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Two Hours for a Shower—And a Lifetime of Love
Today it took two hours to help my wife, take a shower in our own home.
Two hours of lifting and moving, of prepping and adjusting.
Unhooking her IV.
Unwrapping layers of dressings and wound care.
Lining the shower with towels and placing the chair just right.
Washing her hair, combing it gently.
Finding clothes that work for a body in pain.
Changing the linens, warming the room, preparing her toothbrush—preloaded with toothpaste because her hands don’t work anymore.
Two hours of effort.
For 30 minutes of normalcy.
For 10 minutes of comfort.
For one more moment of feeling clean and human.
And then back to bed, with the “bear hugger” blowing warm air to keep her body from freezing. Her body can’t regulate temperature anymore.
She smiled when it was over.
But she’s tired.
I’m tired.
And tomorrow… she faces her third surgery in just 60 days.
We had held on to hope that she could go on the family trip to Japan—something she’s been dreaming of for a year. But this new surgery means she’ll stay behind, once again watching life from the sidelines of recovery.
That’s what cancer does. That’s what infection does. That’s what caregiving is.
It takes things—quietly, relentlessly.
It takes time, energy, tears, sleep, plans, dreams, vacations, strength.
But we keep giving. Because love gives.
I won’t give up hope.
Not today.
Not tomorrow.
Not on her.
She’s still here. Still smiling through it. Still fighting. Still loving us in her own quiet way.
So we’ll keep going.
One day at a time.
One shower at a time.
One breath at a time.
Because this is what love looks like when it’s on the battlefield.
The Power of Presence: How to Support Caregivers
When someone you love is gravely ill or bedridden, the world becomes very small. The walls of the home close in. Time slows. Days blur together. Both the person being cared for—and the caregiver—begin to live in a kind of suspended animation, where joy, spontaneity, and connection are replaced by routine, worry, and waiting.
People often ask, “What can I do?”
And it’s a sincere question. They want to help. So they send flowers. Cards. Food. Gift cards. And all of those are kind gestures. All of them are appreciated.
But if you really want to help a caregiver—and the person they’re caring for—be present. Show up.
Caregiving is not just physically exhausting. It’s emotionally isolating. The one who is ill is often trapped in their body, in their symptoms, in a bed they can’t escape. The caregiver, meanwhile, is trapped in responsibility, routine, and quiet desperation.
Isolation is the great thief.
It steals joy, perspective, and sometimes even hope. But when someone walks through the door just to be there, everything changes—even if only for a little while.
Here’s what you may not see:
When visitors come over, something shifts.
The house feels lighter.
The person being cared for suddenly wants to sit up straighter, to smile, to tell stories—even if they can’t move or speak much.
The caregiver may finally exhale, just a little.
You don’t need to bring anything. Just your presence. A shared moment. A hand held. A joke told. A prayer whispered.
It’s not about what you do. It’s about that you came.
We often overcomplicate compassion. We think we need the “right” thing, the perfect timing, or something polished and proper.
But love isn’t complicated.
Compassion shows up unannounced and says, “I’m here.”
It’s the ministry of presence.
So, if you’re wondering how to help:
- Visit. Even 15 minutes can be sacred.
- Sit. Watch a show, listen to music, share a memory.
- Talk. About something—anything—besides illness.
- Listen. Sometimes just being a witness to the struggle is a gift.
- Stay connected. Don’t let their world shrink without a fight.
Because at the end of the day, love looks like presence. And presence heals in ways medicine can’t.
Understanding Anticipatory Grief as a Caregiver
I’ve spent a lifetime wearing uniforms — first in the military, then in business — but no uniform could have prepared me for the one I wear now: caregiver.
My wife is still here. She still smiles. Still laughs. Still says “I love you” with the same strength that got her through childbirth without a scream and once drove a screwdriver bit through her hand with nothing more than a calm “ouch.” But even with all that strength, I know what’s coming. And somewhere along the way, I realized I was already grieving.
It wasn’t denial that kept me from seeing it; I saw every scan, every new medication, every tear. It wasn’t anger that overwhelmed me, though I’ve certainly felt flashes of frustration — at broken systems, unanswered prayers, and my own helplessness. It was something quieter. Slower. A gradual ache of knowing that the woman I love is slipping away in pieces.
That’s what anticipatory grief is — mourning someone while they’re still alive. It’s showing up with love and purpose even as the shadows grow longer. It’s grieving not just the final goodbye, but the thousands of little ones along the way: the goodbye to traveling together, to her independence, to her baking and cooking in the kitchen.
I’ve come to understand that the five stages of grief — denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance — aren’t a straight road. They’re more like a roundabout we circle again and again. And while Kübler-Ross introduced them to describe how patients face terminal illness, caregivers like me feel them too — just in advance.
Right now, I live somewhere between acceptance and heartbreak. I’ve accepted what’s coming. But each day, I still fight to create joy, dignity, and presence. We watch movies in the car so she doesn’t have to get out. We eat takeout in the bed because she cant sit at the table. I hold her hand not just in sickness, but in the holy weight of being here — now.
If you’re walking this road too, know that grief doesn’t wait for death. And love doesn’t wait for perfection. You are doing holy work, even when your hands feel empty.
Let yourself grieve. But also — let yourself love, fiercely, while there’s still time.
Pills, Pills, and More Pills: The Hidden Burden of Complex Caregiving
One of the most overwhelming challenges in being a caregiver to a loved one with complex health needs is managing medications. It’s not just about handing over a pillbox. It’s navigating a labyrinth of prescriptions from multiple providers—some within the same healthcare system, others outside it, and even some who are technically in the system but don’t have credentials to see each other’s records. The result? A fragmented network of well-meaning professionals relying on the patient or caregiver to connect the dots.
Every outpatient visit starts with the same question: “Are you still taking…?” And if your loved one isn’t completely lucid or you’re not fully dialed in 24/7, the answer might not be accurate. That’s when the real risk begins. Medications get missed, taken at the wrong time, or worse—interact dangerously. Even with tools like MyChart and pharmacy alerts, medication management for multi-disciplinary patients is a full-time job that demands vigilance and coordination.
Thankfully, my wife has what many don’t: an extended family care team. Her sister—a brilliant organizer—maintains a shared medication log with active and retired prescriptions. Her cousin, a provider based in California, monitors her records through MyChart and flags potential issues or treatment recommendations. Their support has been nothing short of lifesaving.
As her primary caregiver, I also leaned into my background in healthcare and team leadership. I applied principles I once used to support the care for wounded or sick soldiers returning from Iraq at Fort Moore (then Fort Benning), where we built systems but more importantly had people to prevent our service members from getting lost in the shuffle. It’s painful to see that the civilian system still struggles with the same problem.
Where is the care manager? Aren’t they the quarterback? I once asked that question myself—only to be told their panel included 250 complex cases. No human can meaningfully manage that many lives. It was a sobering reminder that “the system” is overloaded, and for those without advocates, the consequences can be tragic.
Having a palliative care physician onboard has been critical. Contrary to common perception, they don’t just deal with end-of-life care. They focus on quality of life—managing pain, coordinating care, and yes, reconciling all those pills. My wife currently has more than 10 providers involved in her care. That number doesn’t include staff, specialists, or the relentless demands of insurance approvals.
Medication management isn’t glamorous, but it’s a battlefield—and like all battlefields, it requires a team, a plan, and an unwavering commitment to the person you’re fighting for. I bring my military mindset to this mission every day. And while I can’t stop the tide of prescriptions or the systemic gaps in care, I can make sure my wife never faces them alone.
The Art of Caregiving: Strategies for Support
“You have to go for a walk. Take a hot shower. Make sure you hit the rack every night early. I mean like 2000 hours at the latest. Every day is just like the military. You’re preparing for the next day.”
That’s what my buddy—another veteran who recently lost his wife to pancreatic cancer—told me. It stuck. Not because it was profound (although it is), but because it was familiar. It’s the kind of advice you’d hear before a deployment. Only now the mission is different. It’s longer. Harder in ways I never expected. And it’s personal.
My wife Sherri is currently watching a movie in our EV, having lunch with our fur babies. It’s a simple solution to a hard problem: it spares her the pain of getting out of the car, into the electric wheelchair, into the house—only to turn around and do it all again in 35 minutes. During that time, my sister-in-law (who’s been a godsend) and I tag-teamed lunch prep, charged the chair, rotated the laundry, and coaxed our teenager into eating something besides cereal. That’s the rhythm. That’s the operation.
It’s funny how much this mirrors the military. In downtime, you prep for the next mission. That’s what caregiving is: a constant cycle of readiness. Because when your loved one is in pain, even helping them move can feel like a landmine of unintended harm. You don’t get to wing it. You plan, prep, adapt, and repeat.
And here’s the kicker: you can’t pour from an empty canteen.
My friend reminded me—like a good NCO would—that I need rest. That I need to recoup. That doing “me time” isn’t selfish; it’s strategic. And yet it’s one of the hardest things to do. How do you step away when the person you love is hurting? But if you don’t, you break down. And when you’re broken, you’re no good to them.
For me, that “me time” is Orange Theory Fitness. It’s more than a workout—it’s my decompression chamber. The people there know my story. They don’t flinch when I show up in a weird mood or vent a little too hard. They get it. It’s a release valve.
But caregiving can’t be done alone. It requires an extended care circle, and let me tell you—building that after the crisis hits is like trying to patch the roof in a thunderstorm. As JFK said, “Fix the roof when the sun is shining.” He wasn’t wrong. Having my sister-in-law here has changed everything. And when she’s not, our neighborhood friends step up in ways that humble me. They’re part of the circle now. I’ve learned that asking for help doesn’t make you weak—it lets people love you in real, tangible ways.
There’s something beautiful about how people show up when you let them. It reaffirms your faith in humanity, even on the hardest days. And if you’re lucky—like I am—you see that caregiving, as hard as it is, is also a sacred kind of service. One where love, not rank, leads the charge.
So here’s what I’ll leave you with:
Build your circle when the skies are clear.
Rest like it’s your responsibility—because it is.
And never underestimate the power of kindness, sweat equity, and a hot shower.
Because when it’s raining, all of that matters more than you’ll ever know.
“Holding On: A Caregiver’s Reflection on Love, Loss, and Living in the Now”
My wife came home today.
After nearly a month that felt like a lifetime—through the emergency room, the operating room, recovery, and finally a rehabilitation hospital—she is back, sitting at the kitchen table with our daughter and her sister. They’re talking about summer camp. It sounds so normal. It looks so beautiful. And yet, nothing about this is normal.
She has four broken bones—fragile from cancer that has metastasized into her bones. She cries now, often. More than I’ve ever seen in all the years we’ve been together. Her voice is quiet. Barely audible sometimes. She has only her hands now to guide her through the world, needing an automated wheelchair that still hasn’t arrived because insurance bureaucracy doesn’t move at the speed of human need.
I was ready to buy one. But she said, “No. We’ll wait.” And so we do. Because this is her journey. And while everything in me wants to fix it—to make it easier, faster, better—I know what she needs most is for me to walk beside her, not ahead.
This is not my first time walking this path. I’ve been here before. With my sister. With my father. But knowing the route doesn’t make it easier. It just makes the heartbreak familiar.
Yet she continues to defy the odds. She is part of the 3% who’ve made it this far. A walking miracle. A living lesson in endurance. So we stay grateful. We stay hopeful. We keep our chins up—not just for her, but for ourselves and everyone around us.
Caregiving is the quiet battlefield. You fight fatigue, frustration, and the aching helplessness of watching someone you love suffer. You become nurse, advocate, counselor, and spiritual anchor—all while trying to remember who you are.
But caregiving also sharpens your vision. You begin to see what matters.
It’s the sound of her voice, barely above a whisper, joining in a conversation at the table.
It’s the laughter that somehow still finds its way into our home.
It’s the love that survives even the most brutal storms.
We often think of time as a currency, but when you’re a caregiver, you realize it’s far more precious than money. It is sacred. It is fleeting. It is everything.
So if you’re reading this in the middle of your own storm, hold on. Don’t just wait for the clouds to pass—find the grace in the moments in between. Because even in the darkest stretches, there is light. Sometimes it’s a whisper. Sometimes it’s a smile. Sometimes it’s just sitting quietly at the kitchen table with the ones you love.
Hold onto that.
The Life-Saving Power of Blood Donation
There are moments in life that transcend coincidence—moments that remind us of the deep interconnection between people, acts of service, and the enduring power of compassion. My wife and I recently experienced one of those moments firsthand.For years, we’ve both been regular blood donors. It was never about recognition or reward—it was simply the right thing to do. We believed in it. We knew that a single pint of blood could mean the difference between life and death for someone we might never meet. What we never imagined was how this quiet act of giving would one day come full circle in our own lives.Over 30 years ago, I required an emergency blood transfusion after surgery. I had been discharged from the hospital, only to collapse at home from undetected internal bleeding. As my strength faded and my consciousness waned, two pints of blood were administered, and within minutes, I felt myself come back to life. I will never forget that sensation—the sudden clarity, the renewed energy, the overwhelming gratitude for whoever had made that donation.Fast forward to the present: my wife is fighting cancer with a strength that humbles me every day. Recently, her care team determined she needed a blood transfusion. I told her what I had experienced—that maybe she, too, would feel the same miraculous lift. And she did. That night, she slept peacefully. Her color improved. Her energy returned. It was an almost immediate renewal of life.In that moment, all the years we spent donating blood felt like a sacred thread—woven into a story we could never have predicted. One act of generosity can become someone else’s lifeline. And sometimes, that “someone” is the person you love most in the world.Blood is more than a clinical fluid—it’s a vessel of hope, a symbol of our shared humanity. Donating blood is not just a medical gesture; it’s a profound act of connection. When we give, we’re not only offering a piece of ourselves—we’re becoming part of a legacy of compassion that could touch lives in ways we may never see.I encourage everyone reading this to consider becoming a donor. You may never know whose life you’ll save—but one day, that life might just be someone you love.
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.
