A year ago today, Jack went in for the second of what would be many tests as we tried to figure out what was wrong. Ultrasound, CAT scan, MRI, PET scan—over a month long period we had all those and more. Jack’s neurologist was reassuring and thorough, at least until he had to deliver the news. Then he couldn’t tell us. He wrote the verdict on a prescription pad and handed it to me. I had to break the news to Jack myself.

“But what does it mean?” Jack asked, puzzled. I didn’t want to go into detail in the office. I needed time to absorb the news myself so I wouldn’t cry in front of him. So I swallowed the lump in my throat and patted his arm. “It means we have some things to talk about.” I said.

I got Jack into speech therapy to help with his communication. My outgoing, happy husband had withdrawn into himself and seldom spoke. He would sit on the edge of our bed for hours, staring into space. I wasn’t going to give up on him, even though I’d been told there was nothing I could do that would help.

I got a Power of Attorney form and a Health Power of Attorney form. I set up a guardianship in advance. I slogged through reams of paperwork and sat through mind numbing interviews to get Jack on Medicaid, since we were drowning in medical bills. I signed him up for in home help. I did his speech exercises with him every day. I worked in my spare time and tried to be a wife.

I had emergency gallbladder surgery in the middle of the whole mess. Three days after the surgery, the caseworker came for the in home evaluation. I did the entire interview in bed, in my pajamas, stoned on Percocet. I still don’t remember what I told her. But Jack was approved for in home care. We’ve had someone ever since.

To say this past year has been a game changer would be an understatement. I have had to learn to let go of almost everything in our relationship, because none of it works any more. I love Jack just as much, and I always will; but even though I am still his wife, he is no longer my husband. I still have a hard time adjusting to that.

I’ve learned that I can handle far more than I ever believed I could. Somehow, as my challenges have increased, my strength has increased as well. I’m still not sure how that happened, but I am perpetually thankful. I need every bit I can get.

I’ve learned that I can find humor even in the darkest times, even when I’m not trying to. Like the recent morning, for example, when I had the stomach bug. I was in the bathroom, throwing up and having diarrhea, and Jack needed help getting his dentures in. Then he needed help with his hooded sweatshirt. I was trying to talk him through the steps, answer his repeated questions, and hit the toilet with both ends, all at the same time. I will leave you to imagine what that chaos sounded like. l can assure you it wasn’t pretty.

That morning I felt more like crying than laughing. Especially when I emerged from the bathroom to find Jack sitting on the bed, his sweatshirt hood over his face (he’d put the shirt on backwards), and his dentures in upside down. He had plastered the teeth with Poligrip but couldn’t make them stick.

“I think something’s wrong.” he said, his voice muffled by the hood. I got his sweatshirt off and re-dressed him. Then I took his teeth into the bathroom to clean them, realized I was holding his teeth (without rubber gloves on, ugh), and promptly threw up again. I finished that, cleaned his teeth, gave them back, and sent him out to feed the crows. Then I collapsed on the bed, more than ready to bawl my eyes out, and laughed until my sides hurt. It was one of those caregiving moments I will no doubt remember for years.

I have no idea what lies ahead. My primary goal, though, is the same as it’s been since those first dark days after his diagnosis. This goal is to give Jack the best life I can, for as long as he is with me. Right now that means letting him set the pace as much as possible. It means leaving it up to him to decide if he wants to work or not, and letting him get up only when he’s ready to. It means trying to impose my schedule on him as little as possible, which is not an easy thing. It means laying aside any ideas about our future together.

But most of all, my goal is to accept him as he is, however he is. That is the one thing I can always control. No matter what happens, I will always tell him—and show him— how much he is loved. Hopefully, even though his mind continues to fade, his heart will still remember that.