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“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 Joy of Collecting: Finding Meaning in Everyday Treasures
I’ve always collected things—medals, pennies, shark teeth, rocks, golf balls, even tire valve caps. Some of these were intentional, others accidental. But all of them, in their own way, represent little victories and moments of peace.
Just the other night, I went on a walk after dinner, a habit more about unwinding than fitness. I came back with five golf balls. Five. That might not seem like a lot to some people, but for someone who’s spent a lifetime collecting, five of anything in one outing is a haul. It got me thinking—not about golf balls, but about collecting, and more curiously, why I do it.
Let me start with this: I’ve begun using lost golf balls as my own personal economic indicator. A kind of SWAG (scientific wild-ass guess). I know it’s a stretch, but hear me out—if people are out playing golf in the middle of the week and losing $20 sleeves of balls without a second thought, then someone out there is doing alright. I’m no fan of trickle-down economics, but the existence of a well-funded slice of the population still swinging away gives me a small sense of hope that the world hasn’t completely unraveled. Still, that’s not why I walk. I walk to escape that kind of thinking.
This post isn’t about economics. It’s about collecting.
My father used to collect pennies he found on walks. Before that, as a boy, he collected stamps. I picked up the penny habit from him, and at one point, my collection was medals—military ones. Now? It’s golf balls, and teeth from long-dead sharks. And that’s the distinction I want to make. Stamps and medals feel like hobbies. You go out, you pay money, you build your collection. But to me, collecting has always been about the hunt—the unplanned, unscheduled discovery. The moment you spot something unexpected glinting in the grass or poking out from the sand. That’s collecting.
There’s real joy in that moment—when you pause, bend down, and confirm that yes, it’s a golf ball or a shark tooth or some little artifact the world left behind. It feels like you’ve won something. Like you’re seeing what others overlook. It might sound like a stretch, but in those moments I feel capable, even special.
Turns out, there’s science to back that up. Psychologists have long studied the drive to collect. Some say it’s tied to our ancestral instincts—early humans were gatherers, after all. Others say collecting brings order to chaos, structure to a fast-moving world. According to researchers, collecting can also provide a sense of control, personal identity, even legacy. But more than that, when we find something—especially something unexpected—our brain releases a hit of dopamine. The same reward chemical that fires when we eat good food, laugh, or fall in love. So yes, spotting a golf ball in the grass isn’t just coincidence—it’s chemically rewarding. No wonder I keep looking.
In those moments, I’m not thinking about work, or stress, or the headlines. I’m just walking. And collecting. And somehow, connecting to the people who came before me—my dad and his pennies, the long-lost owner of the golf ball, even the shark whose tooth found its way into my palm.
Collecting, for me, isn’t about things. It’s about finding meaning in the everyday. It’s about knowing that even in a world spinning out of control, there are still small, lost treasures waiting to be found.
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.
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.
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.
