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Yesterday was a great day.
After working with a gentleman for about six months—almost exactly the amount of time since my wife passed—we received notification that the VA had granted him a 60% disability rating.
For him, this was a giant win.
He served two tours in the Marine Corps and is a Desert Shield/Desert Storm veteran. One period of his service unfortunately ended with a bad conduct discharge after some things happened while he was young and going through a divorce. But he also had an honorable period of service, and that mattered.
He had tried three times before to receive VA disability compensation. He had worked with VSOs, but from what I could see, nobody had really looked deeply enough at his entire military history or separated the different periods of his service to determine what conditions could legitimately be connected to his honorable service.
He was referred to me by a retired Navy captain who had known him since they were Junior ROTC kids. Now, decades later, this Marine had served his country, lived with the consequences of that service, battled cancer and other medical problems, and still had never received the benefits he had earned.
So we went to work.
I used the same process I use with everyone: slow down, build the timeline, look at where they served, what they did, what happened to them, what they were exposed to, and what conditions followed them home. Then claim what the evidence supports.
Yesterday, he got his answer: 60%.
That means meaningful tax-free monthly compensation and access to additional VA benefits that can make a real difference in his life.
And I have to tell you, this one felt particularly good.
The last six months have also been some of the hardest months of my own life. I am learning how to live after losing my wife. I don’t think you ever really “recover” from something like that. You learn how to carry it. You find reasons to get up, reasons to keep moving, and hopefully reasons to continue being useful to somebody else.
Yesterday was one of those reasons.
Helping this Marine finally receive recognition for conditions connected to his service reminded me why I continue doing this work.
I hope someone reading this who has been putting off filing a VA disability claim—or who filed before and gave up—will reconsider.
I often describe VA disability compensation simply as workers’ compensation for service members. If military service injured you, made you sick, or caused a condition that continues affecting you today, there is no shame in asking the government to honor that obligation.
You don’t have to exaggerate anything.
You don’t have to claim something that isn’t true.
You just have to do the work, document your story, and advocate for yourself.
Sometimes you may need someone beside you to help you do it.
Yesterday reminded me how thankful I am that, at this point in my own life, I get to be that person for somebody else.
When the Ramps Found Their Next Home
Yesterday was a good day.
My neighbor is a Vietnam veteran. Neuropathy has slowly been taking its toll on his legs and lower back, and lately he’s been falling more often. While talking with his daughter, who cares for him, she mentioned they wished they had a safer way to get down the front steps.
“Hold on a second,” I said.
I walked across to my garage and brought back the two ramps for Sherri. Within minutes, we had them secured to their front steps. Just like that, they had a safer way for him to get in and out of his home.
It made me think.
It took us nearly a year to realize how much we truly needed those ramps. When you’re caring for someone with an incurable illness, watching them slowly lose their mobility, your mind is consumed by the next appointment, the next medication, the next crisis. Something as seemingly simple as installing a ramp somehow becomes another impossible decision. Which ramp? What angle? How do you secure it? Will it be safe? None of it feels simple when you’re living under constant pressure.
Yesterday, those hard-earned lessons allowed me to help someone else before it was too late. My neighbor gets to use the ramps while he can still walk with assistance, preserving a little more independence and, hopefully, preventing another fall.
I know Sherri loved this.
Even though she’s no longer here, her kindness continues to reach people she’ll never meet. Those ramps once carried her safely home. Now they’re helping a veteran like her father do the same.
Maybe that’s one of the quiet gifts of love. It doesn’t end when a life ends. It simply finds another person who needs it.
Yesterday wasn’t just about a couple of aluminum ramps.
It was another reminder that Sherri is still making the world a little better—through the people she changed, the lessons she taught, and the love she left behind.
Serendipity
There are moments in life that feel accidental at first glance, but later settle into your heart as something much deeper. Moments where friendship, love, timing, grief, and grace all quietly intersect in a way that cannot simply be explained away as coincidence.
This past week, I took my first trip in four years without the overwhelming dread or guilt of leaving my wife behind. That alone felt strange to me. For years, every decision, every outing, every mile traveled carried the weight of caregiving and concern. Even moments that should have been joyful often carried an undercurrent of worry.
But this trip was different.
I traveled to Charleston to attend the graduation of the son of one of my classmates from our alma mater. It was a wonderful celebration filled with memories, laughter, and the strange realization that time continues to move forward whether we are ready for it or not. I stayed with another longtime classmate who still works at the school, and for a few days, I was surrounded by nearly forty years of friendship and shared history.
The morning after the celebration, I woke early and sat having coffee with my friend’s wife, someone I have also known for nearly four decades. We spoke quietly in that way people do in the early morning, before the world fully wakes up.
She shared how they had recently moved her parents from Maine to live near them in an independent living facility. Her father suffers from Alzheimer’s, and her mother from dementia. We talked about the difficult reality families face when navigating those diseases.
One of the strange truths about Alzheimer’s is that, as horrible as it is, there is often a somewhat defined progression. Dementia, however, can be incredibly broad and unpredictable. Symptoms vary wildly. Behaviors change suddenly. Good days and difficult days arrive without warning. For families who have never walked through it before, it can be exhausting, confusing, heartbreaking, and frustrating all at once.
Even after only a couple of months, I could already see the emotional toll it was taking on her.
She explained how her mother had insisted on hip surgery because she believed it would improve her quality of life, but instead, it had left her nearly immobile.
And immediately, my mind went to Sherri’s scooter.
For months, it had been sitting quietly in Sherri’s office gathering dust. A bright pink mobility scooter that no one else could ever possibly mistake for their own.
Of course it was pink.
Sherri insisted on pink.
Not just any pink scooter either. I had to drive more than one hundred miles to find one because she refused to settle for anything less than the exact shade she wanted to match her love of Lilly Pulitzer colors and style. Then she decorated it herself. She made a Lilly Pulitzer-style cover for the back seat, and because she was so tiny, we even added a piece of pink foam so her feet could comfortably reach the pedal.
That scooter was unmistakably hers.
As my friend’s wife spoke, I realized that the scooter sitting unused in Orlando could suddenly become something meaningful again.
I told her, “I have something that can help.”
It is amazing how easy it is nowadays to move something across the country. There truly is an app for everything. Within a short period of time, I found a kind gentleman willing to transport the scooter from Orlando to Charleston the very next day.
And just like that, Sherri’s little pink scooter was headed north to help another family carrying a burden of love and caregiving.
I sat there afterward thinking about how strange and beautiful life can sometimes be.
What are the odds that I would finally take my first trip away?
What are the odds that this conversation would happen over early morning coffee?
What are the odds that a scooter sitting unused for months would suddenly become exactly what another family needed?
Some people call that coincidence.
I do not.
I believe there are moments of divine intervention woven quietly into our lives. Moments where love continues moving long after someone is gone. Moments where friendship creates opportunities for compassion. Moments where grief transforms into purpose.
Serendipity is a funny thing. It often arrives carrying both sorrow and joy at the same time.
What touched me most was realizing that even now, Sherri is still helping people.
Even now, her kindness, personality, style, stubbornness, humor, and love are still moving through the world in tangible ways. A pink scooter decorated by her own hands is now going to reduce the burden on another daughter caring for her parents.
And honestly, I think that would make Sherri smile.
Life can be unbelievably difficult. Illness, loss, aging, caregiving, and grief all remind us how fragile we really are. But friendship, love, and compassion remind us that none of us were ever meant to carry those burdens alone.
Sometimes the greatest acts of grace are not the massive miracles.
Sometimes they are simply a cup of coffee, an old friendship, a heartfelt conversation, and a pink scooter finding its next purpose exactly when it is needed most.
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.
