As I approach my late seventies, retirement has proven far more challenging than I anticipated. After leaving the workforce at 66, I had modest hopes for a peaceful chapter of life. However, those dreams were quickly overshadowed when my wife began showing early signs of dementia, transforming our golden years into an unexpected journey of caregiving and adaptation.

Life had different designs for us. Our dreams of leisurely adventures and golden-year explorations faded like distant memories. Fate, with its unpredictable brushstrokes, painted a canvas far removed from our carefully sketched plans. Isn’t that the nature of existence—a series of unexpected turns and unscripted moments?

Being a caretaker for someone with dementia transcends the traditional concept of a job, consuming every waking moment and challenging the very definition of full-time work. The phrase “full-time job” fails to capture the relentless emotional, physical, and mental demands that caregivers experience around the clock.

When a person is the sole caretaker of someone with dementia, it means twenty-five hours a day. It means sleeping with one eye open. It means no holidays, no vacations. It means no sick days. It means working through it all, regardless.

If fortunate, you might get some help. More likely, you will be flooded with advice, most of which will be useless.

Don’t count on help from family, friends, or community. Strangely, that number shrinks daily. They all have their own families and commitments. Besides, who wants to watch a loved one slowly pass away before their eyes?

Throughout history, certain ancient cultures practiced the harsh tradition of abandoning elderly members on the outskirts of their settlements, providing minimal provisions and leaving them to fend for themselves. This cruel practice reflects a stark contrast to our modern understanding of human dignity and compassionate care for the aging population. Today, we recognize the inherent value of our elders and strive to support and respect them, ensuring they are not marginalized or discarded.

And yet, here we are, just the two of us. We are living within the city limits, not two or three miles into the wilderness. We do have a roof over our heads, waiting for the Lord to take us home.

I would say everyone just leaves us, just waits, but that’s not true. It seems, as I figuratively tread water well enough to get our heads above water, the city of Horn Lake decides to toss me a boat anchor. It would seem they are not satisfied with waiting for us to pass; they seem to enjoy threatening us with jail figuratively driving us under the waves.

I must admit, the thought does intrigue me. I could do with a rest. Jail time might be a nice vacation.

But then…. Who will take care of my wife?