Jack is officially in late stage dementia. My world has come unglued.

It is hard to find the words for how I feel right now. I don’t think I have any. But I feel like I’m straddling two worlds. One is the world of the competent caregiver. The other is the world of the grieving wife.

In my caregiving world, I do what I’ve always done. I feed Jack; I bathe him; I dress him; I coach him through his bathroom trips and do his pericare. I wash his hair. I shave him. I reassure him when his constant shadowing has him velcroed to my side. I play music and calm his fears. I hold him and say I love him many times a day.

I puree his meals and thicken his drinks so he doesn’t choke. And I tell him how to eat. Slowly but surely he’s forgetting how.

I just asked for a hospice evaluation. Jack’s swallowing issues make him eligible for end of life care. This is a hard thing to get my head around. But caregiving demands that I get my head around it. I have no choice, no time to think. Caring for Jack comes first.

By day I am Jack’s rock. But at night, when he sleeps, I crumble and cry. I lie there in the dark, listen to him breathe, think of him not there. My tears crawl down my cheeks and soak the bed. My chest bones ache. My body hurts from holding back the sobs. I don’t want Jack to hear me cry.

I mourn for our old life, for what we have lost. I weep for Jack, for everything he endures. I cry because I want to save him. I cry harder because I cant.

I cry until I sleep. Then I wake, crying done, to don my caregiving coat and start again. There is no room for tears in my caregiving world. In this world, I am here for Jack. He needs me.

I have to be strong for Jack. I have to keep being strong because he has no strength left. He is counting on me to be there, to walk with him until he can’t walk any more. And I’ll be strong, for him. I will save my tears for night. He will never know how much this journey hurts.

I am ready for his journey to be over. I am so not ready.