•      Everything was normal—going along smoothly—no break in the usual routine, when I glanced down and noticed the orange juice glass and suddenly realized that I had done it. I had taken my wife’s sedative, well, not all of it, but most of it.

•      As I looked across the space that separated us, my peripheral vision caught the blue carpet that passed between her chair and the bed. While contemplating our circumstance, in my imagination, our bedroom carpet took on the appearance of a river that separated us; she on the one bank and I on the other. The Alzheimer’s River that flowed between us has no bridges; it is cold and deep with a swift current that makes it impossible for either of us to cross over to the other; we are both very alone on our opposite shores.

•      She never asked… “Why?” She said, “He didn’t have to save me, but He did; He can do what He wants with my life.” She did not just white-knuckle it with a clenched jaw and holding her breath; she waded deeper into her Alzheimer’s with faith in her God.

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