Some blogs are easy to write. The words flow, the memories come naturally, and the emotions find their way onto the page.
And then there are blogs like this one.
This one is hard. Really hard.
The roller coaster of emotions this week has taken me places in my heart that I haven’t visited in a very long time. Places filled with beautiful memories, unimaginable sadness, unconditional love, and a disease that I have despised since I was just a little girl.
Let me share a little backstory.
My Pap was the coolest Pap ever!
I spent so much of my childhood at my grandparents’ home, especially during those wonderful summer months. Looking back, I don’t think I realized just how much that man was teaching me about life.
Pap taught me to garden. And boy, did he ever create a passion in me! To this day, I absolutely love growing vegetables. It doesn’t even matter whether I like the vegetable or not- I will grow it! There is just something about putting a seed in the ground, nurturing it, and watching it grow that brings me such joy.
Pap taught me about cars, too. He taught me to listen to the sounds a car made and recognize when something wasn’t quite right. He taught me about tools and what each one was used for. If he was working on something and needed a particular tool, he could tell me what to get, and off I’d go to his toolbox to find exactly what he needed.
And baseball!
Oh, how my Pap loved teaching me about baseball! And I loved every single second of it.
Gardening. Cars. Tools. Baseball.
So many lessons. So many memories. So much love.
And all of that happened during the first ten years of my life.
Then, suddenly, the teaching stopped.
No, my Pap didn’t pass away when I was ten years old.
Well…
Not literally.
But in a heartbreaking way, I suppose a part of him did.
That summer, when I was just ten years old, my Pap was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease.
Oh, how I despise that word.
Alzheimer’s.
That nasty, cruel, unforgiving disease.
It didn’t gently make its way into my Pap’s life. It came with a vengeance. It robbed him of his memories, his abilities, his independence, and eventually, the very essence of the man we all knew and loved.
My Pap must have had one incredible brain because that disease certainly seemed determined to destroy it as quickly as possible.
And it did.
The man who had taught me so much was slowly disappearing before my eyes.
His body was still there.
His face was still familiar.
His hands were still the hands that had worked on cars, tended gardens, and taught a little girl so many wonderful things.
But the Pap I knew was slipping away.
Eventually, Alzheimer’s left us with what felt like a shell of the man he had once been.
It took my Pap from us long before it took his life.
For nine years and seven months, our family cared for the man who had once taken care of all of us.
We kept him at home, in his own home, surrounded by the familiar things we hoped might somehow bring him comfort.
We tried to preserve his routine. We tried to maintain some sense of normalcy in a world that had become anything but normal.
And somewhere along the way, our roles completely reversed.
The man who had taught me how to do so many things now needed me to teach him.
How to eat.
How to dress.
How to complete the simplest tasks that most of us never give a second thought.
Imagine being a young girl, growing up …… watching someone you love so deeply slowly lose the ability to do the things he once taught you.
It changes you.
It changes your heart.
It changes the way you see life.
And it certainly changed mine.
Eventually, the physical demands of caring for Pap became more than my grandmother and our family could manage. My grandmother was six years older than Pap, and as his condition deteriorated, we simply could no longer lift him or safely provide the level of care he needed.
The heartbreaking decision was made to move him into a long-term nursing facility.
By then, my Pap had absolutely no understanding of where he was, what was happening around him, or even who we were.
And as painful as that was, perhaps it was also a blessing.
He didn’t understand that he was no longer in his own home.
He didn’t understand that the family who had lovingly cared for him every single day could no longer physically do so.
He didn’t recognize the people who loved him most.
But we knew him.
And we never stopped loving him.
Five months after entering the nursing facility, my Pap took his final breath.
And while our hearts broke, I found comfort in believing something beautiful had happened.
My Pap was whole again.
No more confusion.
No more fear.
No more struggling to remember.
No more Alzheimer’s.
He was finally at peace.
And I believed with all my heart that he was in his Heavenly home, waiting for the day we would meet again.
I was just twenty years old when my Pap passed away.
Twenty.
And the saddest part of this entire story isn’t how young I was when I lost him.
It’s how young HE was.
My Pap was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s at just 57 years old.
He passed away at 67.
Sixty-seven.
Ten years of his life stolen by a disease that showed absolutely no mercy.
Those ten years changed my dreams, my plans, and the direction I thought my life would take.
But God had a different plan.
And although I didn’t understand it then, I can look back now and recognize how deeply those years shaped the person I became.
I developed a passion for caregiving. A compassion for people who could no longer care for themselves. An understanding of what families experience when they are forced to watch someone they love disappear a little more each day.
But there was also a wound that never completely healed.
For decades, whenever someone mentioned dementia or Alzheimer’s, my heart immediately traveled back to those days with my Pap.
Back to the garden.
Back to the toolbox.
Back to baseball.
Back to the man who taught me so much.
And back to the years when I watched that man slowly fade away.
Now, let’s fast-forward to four months ago.
God has a remarkable way of bringing people into our lives when we least expect it.
Four months ago, I was blessed to meet the absolute cutest couple.
Both were 91 years old.
Ninety-one!
And let me tell you, they were two of the sweetest souls I have ever had the privilege of meeting.
They had been married for 72 years.
Seventy-two years of marriage!
Can you even imagine?
The memories they had made. The seasons of life they had experienced. The challenges they had overcome. The laughter, the tears, the celebrations, and the ordinary days that somehow become the most extraordinary memories.
And after all those years, the love was still there.
Oh, was it ever there.
He absolutely adored his wife.
His bride.
After 72 years, she was still his bride.
His devotion to her was something beautiful to witness. It wasn’t simply something he said. It was something you could see and feel.
And she loved him.
You could hear it in her voice when she spoke about him. You could sense it in the way they were together.
There was just one heartbreaking part of their story.
She has Alzheimer’s disease.
There was that word again.
Alzheimer’s.
A disease I knew far too well.
It had been a lifetime since I had spent one-on-one time with someone living with that horrible disease.
And suddenly, here I was.
Decades after losing my Pap, I found myself sitting in a room at a local nursing facility, spending time with another precious soul whose memories were slowly being stolen.
But this time, something felt different.
Yes, the memories of my Pap came flooding back.
Yes, I recognized the confusion, the uncertainty, and the heartbreaking effects of the disease.
But I also felt an overwhelming sense of compassion.
And love.
So much love.
I genuinely enjoyed visiting this beautiful couple. I looked forward to seeing them, spending time with them, and simply being present in their lives.
I didn’t know them for decades.
I didn’t share 72 years of memories with them.
But that didn’t matter.
They had found a special place in my heart.
And then…
Three months ago today, everything changed.
This wonderful gentleman, whom I had been blessed to know for only about five weeks, passed away.
Just like that, he was gone from his earthly home.
His bride of 72 years was left behind.
And although my heart was heavy, I didn’t see his passing as a final goodbye.
I saw it as something different.
Something filled with faith.
Something filled with hope.
“Until we meet again.”
I believe that for those who place their faith in God, death is not the end of the story.
It is simply the beginning of eternity.
For the past three months, I have continued visiting the love of his life.
His precious bride.
The woman he loved so faithfully for 72 years.
Some days are good.
There are moments when she smiles, when a little spark of happiness shines through, and when we get a glimpse of the sweet woman she has always been.
Those moments are treasures.
And we hold on to every single one.
But most days are different.
Most days, she doesn’t ask about her husband.
She doesn’t seem to understand that the man who loved her for nearly three-quarters of a century is no longer sitting beside her.
And that is heartbreaking.
Yet, perhaps there is a blessing hidden somewhere in that sadness.
Perhaps not remembering protects her from having to experience the pain of losing him over and over again.
I don’t know.
I don’t pretend to understand why this disease does what it does.
I only know that Alzheimer’s is winning another battle.
And I despise it just as much today as I did when I was ten years old.
So we do what we can.
We visit.
We talk.
We offer comfort.
We try to make her smile.
We celebrate the good moments, no matter how small they may seem.
We surround her with kindness, compassion, and love.
Because even when someone can no longer remember the people around them, they still deserve to feel loved.
And now…
Here we are.
Her once 91-year-old body is now 92.
Ninety-two years of living.
Ninety-two years of memories.
Seventy-two years of loving one man.
And her body is tired.
So very tired.
This week has been an emotional one because I can see that her earthly journey may be nearing its end.
And once again, I find myself in that familiar place.
Watching.
Waiting.
Loving.
Praying.
And preparing my heart for something I know is coming, even though that doesn’t make it any easier.
But this time, I am choosing to focus on something beautiful.
A reunion.
I picture her finally being free from the confusion that has clouded her mind.
Free from the disease that has taken so much from her.
Whole again.
At peace.
And I picture her husband.
The man who loved her for 72 years.
Her sweetheart.
Waiting for his bride.
I can almost imagine the moment they see each other again in their Heavenly home.
No Alzheimer’s.
No confusion.
No separation.
Just love.
The kind of love that endured more than seven decades on earth and, through faith, carries the promise of eternity.
And perhaps that is what God has been gently reminding me of this week.
That love doesn’t disappear when memories fade.
That a person’s worth is never measured by what they can remember, what they can do, or how much care they require.
That sometimes the greatest gift we can give another human being is simply our presence.
And that even when we cannot understand God’s timing, we can still trust His promises.
I think about my Pap.
I think about the little girl who learned to garden, identify tools, listen to car engines, and love baseball.
I think about the girl who spent ten years learning lessons she never wanted to learn.
And I think about the woman I am today, decades later, once again sitting beside someone whose mind is being taken by Alzheimer’s.
Only now, I realize something.
My Pap never really stopped teaching me.
Even after he could no longer speak the words.
Even after he could no longer recognize my face.
Even after he could no longer remember the little girl who followed him around his garden and garage.
He was still teaching me.
He taught me patience.
He taught me compassion.
He taught me that caregiving is one of the purest expressions of love.
He taught me that dignity matters, even when someone can no longer speak for themselves.
And he taught me that sometimes loving someone means holding their hand through a journey neither of you would have chosen.
Maybe, just maybe, those lessons are part of why God brought this precious couple into my life.
Maybe He knew that all these years later, the love my Pap planted in my heart would still have a purpose.
I don’t know how many more visits I will have with this sweet lady.
I don’t know how many more smiles we will share.
I don’t know when God will call her home.
But I do know this.
Until that moment comes, she deserves every ounce of love, kindness, comfort, and dignity we can give her.
And when her earthly journey finally ends, I pray that her transition is peaceful.
I pray that she is welcomed into the arms of our Heavenly Father.
And I find tremendous comfort in imagining her being reunited with the man who spent 72 years calling her his bride.
What a beautiful reunion that will be.
Alzheimer’s may steal memories. It may steal independence. It may steal years that families can never get back.
But it cannot erase the love that was given.
It cannot undo the memories we carry.
And it cannot take away the promise of eternity.
My Pap taught me that lesson many years ago.
And now, this beautiful couple has reminded me of it all over again.
As I sit here with tears in my eyes and a heart overflowing with emotion, I am reminded that sometimes the people who enter our lives for the shortest amount of time leave some of the deepest impressions.
Five weeks with a wonderful gentleman.
Four months with his precious bride.
And a lifetime of lessons from my Pap.
Three very different journeys.
One incredibly powerful reminder.
Love remains.
Even when memories don’t.
And sometimes, the most beautiful words we can offer someone we love are not goodbye…
But simply…
Until we meet again.
But are we ever truly prepared for this?
Are we ever really ready to watch someone we care about slowly slip away, even when we know that peace, comfort, and a beautiful Heavenly reunion may be waiting on the other side?
I don’t think we are.
The next few days will undoubtedly be a roller coaster of emotions. There will be sadness, tears, memories, moments of uncertainty, and perhaps even moments of peace as we prepare our hearts for what may come.
But through it all, there is one thing I know with absolute certainty.
God is watching over us.
He knows our hearts. He sees our tears. He understands the emotions we sometimes cannot even put into words.
And when our hearts feel heavy and our strength begins to fade, He reminds us that we are never walking through these difficult moments alone.
So, for now, we will continue to love her, comfort her, and cherish whatever time God allows us to have.
And when He decides it is time to call her home, I pray we find peace in knowing that what feels like a heartbreaking goodbye here on earth may be the most beautiful hello in Heaven.
Because God’s love never fails, His timing is always His own, and His promises are eternal.
Letting the tears flow …. with …..
gussiewrites.com
