A Quiet Afternoon at the Counter
I walked up to Kevin yesterday afternoon as he sat at the counter, sorting his four medications into his weekly pill organizer.
Only, this time, something was different.
The man who once did this task with precision now sat frozen, sections open, others closed, and confusion where confidence used to be.
He knew something was wrong, and he was trying so hard to fix it.
But he couldn’t.
So, I gently asked if I could help.
He looked up, and our eyes met. In that moment, I saw something I haven’t seen often throughout this diagnosis. It wasn’t frustration or confusion, it was something heavier.
It was discouragement.
It was the weight of realization settling in.
The Moment That Broke My Heart
Kevin doesn’t notice when I’ve answered the same question several times in an hour.
He doesn’t realize he’s repeated the same thought only minutes apart.
But this, organizing his medication, he should know.
He’s done it hundreds of times with precision and ease.
Now, without my help, it’s impossible.
As a tear slid down his cheek, I wrapped my arms around him. For a moment, we simply stood there. The hum of the refrigerator filled the quiet, and the weight of loss and love mingled in the space between us.
Finally, I whispered, “I’ve got you.”
He looked at me and said softly, “I know.”
That moment will stay with me forever.
Because while Alzheimer’s keeps taking memories, routines, independence, it cannot take love.
It cannot take faith.
And it cannot take away the peace that passes understanding.
When Hope Feels Hard
I live my life leaning on hope.
And the truth is, in Alzheimer’s, the only hope this side of heaven is that one day there might be a cure.
Even so, I know that day won’t come soon enough for my husband.
Still, even here—in the devastation and decline—God’s peace is woven through every sorrowful thread.
We may not get the miracle we long for, but we will never hand over our story to the enemy.
So, we will keep walking.
We will keep hoping.
We will keep loving.
Because this disease will not have the final word.
God will.
The Hope That Remains
One day, whether here or in heaven. we will live free of it.
Until then, I’ll keep reminding him,
“You have me.”
And he’ll keep reminding me,
“I know.”
And somehow, that’s enough for today.
🌿 Reflection
There are moments in caregiving when words fail and presence has to be enough. Yesterday was one of those moments for me.
The truth is, love often looks less like fixing and more like quietly standing beside someone as they face what can’t be undone.
Maybe you’ve been there too—watching someone you love slip away in slow motion, trying to hold steady while your heart quietly breaks.
If that’s you, friend, take heart.
God sees the unseen ache of caregivers. He walks beside the ones who feel invisible—the ones who whisper prayers through tears while sorting pill bottles and paperwork.
Peace doesn’t erase pain, but it does make it bearable.
And hope? Hope reminds us that this isn’t the end of the story.
✨ Scripture for the Journey
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
— Psalm 34:18
💬 Let’s Connect
Have you walked a similar journey of caregiving, memory loss, or long goodbyes?
Share a thought or a prayer below—I’d love to stand with you in it.
From my heart,
Cindy 💜
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#alzheimersawareness #dementiacaregiver #caregiverlife #loveneverforgets #storiesofstrength #realstoriesrealfaith
This Post Has 4 Comments
I am so sorry for your pain & loss. I am filled with hope & encouragement from your words that are wrought through love, hope & trust in our LORD. You are such an encouragement & inspiration to others. Your Heavenly perspective is a bright shinning light to all.
Thanks so much, Diane. God is so good. I appreciate your sweet words.
My brain shut down when the doctor went through the cognitive test with my husband. The question was simple, “Name 5 things that you see in this room.”. I saw him look around unable to identify anything..
This man who just two days before who chose the perfect word, from an extensive vocabulary, to describe his thoughts exactly, could not name a single item in the room.
I had no idea whether this was a permanent condition or if there was hope for his future. I didn’t allow myself to react. After the doctor left I was content with the fact that he recognized me. I couldn’t hug him because of his neck brace and broken ribs. But I prayed for him — for us and our journey.
The next few months required my surrender to my Lord as we gradually made progress and he regained most, but not all, of his vocabulary and memory.
I totally understand the heart drop as we watch our husbands humbled by their own brains. God is always good. There is always purpose in the pain.