This morning, I helped my sweet Smiling-Dave, get ready to attend a funeral for a man he had admired in life.  At breakfast my husband appeared dressed and ready to catch the retirement village bus.  When he sat down next to me, he said, “I’m so uncomfortable.”

I looked him over, and realized that the shirt and trousers he was wearing were much too tight.  His tummy, swollen from kidney failure and congested heart failure, was too big for the pants and shirt that had fit him a year before.  His shirt buttons were ready to pop, and he was trying to breathe in pants that were way too small for his expanded waist-line. When I suggested that I pick out some clothing that would be more comfortable, but still dressy enough for a funeral, to my surprise, he readily agreed.

Thirty minutes later, I had picked out clothing that would give him some breathing room, and not only that, I had found brand new trousers with a larger waist, that I had purchased a few weeks before, and which he had never worn.  Adding a sport jacket that pulled his whole outfit together, he went off to the funeral looking like his old professional self.

Three years ago, I wrote an essay about how my life had changed in a year by becoming a caretaker for my darling husband, who had developed some very serious medical conditions and dementia.  I found myself in charge of medications, doctor appointments, and all of the household finances.  But this morning, I suddenly realized that in the past three years, the responsibilities of a caretaker had increased to the point that I now had to choose clothing for Smiling-Dave, as well as watching his diet very closely to make sure he does not ingest too much salt, which is one of the causes of his swollen tummy.

In early fall, we took a direct-flight to Washington, D.C., to attend a party for my son, who was retiring.  The party was great, and the stay-over in a beautiful hotel was a near perfect change for me.  However, while the plane trip was uneventful, Sunday morning in the hotel made me aware that while it was wonderful for me, it was over-whelming and difficult for Smiling-Dave.  When we got out of bed that morning, he looked all around and then said to me, “Maryann, where are we?”

I explained that we were in a hotel and were staying there to help celebrate my son’s retirement.  Then Smiling-Dave said, “How did we get here?”

It was a definite wake-up call for me, as I realized that out of his familiar environment and routine, my usual happy and sweet husband had become extremely anxious.  While he continued to smile and to act happy, I understood that moving him to an unfamiliar place was very confusing for him.  Later that day at my son’s home, he repeatedly asked me for the names of our family members, although when they had visited at our place, he knew them.

Monday morning seated on the plane to return home, two women in attendant uniforms boarded the plane and stood in the doorway chatting with each other.  Smiling-Dave looked them over and then asked, “Are you the pilots?”  When the said they were not, he said, “Good, because if you were, I would get off.”

Slinking down in my seat, I said, “No, filter, no filter.”  And the women instantly laughed and understood.

Later, when Smiling-Dave left his seat for the restroom, one of the attendants said to me, “I knew your husband had Alzheimer the minute he began to speak. My father passed away a year ago from Alzheimer, and he had no filter either.”

I thanked her for her understanding, and then came to the conclusion that my husband and I were all through with traveling.

So, as the year 2025, comes to a close, I have adjusted to the next step in caretaking.  Smiling-Dave is still my best friend and companion, but now I must accept the undeniable fact that our lives are once again changing, and I will have to make decisions about where he goes, and what he wears as the next step in my job as caretaker.  Do I mind?  No, Smiling-Dave is his gentle, sweet self and tells me often that he loves me.  That alone is enough of a reward that comes with being his care

Editor’s Note:    To read more of Maryann K. Nunnally’s writings, put her name into Substack, where she is now posting.