Walk With Me

Today is the 28 th ; it’s almost 2:11. One month ago I looked down at my watch; it was a milestone I never wanted to mark. I look at my watch today and cry. They’re just minutes and it’s just a date, but it marks much more than that. Now, it’s one month later. I’ve had moments of bolstered resolve to live the life I’m meant to live and I’ve had valley low days where I just wish the ache would go away. In that time we came dangerously close to losing Jon’s Dad and I’ve cursed God for this life that just seems relentlessly hard right now. Life never goes the way we plan. I stole the title, for this post, from Dad. Apparently I wrote this a day or two after Dad's funeral. I remember it now that I read it, but I honestly don't remember writing it. For sure it was cathartic, I was trying to process the week…. February 2, 2020 We saw Dad on Monday. I didn’t necessarily plan to visit, in fact I was feeling a little worn down that day. However, the girls had t

I think it started back in October when we put Dad on hospice. This feeling that something was shifting and I could feel it while it was happening, but I couldn’t name it. He was still doing okay at that point. He was eating and reacting and still had some good days. That little glimmer of hope always hung there even though after 4 years of this, I’d all but done away with that word hope. I mean, dementia can really steal that word away from a person. Dad has a good day and you think all is going to be well. But he was sleeping more and the look in his eyes seemed different. He seemed to be withdrawing more. I could feel it in my bones and I shoved it way deep down in my heart because I knew. I knew Dad was preparing to die. He wrote about that; about how someone at the end of life can seem like they are selfishly pulling away from the people they love when in fact it is just the person withdrawing from life in preparation for death. From Christmas into all of January I felt

A year ago, we put Dad into memory care. Not long after, I wrote a blog post titled A Thousand Goodbyes . I wrote it on a Tuesday – the day of the week the girls and I went to help Dad at home and then the day I typically went to visit Dad once he was in memory care. Some weeks, more days than others, but Tuesday’s especially. Today is Tuesday and the first “normal” Tuesday in terms of being back into a regular routine. While I’ve been riding the waves, this morning just felt heavy and hard until I realized it is Tuesday and this time, there’s no going to visit Dad. “Dementia steals memories, moments and just so many things. Today is Tuesday. Rachel knows it is Tuesday. She had a rough morning and I couldn’t figure out why. Until I sat her down and waited patiently for her to talk. And when she finally did she said she’s sad and misses her time on Tuesday’s with Grandpa.” I’m sad, and I miss my time on Tuesday’s, too. You know, it’s just not fair; grieving over

Somehow it's already been 2 weeks since Mom called to tell me we were losing Dad. Somehow it's already been 1 week since we said our final goodbye and buried Dad. In many ways, life has moved on. I taught water fitness and piano lessons. I've done laundry and school drop-off's. Yet, in many ways I don't want life to move on. The permanence is starting to settle in and I don't like it. There's the Dad I remember before he got this disease, but those memories seem so far away now. There's the Dad I remember when he was first diagnosed - changed, unsure but still laughing and playing with the girls. But those memories are just in pictures and video and in some ways it seems cruel because it isn't Dad in those pictures and videos. The cruelty lies in the fact that this disease gave me a different Dad these past 4 years and while I loved him no less; while the unconditional love magnified tenfold, this disease stole my Dad's soul and my family