys and pancreas were failing, and I didn’t know. I left her when she needed me most. How could I have left her?

The moment I stepped into my apartment, I knew something was wrong. I rushed her to the vet, but it was too late. I had to let her go. Shelly came to help me through it. I stayed with Oreo until she drifted to sleep, and then Shelly stayed for the rest. I just couldn’t.

This morning, I gathered her things. Some went into the closet. Some I’ll take to the humane society. I couldn’t give it all away—not yet. Part of me still hopes I’ll hear her paws on the floor, coming back from using the doggie pee pad in the bathroom.

I knew this day would come, but I didn’t think it would come so soon. Oreo was my comfort in this lonely apartment. When I came home crying about Bill, she would curl up next to me, letting me pet her until the tears stopped. She was my cozy companion, always there and never complaining.

Seeing Oreo so thin and unresponsive brought back the conversation the nurses had with me a couple of months ago about the end stage of Alzheimer's. Apparently, if nothing else takes him first (heart etc.), Bill will eventually starve himself to death. Hospice will keep him "comfortable" with morphine and other medications, but what a terrible way to go. How will I survive that? How can I sit by week after week, watching him waste away and be powerless to stop it? The truth is, I have no choice. 

For now, I have to put those thoughts aside. I can't do anything about that.

Instead, I'll run some errands - drop off Oreo's food and medicine at the humane society, then drive up to Houston to visit Bill, if I can pull myself together. Hopefully, he's having a good day. On the way back, I'll pick up groceries.

Then I’ll return home to the silence. It's a sad, sad day. . . 

The New Wheelchair

I was supposed to visit Bill yesterday, but the heavy rain kept me home. So, I went today instead. I’d been anxious to see his new wheelchair since the VA called to let me know it had arrived and that Bill was already using it.

This wheelchair is the Mercedes-Benz of wheelchairs! It has everything he needs including a comfy, padded seat, custom made to fit Bill's large frame, a padded headrest, and even shock absorbers of some kind for a smooth ride. 

I was able to wheel Bill around again, something I haven’t been able to do for quite some time because of his feet. One foot had locked up behind him which made it extremely difficult for the anyone to push him around. The locked-up foot hung behind and under the chair, causing Bill a lot of pain when he had to be moved. But now, his poor feet, which were so twisted and uncomfortable, are now gently straightened out again thanks to the custom footrests on this new chair. 

He seemed so much more at ease today—no repeated “help me, help me.” Maybe he was trying to tell us something all along, and we just didn’t realize how much he was hurting from sitting in that chair. He actually looked better than I've seen him in months. He even smiled once and spoke a few more words than usual. I don’t think he knew who I was, but that smile? It was golden.

He’s having more trouble eating now and needs help feeding himself. They’re pulverizing his pills and spooning them in with some kind of pudding. I brought him his favorite Coke, but he only drank two sips. That was unusual for him. He used to love a Coke. 

After I wheeled him around the complex for a while, he asked to "go home." I took him back to the Memory Care unit where they served snacks and tried to involve the residents in activities. Bill ate some Fig Newtons but wasn't interested in participating in the activities. Finally, he drifted off to sleep, and I left.  

All in all, it was a great visit. That new wheelchair is a game-changer, and I am SO THANKFUL to the VA for providing it. I can’t imagine how much it cost, but even the nurses said it was worth every penny to see Bill so much more comfortable. 

After I left Bill, I was so happy I decided to treat myself to an adventure. I went to lunch at the Hobbit Café in Houston – what fun! A friendly customer who eats there all the time gave me the "low down" and took my picture! For lunch, I had Rohan Chicken Enchiladas. I didn’t realize it when eating it, but it had some heat. So, I had to get the Carrot Cake for dessert to cool off my tummy! (I ended up taking it home – too much food!) If you've never been to the Hobbit Care, you need to go. It's a fun adventure and very popular. By time I left, the parking lot was full. 

 

After that, I went to Trader Joes. I wanted to eat first so I wouldn't buy everything in the store! I love that place. They have so many unusual goodies. Today, I bought Indian Style Flatbread, Fiberful Granola Bars, Soft and Juicy Mango slices, a huge box of strawberries, and some beautiful Shitaki mushrooms. I also got Shelly some of their delicious corn and chili salsa. 

After I got home and unloaded my groceries, I grabbed up Oreo, and we delivered the salsa to Shelly. We had a nice visit – all five of us (Shelly, me, Oreo, and her two cats: Samwise Winchester Downes and Lady Galadriel Skywalker Downes). Shelly always has had elaborate names for her cats but ends up calling them many other names over their lifetime! Currently, they get called Sammy and Moppet. 

A very nice day. . . I think I'll sleep peaceful tonight. 

Numb? Angry?

Today, I feel numb. 

Bill is getting less and less communicative and more and more distressed. Today was almost scary. He doesn't know how to tell us what's wrong. In fact, when asked, he says he's not even sure what is wrong. But he keeps screaming "help me, help me." Eventually, I finally figured out he wanted to lie down. He cannot move himself anymore, so I called the nurse in. She came with two others to help get him into bed. That was a feat! 

The Hoya lift hurts him and in the midst of the transfer he started striking out, hitting one of the nurses twice in the face. He also began cursing which is so unlike him. Then he would say, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." 

He knew what he was doing was wrong but didn't know how to stop himself. I ended up grabbing his hands to keep everyone safe while they finished getting him into bed. They gave him something for pain, and eventually, he settled into sleep. 

I did cry today, more than I wanted to, but I also feel numb. I feel frustrated that I can't alleviate his suffering. Watching him cry out in pain and distress like that makes me angry too. Why can't we do more? Why don't we do more? We treat our animals with more dignity than we do our loved ones. This should not be. I feel so helpless. . . and with no answers. 

FDA Approves Blood Test to Help Diagnose Alzheimer's - May, 2025

Doctors say the test could help individuals who are experiencing symptoms get an earlier diagnosis 

For Information: https://www.aarp.org/health/conditions-treatments/fda-approves-alzheimers-blood-test.html?cmp=EMC-DSM-NLC-OTH-DLY-247401-320001-9283256-NA-05202025-TheDaily-MS2-NA-BTN-CLKBT_A-Health&encparam=3z218eR1rOT9wyj5i3uObA==

A Special Day with My Two Williams!

Today was a very good day. Hooray for May! 

I drove to Houston today to visit Bill. Our son, Wil, was there, too, as he'd made the trip from Austin, yesterday, to see his dad. He is staying in Houston for a few days so he can visit his dad more than once. That made the day even more special – I got to see both of my Williams at once! 

When we arrived, Bill was fast asleep. It took some coaxing to get him fully awake, but the promise of a strawberry filled donut did the trick! Once he was awake, Wil gave him a shave, and I gave him a haircut.

They were having a Cinco de Mayo celebration in the Canteen today (on the Assisted Living side of the care home), so one of the nurses invited us to join. Bill had a good time! Someone handed him a maraca to use, and he loved it! For the next 30 minutes, he shook that maraca and smiled like a little kid with a new toy! 

It was such a gift to see him relaxed, peaceful, and having fun. Today was definitely a good visit. 

Afterwards, Wil and I went to eat a a delicious restaurant in Houston called, Postino's. What a treat that was! Look at this delicious food we had! 

Chicken and Beef with Tahini

Beef Panini and Onion Soup

And finally, more good news! The VA called with an update on the wheelchair. Instead of having to transport Bill back to the VA hospital (a major ordeal), they're sending the wheelchair vendor to him at Richard Anderson. That is such a relief! 

We're getting closer to having a new wheelchair. I just have to wait for the vendor to call to schedule an appointment for me to meet them at Bill's memory care facility. Fingers crossed that it won't be long. 

Yes, this was a good day! 

Shelly to the Rescue! A Day at the VA

Wow, what a day! 

Background: 

Last week, Bill's care team and I agreed he needed a new wheelchair. Since he's a vet, the VA will provide one, but there were hoops to jump through. To qualify, Bill had to be seen by a Primary Care physician at the Michael DeBakey VA Hospital in Houston. Because I can no longer transport him myself, his caregivers at Richard Anderson Veterans Home (RA) arranged the transportation. 

Thankfully, since Bill had been seen at the Galveston VA within the past three years, we didn't have to go through the process of getting him admitted. However, we had to transfer him to the Houston facility so that I could use RA transportation. The process involved contacted VA to make the transfer. It took three phone calls and two days, but I got it done and asked for an appointment. When they said I could have an appoint "next week," I was flabbergasted and took it, not thinking about the fact it was 1:30 in the afternoon. 

The Appointment: 

I knew it would be a challenging day, so I asked my daughter, Shelly, to come with me. Despite a crushing schedule - writing three graduate papers, teaching five classes, supervising adjuncts, and conducting meetings, she said yes.

At first, things went surprisingly well. Bill was calm, more at ease than I'd seen him in weeks. He enjoyed the ride and being outside. Though he didn't quite recognize Shelly, there were flickers of moments when he seemed to realize she was his daughter. He forgot my name but knew I was his wife. For much of the day, I think he thought Shelly and I were part of the RA team.

The RA transport dropped us off at DeBakey and we located the Primary Care office without any problems. That appointment lasted an hour and a half. It was now 3:00 p.m. 

Next, the doctor sent us on a VA scavenger hunt:

• To the social worker to drop off paperwork

• To Physical Therapy to schedule the wheelchair evaluation

• Then to the lab for bloodwork

By 4:00 p.m., Bill was getting restless and agitated. I called RA for a ride back and we waited outside.

The Meltdown:

While we waited, Bill slipped into full Sundowning mode – agitated, confused, and frightened. He tried to undress, yelled for help, and attempted to get out of his wheelchair. Shelly and I tried to distract him and calm him down, but nothing worked. We waited 40 extremely long minutes. 

The Ride Back:

Once on the van, things escalated. Bill became even more frightened and violent, his eyes wild with panic. He was lost in a terrifying world – yelling about saving the kids and keeping them off the street. His car had been stolen, and the parts were hidden in the trees somewhere. Crazy drivers were going to hit us. His days as a police officer came flooding back in a nightmare-like haze. He was convinced that we were all in danger and he couldn’t protect us.

We worried he might lash out at the other veteran on the van, also in a wheelchair and locked in. Then, Shelly realized he was trying to pray; so, she went into "preacher" mode and began guiding him in prayer. For the next 30 minutes, she had him praising Jesus and asking for his protection. Her calm voice cut through his fear, and slowly, his violent edge softened. It was still touch and go the whole trip, but her steady presence made all the difference.

I called ahead to RA so someone could meet us at the door. I knew it was going to be difficult getting him off the van. Sure enough, he locked his arms to avoid being put on the lift and began screaming, "You're going to drop the children. Stop, stop! Don’t drop the children."  

Four of us managed to coax him down the lift and out of the van. The RA nurse, Valerie, stepped in to take charge. She's so good with him. I've seen her magic before. We left Bill in her capable hands and drove home - shaken and exhausted. 

What I learned: 

Never schedule late appointments again! I should have remembered Bill's worst times are in the afternoon when Sundowning takes hold. Being in unfamiliar surroundings and exhaustion sets his brain on fire. 

To him, the danger was real. His world is a mixture of his past, the unknowns of the present, and the demons of the Alzheimer's disease itself. He felt helpless because he couldn't protect himself or get us to understand the danger. I cannot imagine the terror going through in his mind. 

We'll have to return once more to have him evaluated and measured for the wheelchair. I will insist on the earliest appointment possible! If it weren't critical that he have a better wheelchair, I wouldn't take him back at all. But he does; and, unfortunately, they won't come to him. 

Thank You, Shelly:

I don't know how I would've managed without her. She not only helped calm Bill, but she also made sure I heard what the doctor was saying (my ears are stuffed up from my recent illness) and took notes on what we had to do next. She's my hero! 

It was a long hard day, but having my daughter there was a huge comfort and a lifeline. It makes me realize how blessed I am. Many caregivers have no one to help them and no VA to help pay for the care. I pray that our legislators will someday soon find a way to help these folks. In the meantime, if you know someone going through this, reach out and give them a big hug today. Sometimes, just knowing people care can get you through the day. 

NOTE: 

Please do NOT use this experience as a reason to comment here and tell me how wonderful god is for helping us get through this day. I'm not interested in a god who allows someone like Bill, who actually believes in and love god, to go through such a horrible disease. Prayer was only a technique to help Bill get through his horrible day. Please keep your religion to yourself, and thank you for respecting my wishes. 

Ref: What is Sundowning? 

 

PT for Bill - A Good Visit

Today, my visit to Bill included watching him get his PT. They are trying to keep him mobile and make him more comfortable at the same time. He's leaning to the left and hunching which is hurting his back, hips and legs. First, they made him do some arm work. He is, and has always been, good at arm work. 

Then, on to the legs, which are his biggest challenge. The therapist did some stretching of his legs first. I was very impressed with her technique and kindness. He continues to yell, "Help me, help me, oh please help me." throughout the day, including during PT. When they ask him questions, he answers appropriately; then goes back to his "recording." 

It was decided that they need to place some cushions under his butt and next to his left side to position him better in his chair. That was a feat! It took three ladies almost 20 minutes to get it done, but they did. They calmly talked him through each step as he repeated, "help me, help me" over and over again. Again, I was impressed with their ability to handle him. They were firm, but kind as they "encouraged" him to do what needed to be done. 

By the time we got back to the memory care unit, he was exhausted. He immediately fell asleep in his chair. I waited awhile, hoping he'd wake up; but no, he's was out for the count. I finally left, grateful that he was comfortable, at least for the moment.

All in all, it was a good visit. I was able to observe how the PT staff work—not just with Bill, but with other patients too. Their professionalism and kindness stood out. 

We also discussed trying to get the VA to provide him with a custom wheel chair. That’s my next goal. Navigating the VA system isn’t easy, but I’m determined to try again. 

Interestingly, this is a VA Memory Care facility (Richard A Anderson Texas State Veteran's Home), but it's been privatized. And, the company that runs it and the VA don't communicate! So, I’ll need to make Bill an appointment at the Michael DeBakey VA hospital, where VA doctors can evaluate what kind of wheelchair he qualifies for. The RA Anderson Home will provide the transportation; I just need to meet him there.

So, here's to keeping my fingers crossed that it won't take an act of congress to get what we need!  

Distractions from a scary world. . .

Today's visit to Bill was better in that I knew what to expect and I'm learning how use distractions to deal with it.

Bill's in a new phase of this disease where he can express himself for a short bit; then he starts cycling through with the same phrase, over and over again. "Help me, help me, oh please help me."

After making sure he was OK, I decided to try distracting him. I asked him if he would like to go on a vacation. He smiled his big "cheesy" smile and his eyes lit up like a child's at Christmas. So, we began to talk about our vacation. We're going to go to the Redwoods in California and take many magnificent photos. "No, I won't forget to pack up your cameras for the trip," I assure him when he asks. 

We'll walk arm-in-arm straight through the middle of one of those gigantic Redwood trees just like we've seen in pictures! 

Then, we start talking about flying to Hawaii to take that honeymoon we never took. We talk about the mountains we'll have to cross to get there, the plane ride over the ocean, and the fact that his mother graduated college in Hawaii. 

Our little "fairy tale" vacation kept him occupied for quite a while; then it was back to "help me, help me, please help me." But I was happy. Bill had a few moments of pleasure, even if it wasn't real. But then, what is real to Bill right now?

After our visit, I had a meeting with his medical team. It was a productive meeting. They answered all my questions; we discussed hospice, palliative care, and a new plan for his pain treatment. They are now adding regular pain meds throughout the day and before he goes to bed. At this time, he does not need hospice or palliative care. He is still eating, hasn't lost any weight, and has no major health issues. The VA does everything that hospice or palliative care would do at this stage of Bill's illness. My main goal was to make Bill more comfortable, so I feel that we accomplished that.

The hardest part about the meeting was when I asked them about the repetitive "help me help me." They assured me that this behavior is one of those things that happens to some Alzheimer's patients as they get closer to the end. Some scream, some whistle, some repeat phrases. And, as one of the nurses reminded me, "It's only going to get worse." My mind heard that, but pushed it aside.

I came home and crashed on my bed thinking about how Bill's face lit up when talking about the vacation he will never get. Then, I remembered what the nurse said - that it was only going to get worse. "How will I get through this?"

I reached out to my two friends, Bev and Carol. They let me cry til I had no more tears to cry. Then, they distracted me with a crazy personality test where I "discovered" I was bossy, judgmental, and an extrovert. It made me laugh and my eyes lit up, just like Bill's.

Just as my friends distracted me from the scary thought of watching Bill as he deteriorates, I must distract Bill from the very scary world he's living in. 

On my next visit, perhaps we'll go on a cruise to Alaska or take a road trip to Montana. We've never been there. . .

Downsizing-A Memoir

Recently, I was invited to teach a class on downsizing at OLLI. My first reaction was, "What do I know about downsizing?" Many OLLI members own multiple properties, expensive antiques, and have well-established networks for passing things along. Me? I’m a middle-class woman with everyday stuff. I have no grandchildren, and most of the possessions I have, my children do not want.

Then, I began reflecting on all the downsizing I’ve done over the years. I’ve moved from a large home to a small ranch, eventually selling everything we owned to live in a 33-foot motorhome. I transitioned from a 3,000-square-foot house—where we lived for more than twenty years—into independent living, then later from a spacious apartment to a very tiny one. I’ve held my own estate sale, cleared out my in-laws’ century-old Victorian home, and sent its contents to auction. Along the way, I’ve stored belongings, passed some to relatives, donated much to charity, and sold the rest.

Maybe I do know a little bit about downsizing...

My first real downsizing adventure began in the 1980s when my husband, Bill, took an early retirement to pursue a master’s degree in photojournalism. At the time, we lived in a beautiful custom-built, two-story brick home on an acre lot in Delaware—about 2,800 square feet. 

Our dream home being built. the one in middle.

Christmas in our Delaware home.

Moving to a three-bedroom ranch in Virginia Beach, half the size, required shedding a significant amount of our belongings. We stored some of our nicer things at my in-laws’ and gave away what we couldn’t take. Other than the sadness of leaving my dream home for a rental, it wasn’t a difficult move.

Three months later, everything changed. Bill’s father passed away, leaving my mother-in-law, Marilyn, completely unprepared for independent living. Her husband had managed all the finances, done all the driving, and taken care of the shopping and cooking. So, with two kids in tow, I moved in with her while Bill remained in Virginia Beach to finish his degree. Every weekend, the kids and I made the 17-mile trek across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge and tunnels for visits.

Our 33' motorhome parked at a friend's house.

What was supposed to be a short stay stretched into months. Eventually, we cleared out the rental, sold or gave away much of our belongings, and moved Bill into a 33-foot motorhome while the kids and I stayed in Delaware.

Perhaps motivated by the fact that there were now two bosses in the house—or more likely, the presence of my two energetic children who discovered the bomb shelter in her basement, loved exploring her antiques, and encountered a nude sunbather in her backyard—Marilyn eventually gained her independence. The kids and I were headed back to Virginia Beach.

“How are we going to fit in the motorhome?” my pragmatic son, Wil, asked.

“We’ll find a way,” I said, with more confidence than I felt. “It will be an adventure.”

Truer words were never spoken. Our adventures were many, including burying a cat under the Yonkers Raceway, getting stopped for speeding in the middle of the Buffalo Mall, and avoiding a drug bust in Canada—but those stories will have to wait for another day.

Shelly, Wil, and Bill "dining" in the motorhome.

Bill studying for his Masters Degree

After Bill’s graduation, we moved to Pennsylvania, where he took a job at Teen Challenge, a farm that provided job training for former drug addicts. The organization offered staff housing, but “housing” was a generous term. Our home was a dilapidated trailer with crumbling wood paneling, worn-out appliances, and the constant aroma of cow manure.

Wil, my keyboard player, asked where he should set up. “Easy, just stick it in the closet and swing open the bifold doors when you’re ready to play,” I replied. I had bigger problems to worry about, like dodging the rotted hole in the middle of the hallway, cooking on a stove so rusted it belonged in a museum, and greeting the occasional 6’5, 350-pound ex-con dropping by to ask for my husband. We were doing “God’s will,” so I powered on.

During our time in Pennsylvania, Bill’s mother passed away, and we returned to settle her estate. Her Victorian home was packed to the rafters with antiques, newspapers, and the aforesaid bomb shelter full of rusted canned goods that were now leaking all over the floor. It took an entire dump truck just to clear out the trash. We kept what we could and sent the rest to auction.

The Downes family home.

In 1991, Bill accepted a position at a large church in Tulsa, Oklahoma, where he could use his photojournalism and computer skills. Real estate was affordable, so we purchased a nice, 3,000 square foot home in Broken Arrow. We spent the next twenty years filling it with furniture, books, and the many other treasures that accumulate during married life.

My porch backed up to a lush greenbelt in Oklahoma.
Deer, raccoons, beavers, and other wild creatures were constant visitors. 

Then, in 2008, Bill’s health began to decline. He mysteriously lost vision in one eye, then the other, a precursor to his Alzheimer’s. He was forced to quit work, so I returned to college, finished my degree, and took a teaching job.

By 2014, I was handling everything—working, driving, cooking, cleaning, yard work, finances, and caregiving. Exhausted, I decided to downsize from our 3,000-square-foot home to a 1,200-square-foot cottage in an independent living community. With the help of friends, I organized an estate sale, raising $8,000 to help with our new medical expenses.

Oreo enjoyed chasing squirrels at our Independent Living cottage.

Independent living was supposed to lighten my load, but Bill’s struggles intensified. The man who once graduated magna cum laude was no longer able to operate his iPhone, a TV remote, or even a washing machine. It was time for me to stay home and care for him full time. Without the extra income, we had to move again—this time into a two-bedroom apartment.

The VA diagnosed him with memory loss in 2019, and by 2020, I was breaking under the strain. My children insisted we move to Galveston to be near my daughter, Shelly. That move, in the midst of COVID and with Bill’s full-blown Alzheimer’s, was one of the hardest. But no downsizing that time—just survival.

The real reckoning came in 2022 when Bill needed nursing home care. I couldn’t afford both his medical expenses and our apartment, so I sold nearly everything we owned on Facebook—keeping only what would fit into a 725-square-foot space. This was the most challenging downsize I had ever faced, both practically and emotionally. I lived there for two years.

Living room, dining room, kitchen, craft room: All in one! 

Eventually, I secured Bill his VA benefits, so he’s now in a Veteran’s home with memory care. With our income freed up, I was able to move into my current, beautiful, 1,200-square-foot apartment in fall of 2024.

My new apartment!  Big living room. 

Separate craft room.

And a beautiful kitchen!

As you can see, I’ve upsized and downsized quite a bit in my life. And I’ve learned a few downsizing tips along the way. But the most important thing I’ve learned? It’s just stuff. Letting go of your possessions isn’t losing—it’s making space for what truly matters.