My father died when my mother was sixty-nine years old.  She lived seventeen years longer, missing him every minute.  So when Peter turned eighty-five earlier this month, among the things I was grateful for was that at age seventy-seven, I still have him.

Throughout our marriage, I have seen my handsome husband as the man who could do anything.  And did.   But (no surprise) things change.  And adjustments have to be made. We haven’t been able to take the rigorous biking vacations we used to take since he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease eight years ago.  Inveterate on-our-own travelers, we now go on guided tours.  (At least we still can go!)

One of the hardest things for us both is that I am doing more of “his” tasks, like driving, doing chores that require fine finger dexterity, etc.  And I find that I have to remind him of things more often than both of us would prefer. Sometimes I fear that I sound like his mother.  It’s not what I would wish for.

Neither would he.