On the heels of his recovery from prostate cancer, my husband was diagnosed with dementia. Dazed and bewildered, we sat in the doctor’s office, listening as he explained what to expect in the years ahead. Fred and I clung to each other’s hands, as though they were the only rope keeping us from being swept away in the raging waters of yet another frightening diagnosis.
When we left the office, drained and hungry, we found a nearby restaurant. Across the table, Fred reached for my hands, his eyes filled with such sadness it pierced me. Quietly he asked, “Did I actually hurt you? I can’t remember doing anything. You know I wouldn’t hurt you for anything in this world.”
I squeezed his hand and spoke softly. “There were a few things that were out of character. I made the appointment because I knew something had to be causing you to act so differently. Now we know the reason.” Sharing a simple meal together, we found a fragile kind of peace—something ordinary to steady us as we began facing an uncertain future.
Back home, we slipped into the familiar ebb and flow of our days. Fred still made his auto parts deliveries; his deep voice still rolled through the church choir; and he still delighted in tending his flock of chickens, speaking to them as though they were old friends. Humor, love, and small joys continued to stitch our days together.
But over the next two years, the changes in him grew. He could no longer keep up with deliveries. He could no longer keep to the right stanza in his choir music without assistance; what once came so naturally slipped away from him. Even his beloved chickens became too much for him to manage. Slowly, every responsibility we once shared fell onto my shoulders, even as I continued working in ministry part-time.
The man I had loved for more than thirty-five years was fading before my eyes. I wasn’t always patient. I grew weary, and sometimes I lost my temper when he asked the same question repeatedly or lashed out in frustration when words failed him. Those moments solved nothing and left us both hurting. So I leaned harder into prayer—prayers for patience, for forgiveness, for strength enough to show him love through each change, and for grace to carry us both into whatever lay ahead.
Prayer, family, and girlfriends were invaluable during those years. I am grateful to everyone who listened to my hurts and tears. You gave me the courage to keep going with each smile, hug, and squeeze of the hand, as well as the late-night phone calls. Many days, I could feel the Holy Spirit carrying me forward because you had been holding me before the Throne.
Thank you for spending a little time here with me today. If something I shared touched your heart, I’d love for you to share your thoughts in the comments. Your words might be just the encouragement someone else is looking for.
And if you’d like to continue walking this journey with me, don’t forget to subscribe and return each Wednesday. We’re building a little community here — a place where stories and hearts meet — and I’d be so glad to have you be part of it.
Until next time, remember: you’re not alone.”
– Gritty Granny
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