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. 

t

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.