Reflections

I’ve been reflecting on all sorts of things like the time I turned the Stingray bicycle upside down and rested it on the banana seat and handlebars. I spun the pedals quickly with my hands, dropping freshly cut grass onto the spinning tire. The clicking sound of the clothespinned playing card hitting the spokes echoed through the fender as grass shot out the other end. In my mind, I was crafting a gourmet delicacy for the neighborhood. In reality, I was making a mess.

I remember meeting Doug for the first time. He says we had met before, but I don’t recall that. During Winter break from college, I sought him out to ask about chaperoning a youth retreat he was planning. I was 18 years old, feeling like I was 30. He was tall, handsome, and way older than me (22), but most importantly, he was available. Nervous and excited, I eagerly marked the retreat on my Spring calendar. May couldn’t come soon enough.

Our wedding day was beautiful—filled with sunshine, family, and friends. It was the beginning of a new chapter. I was 21.

Like most of my 20s, those newlywed days are a bit of a blur. By the time I was 28, we had three children. Doug loved being a dad. He’d rush home from work to spend evenings on the floor building Lego towers or telling made-up bedtime stories about flying dogs who rescued kids from precarious situations.

Doug’s workshop was the garage. It was his sanctuary, where he handcrafted beautiful furniture as a hobby. Often, he’d sit across the table from me, grab a napkin and a pen, and sketch his next idea with a sparkle in his eye. Lots of wood and dust later, his vision would come to life as a beautiful work of art. He built bed frames, tables big and small, chairs—lots of chairs—shelves, cabinets, and countless other keepsakes. Many of those pieces are still in my home today.

I used to call myself a golf widow. Doug loved golf and had plenty of friends who shared his passion. “A round of golf takes five or six hours,” I’d complain. “You golf when we’d rather have you home.” Despite my protests, his smile always managed to soften my frustration. We had many discussions about it, and eventually, I came to accept his love for the game. Golf even became part of his career. As a caddie for the PGA, he globetrotted. I once asked why he chose caddying over playing. He told me, “A caddie serves the player.” Doug’s humility and desire to serve were qualities we cherished at home, too.

Dementia crept into our lives stealthily. Doug noticed it first on the golf course—he struggled to follow his ball and keep score. I saw it in the kitchen—he’d empty the dishwasher and put dishes in the wrong places. At first, we didn’t talk about it. We laughed it off, justified, defended, and excused it for years.

Eventually, we had to acknowledge it. Doug’s odd behaviors became impossible to ignore. He missed a flight, couldn’t work the TV remote, got a traffic ticket, struggled with woodworking designs, abruptly quit his job, and couldn’t remember the rules of card games. A doctor’s visit became inevitable.

Dementia in someone so young (56) wasn’t where the conversation started. After an MRI, I thought he might have a brain tumor, cancer, or even a stroke—something we could fix, treat, or reverse. But a terminal, life-limiting disease with no cure was not on our radar. We had retirement dreams: traveling, grandchildren, teaching me to golf, sitting on a porch swing, laughing, and growing old together. All of that felt shattered.

Hospice care arrived in our home a few months ago to help me navigate the relentless 10-year march of dementia. Doug’s zest for life was hard to keep up with. It gave him daily energy and long, confident strides. Now, he walks slowly with unsteady steps and sleeps more than he’s awake. I long to hear his voice, to know how he feels and what he thinks. His smile still tugs at my heart, and his eyes still convey his love.

When I hold him, I tightly wrap my arms around him, and I wrap his arms around me. I breathe him in—his scent, his warmth—pressing my cheek against his chest to feel his heartbeat. I want to imprint him into me, to keep a piece of him alive in my soul. Reflection and remembering are my ways to keep him close, even in the silence and stillness of this relentless march.  I hold on to the love we’ve shared one day at a time. It keeps me going, as I hope it will for years to come.

Karen