Category Archives: Caregving,
Embracing Change: Life Lessons from a Soldier’s Past
Earlier today, I was tagged in a photo on social media—a group shot taken in December 2002 during our 70D STX training, just months before the Iraq invasion. My first reaction was surprise, followed quickly by a flood of memories. No smartphones. MySpace was still the king of connection. I was in uniform, standing tall, trying to wear my best “war face.” I even had hair back then.
At that moment in time, my personal life was uncertain. I was recently divorced, unsure of where I’d live, and even more uncertain of what I’d be doing professionally. All I knew was that I wanted to stay close to my children, even as the Army had me moving in the opposite direction. Everything felt like it was shifting under my feet.
But looking back, I realize something: everything is always shifting. Like water, life never stays in the same place—it’s always in motion. Sometimes slow, sometimes raging, but always flowing. I used to crave control over every aspect of my personal and professional life. And I convinced myself that, at times, I had it. That illusion helped me sleep at night, helped me lead others, helped me believe I was making all the right moves.
Now, with 23 more years of living, learning, and letting go behind me, I’ve come to embrace a different truth: it’s okay not to control everything. In fact, that surrender has helped me grow. It’s made me more accepting of people, setbacks, and life’s curveballs. Some of the biggest disappointments in my life eventually rerouted me to something far better than I had planned.
Today, I’m working through some of the biggest challenges I’ve ever faced—accepting my wife’s ongoing battle with cancer and her limited mobility, navigating the rollercoaster of parenting a teenage daughter, and growing a business that’s rooted in purpose and resilience. I try to take it one day at a time. Like nurturing an oak sapling—you water it a little each day, give it sunlight, protect it during storms. And over time, without you even noticing, it becomes a mighty oak.
That photo reminded me who I was—and affirmed who I’m becoming. The young soldier I was then would be proud of the man I am now, not because everything turned out perfect, but because I kept showing up. I kept growing. I kept going.
I wonder if anyone in that picture can spot me. Look closely—I’m there, trying to be serious, probably thinking about the mission ahead. That version of me had no idea what was coming. But I’m grateful for him. And I’m even more grateful for who I’ve become.
Life Changes in an Instant: A Caregiver’s Journey
We’ve all heard the phrase: “In the blink of an eye, everything can change.” It’s easy to brush off—it’s a quote we’ve heard in books, seen in movies, or used when something minor goes sideways. I’ve heard it a million times. But living it—really living it—is different.
As a two-time caregiver, I’ve come to truly understand the depth of that phrase. This second time around has given me what we used to call in the military situational awareness. That’s the moment when you stop reacting emotionally and begin assessing reality: the inputs, the outputs, and what you can do—even if it’s just mitigating the damage.
A few months ago, my wife hadn’t walked in six months. Chemo had ravaged her body. She was pale, fragile, eyes sunken. I’d seen that look before in others, but this was my wife.
Then one morning, I walked into our little home gym and found her wheelchair stuck in the doorway. I looked across the room and there she was, standing—cleaning out a closet.
“How did you get over there?” I asked, stunned.
“I walked,” she said.
Using the treadmill and bench to balance herself, she’d made her way across the room. That was the first time in half a year. I yelled for our son—his mom had walked. Within a week she was moving around the house. Within a month, she was logging 5,000 steps a day, laughing with friends, going to parties. Her oncologist called it miraculous.
Life returned. Our home was lighter. The walker and wheelchair went back in the garage. We stopped arguing. We were happy again—almost like the storm had passed without us noticing.
Then her knee started to ache. Badly. We pulled the walker back out. Then the wheelchair. And when I had to reinstall the ramp on our front steps… that’s when it hit me.
We were back at the bottom.
Tensions flared again. My daughter and I, already frayed, started arguing like before. Caregiving is constant—it never turns off. It demands your whole being. You feel like if you step away for even a moment, everything might fall apart.
But this time… I told myself it would be different.
My wife, thankfully, was approved for Social Security Disability in a single day. Say what you will about government programs—but after 40 years of paying taxes, that moment mattered. It gave us some breathing room. I no longer needed to work part time just to get by. Now, I could be present. For her. For our daughter. And for myself.
That meant waking early. Drinking my coffee in peace. Saying my mantras. Walking the dogs. Going to fitness class. Writing. Reflecting.
We were gifted three months of light. Three months of freedom. And even if that season never returns, I will always cherish it.
Because I know how quickly it can all change.
Situational awareness isn’t just for combat zones. It’s for living rooms. For hospital beds. For quiet corners where you cry alone. It’s knowing when to breathe, when to speak, and when to let go of trying to control what can’t be controlled.
It’s about grace.
It’s about gratitude.
And it’s about recognizing—in the blink of an eye—that even the smallest step forward is a miracle worth holding onto.
Finding Strength in Fear: A Roadmap for Resilience
Sometimes we all need strength to persevere. Some days are harder than others. Some moments are like ice. Sometimes we need to have a plan to move forward. This is mine.
That feeling—of being stuck in place while time barrels forward like a freight train—is terrifying. The quiet becomes a roar. Your heart races while your body doesn’t move. It feels like you’re standing on a shore, watching a storm roll in, knowing you can’t hold back the waves.
But you’re not alone in this.
When fear takes over, survival doesn’t look like bravery. It looks like breathing, getting out of bed, putting one foot in front of the other, even if you don’t know where you’re going yet.
Here’s a small roadmap—just enough to get through one moment, then the next:
1. Name It
Say out loud (or write it down):
“I’m afraid of ____. I feel like ____.”
Giving fear a name takes away some of its power. It makes it something you are experiencing—not something that is you.
2. Shrink the Future
When the future feels unbearable, don’t try to live it all at once.
Try living just the next five minutes.
Then the next hour.
You’ll be surprised how far that can carry you.
3. Choose One Thing You Can Control
Maybe it’s taking a walk.
Making a cup of coffee.
Writing a message to someone you trust.
Control just one thing. That can be enough to anchor you today.
4. Let Others Be Your Strength
Even if you feel like a burden—you’re not.
Let someone carry a bit of this with you.
You don’t have to have the right words. Just say:
“I’m not okay. Can you just sit with me in this for a moment?”
5. Grace Over Guilt
If all you did today was survive—that counts.
You don’t have to fix everything. Not today. Maybe not even tomorrow.
You just have to keep showing up. You already are.
You asked how you can survive it.
You survive it the same way you’ve survived every hard thing before:
With a cracked heart and the quiet strength you don’t even realize you have.
And when you’re ready, we can talk about how to walk forward—not fast, just real.
I’m here for that walk whenever you are.
Learning from Mistakes: A DUI Reflection
For over 40 years, I have been behind the wheel, driving without incident—until now. I got a DUI. It still feels surreal to write those words. But the reality is, it happened, and I have no excuse. I have asked myself over and over, why did I not realize how dangerous and serious this was? And if I did, why did I not care?
Maybe it’s the weight of family burdens. Maybe it’s the inescapable reality of watching someone you love battle cancer—the most fatal form of it—a cruel, relentless adversary. Maybe it’s the anger and pain of an adolescent facing the potential loss of her mother. Maybe it’s depression, anxiety, or the gnawing exhaustion that comes with carrying so much.
The truth is, sometimes I feel like giving up on being the best version of myself. And I hate that feeling. But when it comes, it consumes me until something shakes me awake. This time, it was my DUI.
For years, I pushed the envelope. Since before I was 19, I thought I had control. How I managed to avoid hurting myself or someone else all these years is nothing short of a miracle. I could lie to myself and say, I never drove under the influence before—that I felt fine driving home that night. But that’s just not true.
I know chemistry. I understand biology. I know how alcohol affects the body, how it impairs judgment, and how much is too much. Yet, on that night, I just didn’t care. That’s the scariest part.
I passed the field sobriety test, but that didn’t matter. As I sat handcuffed in the back of the sheriff’s patrol car, all I could think was, It’s about time. I was taken to the DUI intake center and given a breathalyzer test—.10% BAC, 2% over the legal limit. From there, I was booked into the county jail and spent several hours waiting to post bail.
What came next was worse than my own shame. Scammers took advantage of the situation, calling my family including my children and friends, pretending to be a bail bonds company. My wife, out of concern, sent them $1,000 through Apple Pay. That loss, that embarrassment, was the worst part of the whole ordeal.
I am an Eagle Scout. An Army officer. I have built my life on helping others. And yet, I let this happen. It’s a humbling and haunting realization. But the response from my loved ones has been my saving grace. They did not ridicule me. They did not abandon me. Instead, they supported me, reminding me that one mistake—however significant—does not erase a lifetime of integrity and service.
This DUI is my wake-up call, my ghost of Christmas future, showing me what could be if I don’t change. It has forced me to confront my own choices, my vulnerabilities, and my need to truly take care of myself so I can continue taking care of others. I will take this harbinger seriously. I will strive to be better.
For those who may find themselves in a similar position, my message is simple: take responsibility, learn from it, and don’t ignore the signs. You don’t want to wait for your own wake-up call. Be better now.
Finding Silver Linings in Unexpected Places
Life is unpredictable, and sometimes, the most unlikely situations reveal hidden blessings. Recently, I found myself navigating one such experience when COVID paid me an uninvited visit, but looking back, I see it as a moment of grace rather than misfortune.
On my way back to the hospital to be by my wife Sherri’s side, I began feeling unusually nauseous and headachy—a combination I’d never quite experienced. Despite being vaccinated and boosted, I followed my instinct to take a COVID test from the government-supplied kit Sherri had thoughtfully kept on hand. As soon as the liquid hit the strip, it confirmed my suspicion: positive.
Thankfully, we quickly tested everyone in the house, and Sherri was tested in the hospital. To our relief, all came back negative. Knowing I had listened to my wife’s advice and taken the test before exposing her to any potential harm was an overwhelming relief, especially considering her delicate health. Sherri’s fight with cancer has already brought so many challenges, and the last thing I wanted was to bring her more suffering.
As a veteran, I’m fortunate to receive care through the VA. They directed me to a local urgent care where I received a prescription to help alleviate the symptoms, but as I headed home, I faced another realization: it wasn’t safe to stay there. With extended family who had relocated from California to be with us and Sherri hopefully coming home soon, there was no choice but to get a hotel and isolate—my son humorously dubbed it “COVID jail.”
Isolation is not something any caregiver welcomes. For months, my days have revolved around taking care of Sherri, supporting her as she smiles through excruciating pain and endures round after round of chemotherapy. Yet, as I sat alone in the quiet of my hotel room, I realized how thankful I am for our extended family who stepped up in a way we could never have expected. They moved their lives across the country to help Sherri through her battle, filling in gaps that even the best of friends couldn’t manage long-term. Their presence has been an incredible gift.
In those quiet hours, I found myself thinking of everything my wife and I have been through, of the strength it takes to provide care day in and day out, and of the incredible people who have supported us on this journey. The forced solitude gave me a chance to regroup and recharge—a luxury many caregivers don’t get.
This unexpected turn of events became a blessing, one that reminded me of the importance of family, community, and listening to that inner voice, especially when it comes to caring for the ones we love. Even when life seems difficult or bleak, we can still find silver linings if we take a moment to look.
The Strength Behind the Smile: A Tribute to My Wife
My wife is the kind of person who rarely flinches in the face of pain. When she gave birth, she didn’t shed a single tear. Once, she put an electric screwdriver bit through her thumb and only calmly said “ouch” as blood ran down her hand. To say she has a high pain tolerance is an understatement.
But for the past several days, I’ve seen her cry in agony. Her knee, swollen and unbearable, felt as if someone was relentlessly striking it with a ball-peen hammer. When her oncologist saw her on Monday morning, I could see the sorrow in his eyes—35 years of service, and he had never witnessed something like this. Her knee was so swollen that he immediately decided to admit her and called in an orthopedic surgeon to review her MRI. Despite everything from Tylenol to a Methadone drip, nothing could touch the pain.
The next morning, without anesthesia, the surgeon withdrew a yellowish fluid from her knee. It was the first relief she’d felt in days. A few hours later, the palliative care physician switched her to a morphine drip, and finally, her pain was brought down to a manageable level. Unfortunately, the damage was already done—the fluid had put so much pressure on her knee that it cut off the blood supply, causing part of the bone to die and partially fracture.
Now, my little warrior hops to the bathroom and back to her bed. Her third round of chemotherapy didn’t work, and tomorrow she’ll begin her fourth type through a second port after the first one became infected and had to be removed. It feels overwhelming, insurmountable at times, but she keeps smiling through the tears.
We are surrounded by love—family, friends, co-workers and even strangers send prayers, food, flowers, and help get her to appointments. No one is giving up on her. Even though she sometimes says she can’t go on, she does. We love her so much, and her strength and resilience continue to amaze us all.
She is a testament to the human spirit’s ability to endure, and no matter how impossible the battle may seem, we are all standing by her side. She fights, she smiles, and we love her more every single day.
Finding Strength in Service: A Caregiver’s Reflection
Being a full-time caregiver for my wife is the most important responsibility but it’s also one of the hardest roles I’ve ever had. Seeing someone you love suffer, day after day, is incredibly painful—especially when there’s little you can do to alleviate it.
Recently, I had an opportunity to step away for a day because of our extended support network to help my friend who had been devastated by Hurricane Helene. It left his property with 28 inches of seawater inside for a day before it reseeded. The building, which had been his father’s, housed precious treasures—hunting, fishing, and woodworking items that carried irreplaceable memories. Just months after losing his father, and after days of working tirelessly to clean up the mess, he was physically and emotionally drained.
I went out to help him—tearing down soaked drywall, hauling out ruined insulation, and salvaging what we could. For the first time in a long while, I was able to make an immediate impact. I wasn’t just sitting helplessly on the sidelines. I was doing something tangible, and it felt incredible. His family’s gratitude lifted me, but more than that, it reminded me of my own strength.
Caregiving is exhausting. Watching my wife day by day drains the soul. But helping my friend gave me back something I didn’t even realize I was losing: a renewed sense of purpose. Yes, being there for my wife is an act of love, but stepping into the storm-ravaged aftermath of Hurricane Helene reinvigorated me. It was as if this moment of service gave me back a piece of myself—a part I desperately needed to continue being strong for her.
Sometimes, finding strength in unexpected places is exactly what we need to carry on. I’m grateful to have been able to help my friend, but more than that, I’m thankful for how that day helped me be a better caregiver for my wife. After all, to give love and support, you have to make sure you’re not completely depleted yourself. Hurricane Helene may have wreaked havoc, but in a strange way, it also became a catalyst for renewal. It reminded me that even when the storm seems endless, there’s always a way to find hope and purpose again.
Divine Intervention in the Everyday: Lessons in Caregiving, Love, and Community
I never imagined I’d need to use a handicap space. When I received my 100% VA disability rating, I made a silent promise: I’d never park in those spaces. I felt strong and capable, able to walk to and from the store without issue. Florida even offers free license plates for veterans like me, allowing us to park closer to ease movement, but I couldn’t foresee a time when I wouldn’t be able to make it in and out of Publix on my own two feet.
But life has a way of humbling us and revealing new perspectives. I recently found myself borrowing a wheelchair from our neighbors for my wife. She is fighting cancer again, and chemotherapy has made her legs ache with a pain. She is much like my father—strong-willed and independent, reluctant to ask for help or accept it. It’s one of the things I love most about her, this tenacity and resolve to live life fully on her terms. Yet, there are moments when emotion trumps logic, and she insists on walking, only to end up soaking her aching joints in a bathtub at 3 a.m.
Today, as I wheeled her around, I saw things differently. For the first time, I saw the purpose of those license plates I had so casually dismissed before. In a way, I felt the hand of God gently guiding me to see a deeper truth—that we all need help, and we will all be caregivers at some point in our lives. Rosemary Carter and Elizabeth Dole taught me this lesson, but life has reinforced it repeatedly.
I remember my father’s journey. A proud man, old school in every way, he despised the thought of using a wheelchair. For two hard years, he resisted help as he made his journey home, never once wanting to appear weak or dependent. I see so much of him in my wife now. She, too, is not accustomed to accepting help, yet her strength lies not just in her independence but in the love and resilience she shows every day, even through gritted teeth and stubborn defiance.
Our neighbors, older friends who have always been there for us, offered their wheelchair without a second thought. It’s moments like this that remind me of the power of community, of being a good neighbor. We help each other, not because we have to, but because it is a reflection of love, of being there when needed, without question or hesitation.
Sometimes, the carefully curated Instagram smiles need to be set aside so we can face reality. Life is not always picture-perfect; it is messy, challenging, and often painful. But it is also filled with grace, with moments of divine intervention that remind us of our purpose and our place in the world.
Today, my license plate makes sense. I see God’s plan unfold in the most unexpected ways. I am here, not just as a veteran with a rating but as a husband, a caregiver, a neighbor, and a servant of love. My wife’s determination to live life fully, even when it means being a little grumpy about the wheelchair, is a testament to the spirit we all share—the spirit to keep moving forward, to love fiercely, and to serve selflessly.
So, I embrace this role, this chance to support her in her journey, however she demands it. And in doing so, I see that God is indeed at work, weaving all these threads—divine intervention, caregiving, love, selfless service, and community—into a beautiful tapestry that is my life.
Donating Blood: An Easy Way to Help Others
- Today as I do every 8 weeks I donate blood
- Blood is ALWAYS in short supply
- Its an easy way to help others
- Helping others feels good
- Give blood if your able
- oneblood.com
What a Difference a Week Makes
Just few short days ago I received great news.
My wife did not have liver cancer. Waiting for the results of her PET/CT was as if we were transported 18 months back in time. The dread was heavy once again with the fear of life’s uncertainty. Could we get through this next battle?
My mind went to my experience. Deployed from family one time was very hard but it could be done, but two times was scarring at best. Would we survive another round in the ring with cancer? I stayed out of my thoughts and went into business mode. One appointment, one test, one moment at a time to support my wife. It took about 3 weeks from her bi-annual MRI and CT to see the oncologist and the get the PET/CT. Everything else gets put on hold as we wondered what the future held for us during that time. Life seems to stop. Then we received the results through the patient portal app and we were free again for the next 6 months. We cleaned the house, rearranged the furniture and where happy. They was no point before. Now our life was back on.
My son called and said he was going to be a father! These are the things that make the hard times bearable.
