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. . . 

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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. . . 

Walking with Oreo

 Walking With Oreo

There’s a program in town called Walk with a Doc. It’s designed to encourage people to get outside, stay active, and have a doctor on hand just in case. Me? I don’t need Walk with a Doc—I've got Walk with Oreo.

Broken Arrow, OK (2011)

Oreo entered my life as a furry three-month-old, black and white puppy – part Shih Tzu, part Jack Russell. I'd gone to the local humane society to get a cat. But, before I had a chance to tell the volunteer what I was looking for, a woman came in with a basket of puppies. I looked in and saw Oreo scrambling all over the other pups. I knew this was the pet for me. She was all energy, and her name was Oreo. (I do love chocolate!) Oreo bounced instead of walked, ran instead of strolled, and kept me on my toes from day one. 

Oreo-June 2011

Our first home together had a nice backyard, but no fence. However, we lived in a neighborhood with plenty of sidewalks, so daily walks were easy. We both needed exercise, so that's what we did. No need to fence the yard. 

At first, her little legs couldn't keep up, but before long we were walking a mile a day. 

Even when we weren't walking, we were usually together. If I went somewhere Oreo couldn't walk, I put her in a pet sling and carried her around my neck. She learned to travel in the car and stay in a motel. I bought her a doggie highchair so she could see out the car window and her own doggie suitcase for food and toys. We would drive to parks all over Oklahoma and nearby states, just to walk. 

House training was a breeze, and she never chewed the furniture. I did have to use a playpen to protect her from our cats. They were curious about the tiny, black and white fuzzball. Oreo's active personality made the cats want to "bat" at her as if she was a toy!

"What kind of cat is that?" 

During the first year, she developed bladder stones, requiring surgery. The vet removed a baby-food–sized jar of stones; and from then on, she was on a prescription diet. But that didn't slow her down. We continued to walk about a mile a day, her tiny legs trotting beside me, ears flopping in the wind.

Oreo Post-op

Independent Living – A Cottage with a Fenced Yard (2015, Oreo is 4)

Moving into an independent living community was a new chapter for us. Our little cottage had a fenced back yard where I could easily put her out to potty. It was tempting to stop walking; but I would never let her outside alone. I'd heard a horror story about a hawk snatching a small dog right off the ground, and I wasn’t taking any chances with Oreo. Forget the back yard – we walked the neighborhood. 

Our new community also had a dog park, but Oreo wasn't a social butterfly. Sharing wasn't her thing, and she also had a talent for sniffing out disgusting things to eat, which then made her sick. So, the dog park was off limits. We stuck to our walks, one to two miles a day.

Atria - The Woodland Walks (2018, Oreo is 7)

By the time we moved to Atria, Oreo and I had a rhythm. Our new apartment had a beautiful, wooded path winding around the complex – a peaceful retreat from the busyness of caregiving. If we wanted a longer walk, there was a walking trail nearby that went for miles through south Tulsa.

Oreo loved the wooded pathway the most because she would almost always encounter a squirrel. As soon as she spotted one, she'd yank the leash, speed off after it, and chase it up the nearest oak tree. Then she'd jump and bark as if to say, "I got it! I got it!" I don't know what she would have done if she actually caught it!

"I got it! I got it!"

Island Bay – The Canal Years (2021, Oreo is 10)

This move came with a change of scenery: a canal out front, a boardwalk out back, and a new set of challenges. The boardwalk was old, worn, and uneven, making our walks feel more like an obstacle course. 

The canal was about twelve feet below the apartments, so there was a grassy bank that flowed down from the sidewalk to the canal. One day, Bill was walking Oreo when a squirrel ran by. Oreo jerked the leash, hard, and Bill lost his balance. Before he knew it, Bill was rolling down the hill, arms flailing. A neighbor came running and rescued him. That was the last time he walked Oreo.

Still, Oreo and I kept going, logging our daily miles, navigating the boardwalk, dodging loose boards, and always keeping an eye out for squirrels. Some days, we'd pause to watch the pelicans swoop down for a light snack or the silver mullet leap from the water.

Pelican watching!

Lakeside at Campeche Cove - Slowing Down (2023, Oreo is 12)

Our next apartment had lovely green spaces tucked between the buildings. I thought of them as my very own English Garden. Oreo, on the other hand, saw them as battlegrounds – filled with other dogs walking the same paths, sniffing the same spots, and invading her territory! Over time, we figured out which dogs we could tolerate and which ones we couldn't. Still, we logged one to two miles a day.

"I don't know. They smell weird!"

But something else was happening. My once-springy, eager pup began slowing down. Our walks shrank to half a mile - some days, she could barely walk at all.  

Then things got worse.

She stopped eating. Slept all day. Diarrhea. Vomiting. Repeat. I even canceled a cruise because I couldn't bear to leave her. Nothing the vet tried seemed to help. She continued to get worse.

Finally, in the spring of 2024, I took her in one more time and gave the vet an ultimatum: Do something, I told him, or I'll have to let her go.

His answer? A vegetarian diet. I was skeptical but desperate enough to try anything.

Cove at GYB – The Comeback (2024, Oreo is 13)

Just before our move to The Cove at GYB, something incredible happened. The vegetarian diet worked! So much so, I've been cutting back on my meat as well!

Within five days, Oreo bounced back. Her tail wagged again. She had energy. She wanted to walk. She even wanted to run! Suddenly, my frail, aging companion was acting like an eight-year-old—bounding around, eyes bright, and eager to go! 

We began walking again - up to two miles a day! And not just that - she was climbing stairs. Three flights of them! 

Walking with Oreo (2025, Oreo is 14)

Oreo has been my walking partner for 14 years now. We both have some gray hairs, but we're still out there– walking, exploring, living. Acting younger than we really are. 

Because the best way to stay young . . . is to keep walking. 

Resilient, Whether I Like It or Not

April has been a struggle. Between issues with Bill and my own health, it's been one challenge after another.

First, I came down with a respiratory illness that kept me coughing for almost three weeks. Just as that was starting to clear up, I got conjunctivitis. Then a UTI. Once all of that finally began to heal, I still couldn't get my strength back — I was just tired all the time.

A talk with my primary care doctor uncovered the problem: she had lowered my thyroid medication based on recent bloodwork but hadn’t considered that I was also taking B12 supplements. I'd been on the same dose for twenty years! Once she realized, she promptly increased my thyroid meds back to my regular dose.

Slowly, my energy started returning. Feeling optimistic, I decided to go swimming yesterday. I did great in the pool — but when I got out, I slipped on the wet pavement and landed flat on my chest and ribcage, knocking the breath right out of me.

Luckily, a couple of UTMB resident doctors happened to be nearby. They rushed over, helped me up, and got me back to my apartment. They strongly suggested I head to the ER — and I did. Thankfully, no broken ribs, no lung damage. Just badly bruised muscles. It’s pretty tough getting around, but I'm powering through.

The ER doctor told me that with my osteopenia, I was lucky nothing was broken. He even called me "resilient." Where have I heard that before!?

It’s also comforting to know there are so many medical folks living in my apartment complex. They even gave me their personal numbers so I can call if I need help. A definite advantage! 

This morning, I got up, got dressed, and decided someone else needed to cook me breakfast. I headed to America’s Kitchen for a pancake breakfast! After that, I’m off to UU service and then to the symphony.

I'm not letting this keep me down!

My 75th Trip Around the Sun (Memoir)

February 22, 2025, marked the completion of my 75th trip around the sun—and what a journey it has been! Like everyone, I’ve had my share of good days and bad days, but this particular Saturday was unquestionably one of the good ones.

I celebrated my 75th birthday surrounded by my daughter, Shelly; my son, Will; my cousin, Debbie; and more than two dozen friends from the Galveston area. I hadn’t had a birthday party since elementary school, so I decided this one would be special—one to remember.

I rented the Club Room here at GYB, handcrafted a special shirt and party invitations, and took on the challenge of catering it myself, with Shelly’s help. The menu was a feast: homemade quiches, hash brown casserole, bourbon-glazed little smokies, yogurt parfaits, fresh fruit, a charcuterie board with homemade bacon jam, lemon blueberry muffins, bagels with cream cheese, and a birthday “cake” made of coffee cake. Shelly kept the mimosas flowing, and everything came together beautifully.

My friends Bev and Carol took charge of decorating, while Shelly and Debbie finished up the food prep in my apartment. Will became my unofficial “secret service agent,” tracking down my keys every time I lost them—which, in my excitement, was often. Oma arrived with balloons and beads, handing them out to guests as they arrived. Meanwhile, my friend Debbie (from Alvin) played photographer, capturing all the special moments as people trickled in beginning at 9:30.

The party was everything I had hoped for—a warm, lively gathering that celebrated not just a birthday but the life I’ve built here on this island. When I arrived in Galveston in the middle of the pandemic, I knew no one. But slowly, friend by friend, my world expanded. Now, I’m surrounded by a wonderful, eclectic mix of people who brighten my days and enrich my life.

I am one lucky 75-year-old!

A NEW Year and a NEW Resolution

I’m smiling today, and it feels good. I've finally broken out of my “loneliness” depression. I no longer go into a mental slump the minute I walk into my apartment, something I've experienced since I moved Bill into care, two years ago.

A huge breakthrough came thanks to my daughter, Shelly, who gave me a simple but powerful "assignment” (see previous blog posting) to write about all the good things about living alone. I’m an extremely visual person and needed to see my thoughts in print before this truth took root in my brain: Being alone is not bad! 

I no longer feel that I need someone in the house, or that I have to keep busy 24/7, or that I need a man in order to make my life complete. (After 74 years of living under the “guidance” of men, I can finally say that I don’t have to have one to function! That is a miracle in itself!)

 

My next goal is to do something meaningful for the rest of my life. Yes, I will continue to care for Bill, and that is certainly meaningful, but I’m talking about meaningful to me. I want to leave this earth knowing that I made a difference, even if it’s a small difference. 

So that is my 2025 New Year’s resolution: find something meaningful to do. I’ll keep you posted on my journey! 

 

In the meantime, Happy New Year to all of you who take the time to read and comment on my blog. Your comments make my blog not just meaningful, but special! 

Finally: Read this article from Time Magazine on "How to Get Better at Doing Things Along."