The Grief That Waited Until I Was Safe Enough to Feel It

A Note From the Writer

I actually started writing this over a week ago, during a particularly difficult stretch of grief. I was feeling pretty down, and a lot of what I had been holding back finally started coming out.

I’m still going through much of what I wrote here. Some days are better than others, and grief continues to come in waves. But I decided to finish this and share it because this is where I was—and, in many ways, where I still am.

This isn’t a case of feeling sorry for myself. I’m grieving. There is no timeline for grief, and I don’t need to medicate it away. I need to feel it, work through it, and allow myself to heal.

I think that’s what I’m doing now—grieving and healing at the same time.

This isn’t a polished account of grief. It’s simply an honest look at what it has felt like for me lately.

The Wall Finally Came Down

Gosh, where do I start? The wall finally came tumbling down. Grief after losing my husband has finally hit me in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

I’d been doing so well the weeks and months after my Dave’s passing. Everything I’d suppressed came flowing out like a broken dam. Now I realize the mourning hadn’t even truly started until now.

My brain has been protecting me.

There were so many decisions. I couldn’t break down completely. I went through the motions of a grieving widow. Posting photos on Facebook. Sharing on his page. Wanting to keep him alive in everyone’s minds.

But his soul is gone elsewhere. His earthly body is dead. Buried in a beautiful coffin, lying in a cold hole.

I feel so alone.

I go by the cemetery almost weekly to change his flowers and hope he sees what I am doing. It is my way of saying, “I love you. I don’t want you to think I’ve forgotten you.”

We do our nightly prayers together when I’m there.

I’ve lived with Alzheimer’s for over 11 years. It was terrifying and confusing, frustrating, and all that time I grieved for the man he once was, but not to this extent.

My subconscious protected me. It kept me functioning because of all the decisions I had to make.

I’ve been in survival mode for a long, long time. Grief after losing my husband is different from the grief I experienced during those 11 years of Alzheimer’s.

Now my body and brain are saying:

“Now that we are safe enough, here is everything we could not process before. I loved someone. I lost someone. This hurts terribly. I don’t know how to carry this alone.”

I can’t.

So I talk to God.

I know He is there. Only He will carry me through this. That much I know.

Right Now, I Just Don’t Care

At the moment, I either want to sleep or I can’t sleep.

Right now, I don’t want to cook anything. I’ve been eating handfuls of protein cereal, slices of turkey and chicken, protein shakes, fruit. My favorite is hazelnut spread on a carb-free tortilla rolled up—well, almost my favorite. I’ve been gobbing handfuls of dark chocolate almonds, and my butt is showing it too, lol, even with the exercise. Quick and easy.

My Brain Finally Told Me Why

I’ve quit checking my email, and it takes me days to check my snail mail. I don’t care. All my bills are on autopay, and that’s what matters the most, right?

Upon reflection, while writing this paragraph, I realize why I quit checking my snail mail. Dave had received three jury notices even though he had been permanently excused because of his multiple medical conditions. I sent each one back, writing “deceased” on the envelope.

Those jury notices were the triggers that stopped me from checking my mailbox.

I just feel like writing in my blog and watching British series.

I’m So Sick of Death

I really need to mow, but right now I don’t care.

My dogs are slowly dying. Their bodies are disintegrating along with their brains. Both are the same age. Both will probably die close to the same time.

What a downer.

Top it off, these new veterinarians want you to do everything to keep them alive, regardless of the pain and suffering the dog has to go through. I won’t have them go through that. Death is a release.

But the vets are really good at guilt-tripping.

One more thing to look forward to.

Oh joy.

Their guilt-tripping and my dogs dying. Their dying is in my face daily.

I’m so sick of death.

Can I please stop losing everyone I love?

I dress up for Mass, and that makes me feel good. Being in His presence makes me feel good. I know He’s with me all the time, but being in His physical presence is like a dopamine hit.

I also still work out. I don’t want to become crippled and dependent on anyone. I’m fiercely independent. I learned a long time ago I couldn’t rely on anyone completely.

My kids have their own lives and life complications. They do what they can, and I love and appreciate them so much. But bottom line, I have to be able to function independently until the day I die myself or end up warehoused.

Finding Little Things That Feel Good

I’ve tried to lose myself in hobbies: photography and writing. Both are helpful. I’m not good at either, but I enjoy them, and that is what counts.

I also love to go hiking and look at wildflowers, rocks, and taking pictures of the phenomenal landscapes Alaska provides.

I forgot my houseplants. I love to putter with them and enjoy their beautiful flowers.

I recently bought two rose bushes in pink and lavender. They were $7.95 each at Fred Meyer. If I had known how cheap they were, I would have bought the entire color selection.

Flowering plants are another dopamine hit for me.

My brain is desperately searching for moments of comfort and aliveness after years of stress and loss.

I’ve spent too much money already this fiscal cycle.

So be it.

Not like I’m going to be traveling as planned.

I also replaced my makeup, threw out the old, and started painting my nails. I love color, and it always makes me smile.

Dave loved it when I painted my nails.

I bought myself a cheap smart TV for my back bedroom, where I primarily live now. I bought some devices to improve my Wi-Fi. They cost more than the TV!

Then a wave of guilt hits.

Joy after death feels like betrayal

Here I am trying to enjoy life and Dave’s body is cold in the ground.

I don’t want Dave forgotten

And I don’t want my Dave forgotten by anyone.

What an amazing man.

Such brilliance, even though he didn’t see it. He was humble, but could outwit anyone. He was so talented, and he could do anything. I mean absolutely anything.

If it was broken, he could fix it.

He was an artist, a carpenter, a builder, a charmer, a mechanic, a jokester, a bow hunter, and full of love and empathy for others.

He loved animals and didn’t hunt except for food.

He had quite the sense of humor and was so full of love for me.

He accepted my ADHD. We meshed just fine. He didn’t care. All he wanted was what I wanted: someone to simply exist beside me, accept me, and hold me.

Safe and trustworthy.

That’s not a lot to ask for, is it?

Yet I realize I’m lucky to have experienced it once in my lifetime.

When I look back, even before meeting Dave, that is all I ever wanted.

Most of my life has been alone, even with people around me, except for my children. They are amazing people. God sure blessed me abundantly through them.

I Still Want to Feel Like a Woman

Through all of this, I also discovered I still long for companionship, touch, laughter, and closeness.

I miss feeling like a woman instead of only a caregiver.

I’ve been so touch-deprived for over 11 years.

But it wasn’t and isn’t meant to be, I suspect.

That’s okay.

I will survive this. I’m not going to go looking for it. Even in sadness, I will keep marching forward.

I just have to get through this glitch in my life that has suddenly appeared.

Grief comes in waves as it is.

This time it is a tsunami.

Ultimately, over time, I want to be able to laugh, feel attractive, feel desired, and feel alive without the guilt.

Right now, I can’t imagine that happening.

It feels like time has run out for me.

I can’t even really recall my 50s other than my job and keeping up with Dave. I realize I’ve never existed for myself. It’s always been someone else.

My Children Were the Greatest Gift

I loved existing for my children, though. They were the greatest gift ever. I miss the time I had with them as children. I loved being their mom. I would never trade that time for anything else in the world.

And then my hubby, Dave.

You can read more about our Alzheimer journery here:

Letting Go of My Husband’s Belongings After Death: When It Feels Like Losing Him Again

Letting Go of My Husband’s Belongings After Death: When It Feels Like Losing Him Again

Aug11

Six months after losing my husband to Alzheimer’s, I am facing the delayed grief of clearing out his clothes and belongings.

When Letting Go of His Things Feels Like Losing Him Again

I saw a post from a woman who was despairing over disposing of her late husband’s possessions. I can empathize with her. I am going through the same thing.

When I Was Numb, I Could Let Go of His Clothes

Initially, when I was numb, I was able to clear out bags of his clothing. I felt nothing at the time. I was simply anesthetized against the reality of it all. Hollow inside. Empty. Going through the motions on autopilot.

At that point, I think my mind was protecting me from the unbearable truth: he was never going to wear those clothes again. His hands would never reach for that shirt. His body would never fill those familiar spaces.

Instead, someone else could use these clothes. Most had never been worn.

I could make decisions because I was still in survival mode. But grief has a strange way of waiting until you are strong enough to feel it.

Why Letting Go of My Husband’s Belongings Is So Painful

Letting go of my husband’s belongings after death has become one of the hardest parts of my grief journey. Now whenever I look at his things, I experience a heaviness on my chest. I have problems breathing. The idea of disposing of his possessions has become unbearable.

It feels like he is being wiped away as if he never existed.

But he did exist.

My Husband’s Belongings Are More Than Just Things

How can I dispose of his things? They aren’t mine. They are his.

And then I struggle with the question: where did he go?

Grief After Losing a Husband Brings Unanswered Questions

I saw him die. I watched Alzheimer’s slowly take him away from me. What was left at the end was his body. An empty shell.

I saw that empty shell buried.

But my Dave is gone.

His essence. His being. His soul.

Where is he?

Six Months Later, Grief Returned

Six months later, I find myself crying daily. Sometimes it comes out of nowhere. I thought I was doing better. I thought I had moved further along in this journey.

But grief doesn’t seem to work that way.

I am still trying to understand how someone who was such a huge part of my life can suddenly no longer be here.

Faith, Prayer, and Living With Questions

As a Catholic, I feel like this shouldn’t be such a struggle for me. I’m praying he is in purgatory or Heaven. But at the same time, this emptiness comes on me that I can’t explain because there are no answers.

All I can do now is pray and ask God to have mercy on him.

I know God is with me, but right now, I feel so alone.

You can read more about our Alzheimer Journey and the years we spent fighting this disease together:

Navigating the Unpredictable: Caregiving through Sickness, Dementia, and Chocolate Mishaps

https://kjpeissner.com/2025/01/17/471/

When Everything Becomes Loss

Aug7

Loss is a dark shadow that follows everyone. Unfortunately, some people experience it more often than others. Dealing with loss can be especially difficult when one loss seems to lead to another. Most loss comes with grief that never fully lets up. It stays every single day, reminding us of what we lost. Sometimes it is death, divorce, a lover, a friend, financial loss, or even the loss of passion. The list can go on.

I’ve experienced the loss of everything I listed. These losses domino into more losses — future plans, dreams, and the life you thought you would have. Unfortunately, it is part of life. Life equals death. Death equals loss. It all equates to life — a never-ending process of grieving that becomes part of living itself.

Dealing With Loss

Today I slept. Sleep makes loss more bearable. I don’t have to think. And when I do have to think, at least I can write. Writing seems to help. It’s a release for me.

Life seems surreal, especially since the death of my husband and now the loss of a recent friendship too. My brain is spinning. It analyzes everything. Even when I think I’m not thinking, my subconscious is. Several days later my brain will suddenly spit something out I hadn’t consciously been thinking about, and out it comes. It can be maddening.

My companions, Starfire and Kaya, are aging rapidly. Both are 13 years old. Deep in my heart, I know they too will be gone soon enough. I dread the day they leave me. I think perhaps I’ll get another dog and a kitty for companionship, but then I’m just setting myself up for more loss. I’m beginning to feel like it might be safer not to open myself up so freely again. I’d rather build a wall around myself — minus the drawbridge and moat — than let myself love too deeply again, because when I love, I give my heart 100%. And when they are gone, it feels like a piece of it goes with them.

I thought about hopping on a plane today and just leaving for a while. Going somewhere no one knows me. A different environment. Thanks to the cost of fuel right now, that’s out of the question. I guess that can equate to another loss.

For now, I’m learning that dealing with loss means accepting that I cannot control what I will lose, only how I choose to live with it.

So I’ve come to the conclusion, at least for now, that life is death — the death of family, lovers, friendships, happy futures, and dreams, and how we deal with them.

It feels like everything meaningful eventually becomes something I have to let go of, and I have to learn to live with it. Loss never ends, and neither does learning.

I find myself in a place where I feel more guarded with my heart, afraid to love as freely as I once did because I now understand the price of loving deeply: eventually, something or someone will be taken from me.

And yet, I don’t think I know how to love any other way.

The Man I Fell in Love With

Aug3

The Man I Fell in Love With

Today, while vacuuming and mopping, I found myself remembering my husband after Alzheimer’s—not the man Alzheimer’s left behind, but the man I fell in love with.

Dave was so handsome. His beard was always neatly trimmed and styled. He was sexy too. He was sexy when he pulled his hair back before sliding under a vehicle, when he directed someone while they backed up, when he lifted something heavy, or when that look came over his face while he was focused on a job.

Hell, he was sexy even smoking (thankfully, a habit we helped him break). It was the way he held that cigarette and then took a hit off of it. The way he carried his water bottle.

Dave was a very romantic man. He would softly croon to me while we slow danced in the living room. He would surprise me with a reservation at a nice restaurant. We held hands everywhere at his insistence, and we held hands at night while watching television.

When we watched a movie in the living room, he’d sit in his recliner, and I’d recline back between his legs so we could sit comfortably together. If I dozed off, he made sure no one woke me.

Until Alzheimer’s changed him, Dave made sure I knew I was loved. He made me feel important to him. He cherished me and he cherished our relationship. He was always sneaking up on me and planting a kiss on the back of my neck and taking off. I miss that.

When I sat next to him, he would lovingly caress my back, which could suddenly turn into tickling my ribs.

My Playful, Loving Husband

My Dave was so playful and witty. He matched my playfulness because I am very playful myself. He and I teased one another so often, and we never got offended because we never put one another down. We respected one another. If he got smart with me, I’d reach over, pinch his laughing cheeks, and say, “You’re so cute,” all while giving those cheeks a good squeeze.

Even at the end of his life, being bed bound did not stop him from being a lovable stinker. He grabbed my face and gave me a beard rub. I was laughing so hard. Then he grabbed my glasses and started waving them around just out of my reach.

If I made a big oops, he would say, “Having problems there, darlin’?”

When we did get into a big argument, we didn’t stay angry for long. We couldn’t bear being separated by anger. It made us physically ill. So we made up quickly.

We would take popular songs and change the words to fit whatever situation we were in at the moment, then sing them together.

I miss those times with him. I miss his companionship. We were like a pair of squirrels, I think, playing and enjoying life together. I spoiled him, and he spoiled me. I loved nothing more than getting him a drink and popping the cap for him. He rarely told me, “No,” but then again, I rarely said no to him. We wanted one another to be happy.

The Man Who Made Me Feel Safe

Dave was perfect for me. He accepted me as I was. He didn’t care that my body was imperfect after having babies and C-sections. He loved squeezing my belly at night. He treasured it, actually. He told me that was because it carried our babies.

Dave made me feel safe—a safety I had never felt elsewhere or with any other person. Period.

Remembering Dave After Alzheimer’s

Dave was such a big exaggerator. His storytelling could become so absurd. He’d crack me up. Either someone had seriously abused him, or that moose brushed right up against him when it passed by.

So while I’m smiling while writing about my Dave, I have tears brimming in my eyes as well. I’m always going to mourn him. At the moment, I doubt it will ever get easier. But that’s okay. It reminds me that I still love him and long for him. I cherish the moments we had and can always reach into my memories and find a moment that makes me smile.

The years I spent caring for Dave through Alzheimer’s changed me in ways I never expected. You can read more about our Alzheimer’s journey here:

Lord, Give Me the Grace to Forgive

Lord, Give Me the Grace to Forgive

Jul26

Before and after my husband’s death, I experienced a lot of cruelty from so-called friends and acquaintances. Some of it was intentional, while some probably came from awkwardness or naïveté. Regardless, it hurt, and I realized how incredibly difficult forgiving after loss can be. As a result, I’ve been asking God for the grace to forgive.

Many years ago, a priest gave me some simple advice. He said, “Every time the hurt resurfaces, say a Hail Mary for that person. Eventually the pain will lessen, and the sting will ebb away.”

He was right.

I’ve used this method for past hurts, and it worked. The memories never disappeared, but the sting did. I eventually got to the point where I felt nothing.

So now, every time one of these recent hurts finds its way into my thoughts, I pray a Hail Mary.

I’m still stunned by people’s callousness before and after Dave’s death.

A doctor throwing a tantrum in our bedroom.

A woman who knew I hadn’t had any real respite in what felt like forever, yet still had a tantrum because I told her “no.”

Another woman who showed up while Dave was dying on hospice to tell me I was feeding him the wrong foods. Never mind that he was only able to take liquids by syringe. She even informed me there was a so-called cure for Alzheimer’s and that she was going to bring me some. I told her that if a cure truly existed, Dave would have already had it. Then she went back to her comfortable little world. Just a few days after Dave’s funeral, she called to ask if I was going back to work. Wow!

The friends who never called or stopped by to sit with Dave so I could run to the grocery store or simply get out of the house for an hour.

The people who knew we’d received a huge snowfall but never checked to see if we were okay, if we could get in and out of our driveway, or whether our roof was safe under the snow load.

One of Dave’s good friends who decided he “really, really liked me” just a week after Dave’s funeral.

Another who called before Dave died insisting I should warehouse him because, in his words, Dave was already gone even if his body wasn’t.

And there were so many other painful moments.

Every one of those memories still surfaces from time to time.

And every time it does, I say a Hail Mary, trusting that this is my path toward forgiving after loss.

Not because what happened was acceptable.

Not because I’ve forgotten.

But because I want God’s grace to accomplish what I cannot do by myself.

Perhaps the hardest part was the head games after Dave passed. I won’t even go into those. I was exhausted, vulnerable, and by nature, a people pleaser. Those mind games really threw me for a loop.

Finding the Grace for Forgiving after Loss

So, if someone you love is caring for a dying spouse or anyone for that matter, be kind. Even if it feels awkward, reach out. Offer to sit with their loved one for an hour so they can rest, take a shower, run to the grocery store, or simply get out of the house for a little while. Send a text. Make a phone call. They don’t need to hear all the right words. They just need to know they haven’t been forgotten.

And by God’s grace, in time, I will experience the peace of forgiving after loss.

Before I close, I also want to thank the people who were there.

Thank you to the person who faithfully came to spend time with Dave. Thank you to the friends who came to his funeral. And thank you to the friends in the Lower 48 who called, texted, prayed, and encouraged me through the end days when I couldn’t get a decent CNA caregiver for Dave in this community.

You may never fully know what your kindness meant to me.

From the bottom of my heart…

Thank you.

I love you all.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Hail Mary

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.

Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.

Amen.

Catholic Faith After Loss: Finding Peace One Day at a Time

The Cavern Alzheimer’s Left Behind

Jul25

I woke this morning feeling the cavernous hole my husband was supposed to fill. The quick kiss and hug first thing in the morning, making his coffee, the idle chatter. My soulmate.

So I cried.

Granted, I am very blessed. My kids and dogs love me unconditionally. I have a safe home, and I’m financially secure. But I miss Dave’s warm body next to mine. I miss the time before that evil beast entered our lives: Alzheimer’s.

Missing that level of deep, daily human connection isn’t a sign that I’m ungrateful for my current blessings. It simply means we loved deeply, and the loss is still monumental.

I’m not willing to fill that cavern with breadcrumbs from opportunists or manipulators, however. I’d rather be alone.

I’ve closed many doors this year—for my own sanity and protection. Some belonged to Dave’s acquaintances, or so-called friends, and some were mine. That’s okay. No more people showing up to mooch money, satisfy their curiosity, or tell me how to run my life. Gone!

The friends I still have are scattered across Alaska, the Lower 48, and even other countries. So yes, life is quieter now. I was blessed to reconnect with one dear friend, and once she’s back from out of state, hopefully we’ll finally get together.

Maybe that’s why I still wake up aching for the life we had before Alzheimer’s. It’s impossible to separate missing Dave from remembering what Alzheimer’s put us through.

I’ve probably said this before, but Alzheimer’s is evil. It destroys not only the person who has it, but the caregivers and families who love them. It’s hell. Pure and simple. Hell on earth.

And the healthcare system, at least here in Alaska, leaves Alzheimer’s families largely on their own.

Thank God for Hospice.

We had no access to Alzheimer’s specialists. There may have been some in Anchorage, but Dave couldn’t fly. It was hard enough just getting him into the car.

The doctor we did have had such an ego that he wouldn’t reach out to colleagues or Alzheimer’s experts to discuss Dave’s case. For years I listened to him tell me he didn’t think Dave had Alzheimer’s because Dave didn’t fit what he’d seen in his other patients. Blah, blah, blah.

Finally, I got Dave in to see the local neurologist—after paying $200 just for a referral letter. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for the referral, but $200? Wow. The neurologist examined him and said, yes, Dave had severe Alzheimer’s. He couldn’t believe I’d managed as long as I had without specialized care.

Well, you do what you have to do. That’s the bottom line.

Getting the doctor to approve Hospice was another battle. He insisted Dave wasn’t going to die anytime soon. He pointed out that I was already providing hospice care and that Hospice itself didn’t do much of anything.

Dave couldn’t walk. He was bedbound and rapidly losing every function. He became bedbound three days after his birthday, November 13. He died on January 7.

I finally called Hospice myself.

They contacted the doctor and sent over the paperwork. Once again, there was another tantrum. Eventually, he signed it.

The doctor’s opinion of Hospice was wrong! So very wrong!

The nurse who came to evaluate Dave was incredible. That same night he was admitted to Hospice. The next day medications arrived to help ease his anxiety.

Hospice was a godsend. They provided pain and anxiety medication, training, supplies, and a CNA who came once a week to help me bathe Dave and teach me what I needed to know. Most importantly, I no longer felt like I was going through this alone.

Even with medication, rolling him over and cleaning him was often a battle. I got cursed at more than once. Looking back, I can even smile a little about it. That’s okay. I still had to care for him. I wasn’t about to let his skin break down.

It was exhausting, physical work, and I will always be grateful to my kids, who came before and after work to help care for him during those last few weeks.

Eventually, I started sleeping on the couch because his sundowning kept me awake all night.

Then one day… it stopped.

I moved back into our bedroom, but it was bittersweet. The sundowning had stopped because Alzheimer’s had entered another stage. It was shutting down his brain, little by little. I could see the changes every single day.

He became like a little boy. My baby.

He played with toys for a while.

Then he stopped playing.

Then he became silent.

Then his body began shutting down.

To my horror, he started passing blood.

I was terrified I’d caused it by increasing his pain medication. (Yes, Alzheimer’s causes pain too. Things that once would have been comforting or pleasurable had become unbearable for him.)

I called Hospice sobbing.

They reassured me I’d done nothing wrong. They wouldn’t tell me he was dying. They simply told me to keep him comfortable.

The smell of blood mixed with excrement was horrendous.

I cleaned him as gently and as often as I could. But the blood and excrement kept coming.

Then the moment arrived.

I was lying in bed beside him, snuggled close, with our children and my son-in-law there too. We had already begun quietly sharing memories before he took his last breath.

Dave was seen standing in the kitchen doorway, looking toward the living room. Then he turned and walked away.

Dave had left this life for another.

The Adventures of Sir Rygel

Jul9

Rygel is such a little man. Around here, we often call him Sir Rygel.

He got his name from the television show Farscape, after Dominar Rygel XVI. From the day he arrived at our house, he lived up to the name. Tiny in size but enormous in confidence, Sir Rygel has always believed the world revolves around him. He is part Pomeranian and part Boston Terrier, and we absolutely adore him.

Kaya, on the other hand, had absolutely no idea what to do with this tiny creature. She is part Labrador and Border Collie, not much older than Rygel and enormous by comparison.

The poor girl was both patient and completely bewildered.

Rygel would climb all over her, twisting her fur into little “teats” as he searched for milk that simply didn’t exist. Kaya would glance over at us with an expression that clearly said, Would somebody please explain this little guy to me? Whatever should I do?

Meanwhile, Sir Rygel remained completely convinced that if he just kept looking, he was eventually going to find what he was after.

Bless Kaya’s heart. She tolerated every minute of it.

Starfire, my Karelian Bear Dog, was an entirely different story.

Sir Rygel toddled over with the same plan in mind.

One low growl later…

That experiment was officially over.

At his first veterinary appointment, my daughter and Rygel were standing next to a woman whose dog had recently had puppies. The moment Rygel caught the scent of milk, he instantly started crying. The mother dog invited him to come nurse.

Rygel’s weaning was clearly not going well, and he wasn’t getting any opportunities to nurse to his heart’s content. Thankfully, over time his desire to nurse faded—much to Kaya’s relief.

Starfire, on the other hand, had very firm boundaries. Nursing was out of the question, and sniffing her butt was absolutely forbidden.

Only she was allowed to sniff butt being the head dog!

Eventually my daughter moved out taking Rygel with her. His absence left quite an emptiness in the evenings but we still had him daily. My daughter dropped him off every single day before she headed to work and picked him up afterwards.

Every day was a circus with those three dogs.

Rygel was tiny enough to scoot underneath the coffee table, where he considered himself completely untouchable. Kaya and Star would race around the table while Sir Rygel stuck his little head out and snapped viciously at them every time they ran past. In his mind, he was absolutely terrifying.

One day, however, he made a mistake.

His tail was sticking out from under the table.

Kaya spotted it and grabbed hold, trying to pull him out. I quickly made her let go before anyone got hurt.

This chaos happened regularly, often while I was in the kitchen on a phone call or video call. I could never have a quiet conversation with those three around.

So much madness… and I enjoyed every moment!!

Another moment that still makes me chuckle happened when Rygel dashed into his puppy bed tent during another episode of madness in the house of dogs barking and chasing one another.

Kaya ran over to the puppy tent. Sir Rygel was fiercely protecting his domain, snapping ferociously at Kaya from inside his little fortress.

Then Kaya did something I never expected.

She picked up the puppy tent—with Rygel still inside.

I absolutely cracked up laughing.

There was Kaya swinging the puppy tent around while Sir Rygel stuck his head out, growling and barking as if he were still the mighty protector of his kingdom. Kaya, meanwhile, looked quite pleased with herself.

Of course, I had to make her put the puppy tent down. I didn’t want Rygel getting accidentally hurt.

I only wish I had thought to video it.

My daughter often walks Rygel down to our house every day instead of driving. On rainy days or during spring breakup, there are puddles everywhere.

Sir Rygel will have none of it.

He insists on being carried. Getting his feet wet is simply unacceptable.

Going potty during these times can become quite an ordeal too. He will often wait until he reaches my yard, or he will sneak underneath the trampoline at my daughter’s house for privacy, of course.

At night, he insists that my daughter protect him at her house. She has to accompany him outside while he takes care of business.

At my house, he has the girls to protect him.

After all, even Sir Rygel must have a security team at all times – especially when he is the most vulnerable.

Rygel likes his quiet moments too.

Nap time, for example, is very important in Sir Rygel’s world.

Before my husband Dave passed away, Rygel and Dave would snuggle together on the couch. The girls would lie on the floor as his protectors, of course, allowing him to rest peacefully while stretched out on his back.

Now that Dave is gone, Rygel has decided that I am a suitable substitute.

When 1:00 pm rolls around, he starts his routine. He runs to the bedroom, runs back to find me, and does everything he can to encourage me to take a nap.

Of course, I can’t say no to him.

The girls often follow us and lie on the floor around my bed, continuing their important duties as Rygel’s protectors.

Sir Rygel must check on his girls, Kaya and Star, on weekends when he spends the day with my daughter.

If she turns left when running errands instead of turning right toward our house, he has an absolute meltdown. A complete panic.

The first time it happened, my daughter thought he was having some sort of seizure and took him to the veterinarian. It turned out Sir Rygel was simply having a very strong opinion about his plans changing.

Now, she drops him off at my house before she runs errands and he spends the day.

Sir Rygel has made multiple trips to the vet over the years for the oddest things: emotional meltdowns, reactions to vaccinations, and, of course, his neutering.

Oh my.

When he was neutered, the vet’s office forgot to send pain medication home with him. It wasn’t long before Sir Rygel made his feelings very clear. He ended up back at the vet, where they explained that he was extremely sensitive and needed pain medication. We were amazed they hadn’t provided pain medication in the first place. After all, he is Sir Rygel! Poor little man that he is!

Sir Rygel has his musts also.

He must have his blue bear. His treats must be a certain size. And his canned food must be cut into small pieces for him to properly consume.

After all, one cannot expect Sir Rygel to lower his standards. He is, after all, sensitive and quite delicate in nature, as you know.

Sir Rygel has his very own cat—or perhaps it is the other way around. Perhaps the cat has Sir Rygel.

Jayce, a lovely ginger tabby, lives with Sir Rygel and absolutely adores him. Sir Rygel, on the other hand, merely tolerates him.

Jayce has a bit of a weight problem and enjoys using Rygel for his own comfort. He likes to prop himself against Rygel while bathing, completely ignoring Sir Rygel’s importance.

Jayce simply does not care.

To him, Rygel is there for his convenience. He is there to lean against, to use as a pillow, and apparently to sleep on.

Sir Rygel tolerates this indignity, but you can imagine the dismay on his little face. He even does a bit of sniveling.

After all, this treatment is beneath him.

“My people, why don’t you correct this situation?!”

Right after we got Rygel, we learned very quickly how sensitive he was—and he still is to this day.

One day, I came in carrying an armload of wood and saw baby Rygel standing there watching me. Just for fun, I blew a raspberry at him as I walked by.

The look of pure disgust that came over his face was priceless.

He turned around and immediately left the room.

Of course, I had to test whether it was merely a coincidence. When he came back into the room, I blew another raspberry.

He looked absolutely shocked and left the room again.

That confirmed it.

Sir Rygel does not tolerate such behavior. He finds such behaviour quite offensive.

He is the same way with certain other unpleasant sounds. If anyone passes gas, he immediately scrambles to get away from the area.

My son, of course, being a guy, can be quite crude some days. One day, he deliberately let out a loud fart while Rygel was sitting right next to him.

Rygel took off like his life depended on it, escaping that horrible odor assaulting his delicate nostrils, while my son nearly fell over laughing.

Poor Sir Rygel. It was quite a long time before he returned to the room.

My son refuses to babysit Sir Rygel.

Why?

Because Rygel will cry and snivel the entire time my daughter is gone when he is with my son. He doesn’t do that with us.

By 3:00 pm, Sir Rygel expects her to come get him, although that doesn’t happen very often. When she doesn’t appear, he takes up his waiting position. Sometimes he sits in the doorway, and other times he sits on the back of the couch, watching and hoping for a glimpse of his favorite person in the whole world—my daughter, his mistress.

His little forlorn face says it all: sad eyes, droopy ears, and the look of a dog who believes he has been forgotten.

Then, the moment he sees her, everything changes.

He is suddenly full of joy, bouncing around and running outside excitedly to greet her.

After the excitement settles, he goes to make up his bed and show her where she can sleep.

He doesn’t want her to leave—even if he gets to go with her.

Sir Rygel wants his entire pack together.

He wants her to stay too.

Sir Rygel, along with Kaya and Starfire, are now aging rapidly. It makes me sad, honestly.

I try not to dwell too much on the reality that one day the three of them will be on the other side of the veil, being themselves again—but young, full of energy and joy, chasing one another around and waiting for us to join them.

My Dave will be there to greet them.

Until that time, I will continue enjoying every moment with them, even though it is sometimes difficult to see how much they have slowed down.

Well, the two girls have slowed down.

Sir Rygel still has a little pep in his step, thankfully. After all, even an aging Sir Rygel must maintain his dignity. Such a precious little man, he is!!

❤️

I Signed to Him Last Night

Jul8

I truly miss the companionship my late husband brought into our marriage. There was real love and warmth between us most of the time. Granted, we had our moments, but there was never abuse or gaslighting. We said what we needed to say, made up, and moved on. Neither of us could bear holding onto anger. It made us physically ill.

Dave was a romantic. We held hands everywhere we went and even while watching television together. He thought nothing of pulling me into his arms for a slow dance in the living room. Those are the moments I will always treasure. As the old coffee commercial said, “The richest kind.” They are memories far richer than the heartbreaking years of Alzheimer’s.

Yet one precious moment stands out near the end of his life.

By then, Dave could no longer speak. One day, he suddenly looked at me and signed, “I love you.”

I will treasure that moment for the rest of my life.

Long before Alzheimer’s, we had made a habit of signing “I love you” in ASL as I backed out of the driveway on my way to work, or whenever he dropped me off somewhere. It became our quiet little tradition.

Last night, I signed those same three words to him.

I don’t know whether he can still see them from where he is, but it didn’t matter. My heart needed to say them one more time in ASL.

Dave… I love you.
🤟

Hard Truth – Learning to Take Refuge in the Lord

Jul4

Psalm 118:8

It is better to take refuge in the LORD than to trust in humans.

The Hard Truth About Trust

A colleague once told me I was too honest and too trusting. That was a hard truth for me to hear. I don’t want to become paranoid or assume everyone has an agenda against me.

Recently, I was reminded of what she said. She was right. It seems I never learn. You would think after everything I’ve experienced, I would remember.

Most people mean well. Some do not. Some hide their intentions, and when they’re caught, they turn it back on you. Many people don’t believe they are capable of hurting others. They protect their good-guy image at all costs, even to the point of gaslighting.

I have two sides. Everyone does. I try hard, yet I fail too. I worry about the people I confront. Then I feel guilty for confronting them. Does that make sense? Should I keep quiet so they don’t get hurt, even if I do?

Why don’t I ever learn? Probably for the same reason I can’t stay angry. A day later, I’m over it. I forgive, I move on, and I sometimes wonder why that seems so difficult for others. But I am grieving—grieving the loss of my husband and the loss of a friendship. Grief changes how you see people. It also makes you long for connection, which can make it easier to trust when you should be more cautious. I still need people, I just don’t always know how to manage them right now.

Wishing my guardian angel would reach out and smack me on the head when I’m about to trust too quickly would be great! Maybe he already has, and I just wasn’t listening. I don’t know.

Learning to Take Refuge

This much I do know: God has always taken care of me, and I need to remain diligent in remembering that. So I mourn. I’m sad. I feel stupid. And I make impulsive choices.

I’m learning to take refuge in the LORD instead.

Waking up this morning was hard. I listened to some soft classical music with my head under the covers and dozed.

Having ADHD, in order to survive this world and fit in prior to retirement, I masked all the time. It was exhausting. I still mask some, but since my husband’s death, I let the mask fall more often. I can now be myself.

I have decided to stay in bed most of the day, do some writing, maybe read, until it is time to get ready for Mass.

My dogs are aging rapidly. Kaya reminded me of this about two hours ago. She was happily throwing the sheet around on her dog bed. I thought she was fixing it to lie down in. Instead, once done, she squatted and peed all over it. This is the second time this has happened. I was shocked. Her sheet and bed cover are in the wash at the moment. It briefly reminded me of caring for my husband during his Alzheimer’s days—how memory can get pulled up by the smallest things.

I saw an advert for an AI companion that cuddles with you. It looks like a huge marshmallow and it won’t cross boundaries. Then I could cuddle safely with it, my head on its fuzzy chest and its fat arms around me. I may invest in it. No I’m not kidding. If only it could walk and talk, it would be perfect. I’d never need another person again. I’d never have to worry about saying the wrong thing and hurting their feelings or their hurting mine—at least for now.

Regardless I will always turn to God. He has always been there for me. I trust in Him, always—even when I mess up.

Jesus, I trust in You. Take care of everything. Amen.

Catholic Faith After Loss: Finding Peace One Day at a Time

May13

Living Between Two Worlds

Catholic faith after loss has become even more important to me than I ever imagined. I live in a Catholic world. It is not an easy path to follow. In truth, it can be quite hard. I have friends from many different walks of life who live in the secular world. Even when I do not approve of their choices, I still love them unconditionally. I wish them well and want the best for them, even those who have hurt me. I try never to hurt anyone, even when I disagree with them. Admittedly, I have foundered in that area lately, and I feel horrible about it. All I can do is apologize.

Living My Catholic Faith Every Day

Catholicism is integrated into my daily life. I fail terribly at times. I strive to honor God in how I live, but being human, temptations can easily pull me off that narrow path. My chosen way of life is strict in many ways, yet when I stay on that path, I find peace. It is usually when I veer away from it that I find confusion, sadness, and misery within myself. That confusion, sadness, and misery can easily affect others as well. I have to remind myself of this daily. Everything I do and say has consequences, and those consequences matter to me and to the people I love.

How Catholic Faith Strengthened Our Marriage

For me, that faith also shaped my understanding of marriage. There was trust, loyalty, and commitment between Dave and me. That does exist outside the Catholic faith too, of course, because goodness exists in many people regardless of religion. Still, I believe my faith gave our marriage structure, accountability, and purpose. In a world that often feels chaotic and uncertain, that stability mattered deeply to me. Dave and I knew where we stood with one another.

Love Beyond Passion

I struggle to understand modern relationships sometimes. So much of the world now feels temporary and disposable. People move in and out of each other’s lives quickly often leaving hurt behind them. Perhaps they are searching for happiness, but I sometimes wonder if they are truly finding it. Yes, there are miserable married Catholics. I feel very blessed to have shared life with a man such as Dave. He wasn’t passionate, but he loved me, and that matters more than anything. I’ve had passion. It is absolutely marvelous, but passion itself isn’t enough. Love, however, is.

Finding Strength After Loss

There isn’t a day that passes that I don’t whisper to my Dave that I miss him and wish he were here. I miss the companionship. I miss the stability our marriage brought. I miss the protection I had. I don’t know if I will ever encounter it again. I have to find a way to hold that stability within myself now that my Dave is gone. It will take time, I know. Somehow, I will find it.

Catholic Faith After Loss Continues to Guide Me

Ultimately, Catholicism gives me direction, meaning, spiritual growth, and above all, peace—when I stay on the path I believe God has called me to follow. I am learning how to continue, even while falling occasionally, and with God’s grace, standing back up, brushing myself off, and carrying on this journey—never truly alone, but walking it with Him.

Lord, Give Me the Grace to Forgive