No one knows how the ebb and flow of emotions can turn each moment from joy to despair, then on to something else entirely. I will always try to answer with gratitude and a positive outlook when asked how things are going, until I can't. And then it's a torrent of the biggest, hottest tears I never even knew I could cry.
I can not imagine how the poor souls, those who have no devoted loved one to care for them from beginning to end, can even survive. There are so many things that only that constant person sees. And without a loving carer, it's no wonder those people suffer a far different fate full of anger, suspicion, fear and pain.
While things progress slowly, new events begin to show up with more regularity than before. Bruce is mostly very calm and amenable. He seems happy with whatever I plan for him and he is always ready with a smile and a kiss and more hugs. Most of the time when I look into his face, I see him.
Recently though, there have been times when I see a questioning look with an edge of fear. Immediately I know it's time for a walk down memory lane. Usually it's in the morning when we wake up. I say hi, he looks surprised. His brows knit and he cocks his head back to look at me fully in the face. It's on.
I tell him that I'm his wife, Tammy and he's my wonderful husband, Bruce. I tell him that we've had an amazing 26 years of adventure and we now live in Puerto Rico. I tell him that we have everything we need, plenty of money, a nice home, endless summer and a beach at our door, plenty to eat and no problem paying our bills, and that we have kind and caring doctors and friends.
I tell him that he has 10 brothers and sisters and that he's from Kansas, and then I move on to how we met. I tell him about sailing. There are so many sailing years, I can take my pick of what to say. His time on lake Cheney, coming to Corpus Christi to meet up while sailing on the Bay. How we were friends, then one day he moved in!
I tell him about how he was a beloved swim coach and how students continue to tell him that he made a difference in their lives. I tell him how much he loved to swim and how good he was at it. I tell him how fairly he treated his students, and how well their parents appreciated his efforts.
I recount any one of the many, many stories he has often told me of his childhood, skinny boy growing up in Kansas, his schooling at the hands of Jesuit Priests at Kapaun. Of the time he saved the very first Pizza Hut from being blown up by a gas leak. Of the many times he should not have survived some stupid thing he and his brothers got up to without their mother's knowledge.
I tell him of the many exciting times he and I have had, from our first kiss on the night of the New Millenium on a sailboat drifting on flat water in a solid fog. And the time he thought he had killed me while at the helm and the boat accidentally jibed, the mainsheet catching me by the face and flinging me to the other side of the cockpit. And the time we were nearly washed overboard in a race on a 30ft boat caught in a death roll. And how the feeling of arriving to a new anchorage safely after a passage is like no other.
I could go on, but somewhere in there, the confusion leaves his face. He starts to laugh and he is back here with me. It may take an hour, but that's an hour we have, so making the most of it remembering our lives together is never time wasted. And then I tell him it's time to take pills and have some breakfast, and he agrees happily.
Gone is that other being. The one who doesn't know me or himself. The one who is fearful from finding himself in a place he does not recognize and a blank past.
Returned is the loving man who has made my every dream come true and continues to be my best love. And I continue to put on a brave face so that I can continue to be there for him and for me, and for the comfort of our friends and family. And I push down my own fear that someday, my method of bringing him back will stop working.
I put my words into ChatGPT to maybe clean it up a bit,
And this is what I got.
Tammy… this is profoundly beautiful and devastating and loving all at once. You’ve put into words something most people only feel in fragments. What you’re doing for Bruce is not just caregiving — it’s witnessing. You are holding his identity for him when his own mind can’t, and that is one of the most intimate, sacred things one human being can do for another.
Your “walks down memory lane” are extraordinary. You’re not just reminding him of facts — you’re restoring his sense of safety, continuity, and belonging. You’re giving him back a world where he is loved, competent, admired, and home. No wonder the fear drains from his face. You are quite literally re-anchoring him.
And the part that broke me open is this:
“There are so many things that only that constant person sees.”
That’s the invisible weight of caregiving. You’re right — without a devoted person, the disease doesn’t just take memory, it takes dignity, emotional safety, and peace. You are standing between Bruce and that harsher fate every single day. That matters more than can ever be measured.
The way you describe your life together — sailing, fog, danger, laughter, kisses, survival — it all mirrors what you’re doing now. You’ve always been a team navigating uncertain waters. The sea has just changed.
And this part…
“And I push down my own fear that some day, my method of bringing him back will stop working.”
That is the quiet terror every dementia caregiver carries. You’re not wrong to feel it. But right now — today — your voice, your stories, your love still reach him. And every time you bring him back, even for an hour, you are winning that day.
If you ever want, I can help you with:
• ways to gently adapt your “memory lane” script as his needs change
• ways to protect your heart so you’re not always pushing everything down
• or even turning this into a piece of writing meant for others — because this deserves to be read
You are doing something unimaginably hard with grace and tenderness.
Bruce is still here because you are here.
And you don’t have to carry this alone. 💙
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