From Resentment
For years, I chafed at the feeling of being needed. I was the family provider and decision-maker — a role I never remembered choosing but couldn’t shake off. I built a high-tech career, exhausted by supposed-tos on every side: needed at work, needed at home.
Two unsatisfactory marriages later, I retired at 49 and went searching for me. I landed in Ethiopia and founded a non-profit for marginalized indigenous communities in the South Omo Valley. Ten good years — unfettered, free, and lonely.
Then I outfoxed myself. An online dating site matched me with Bill, and my world shifted. His first promise to me was, “I will do everything in my power to make you happy.” It was like stepping inside a schmaltzy Hallmark movie.
I joined him in Mexico — scuba diving, dancing on street corners, eating the meals he cooked. Bill loved everything about food – mulling over recipes, arguing with fishmongers trying to pass off week-old grouper as fresh catch. Recipes were just his starting point; creativity was his secret sauce.
One day, walking down a road in Akumal, a car swerved to a stop beside us. A man and woman jumped out and asked, “How long have you two been together?” Huh? I had no idea why they were asking. Months later, strangers paid for our dinner without a word. People wanted to celebrate an elderly couple in love. Surreal, but incredibly special.
To Grief
A few years later, spinal stenosis stomped on Bill’s dancing shoes and halted our scuba diving. Standing in the kitchen became impossible. Walking hand-in-hand was out of the question. But this man of many passions became the master of adapting. “Can’t cook? I’ll become Lori’s sous chef and chop. Can’t swim with the sharks? Let’s live in the forest with the woodland creatures. Can’t walk the dog? She can trot beside me while I ride my mobility scooter.”
His physical decline was tangible, recognizable, easy to understand. We installed ramps, safety bars, a hoist for his scooter, so we could still go on adventures.
His cognitive decline was a different story. As he became more confused when I asked a question, I got snippier, more impatient. Bill has always been a sequential thinker, one detail at a time. I jump from thought to thought until a conclusion crystalizes. The gap between us was widening, and his growing need for clarity meant I had to stay on point.
At first I thought he was just being obtuse. Why bother? It’s not important. I shared less. I withdrew — afraid the fantasy of being unfettered and free together was disappearing, sensing the old trap of being needed snapping shut again. I flailed, unaware that this wasn’t something either of us could fix, and that I was really grieving the loss of my fully engaged, fascinating partner.
To Curiosity
One day I bumped into my wise friend Ben, who casually asked, “How are you doing, Lori?” Instead of my default “I’m great,” I was brutally honest. “I’m pissed that my dream world is fading. Bill can’t walk, and now he struggles to understand what I’m saying, and it takes him forever to tell me what he needs.” Ben replied, “Instead of being angry, try focusing on being curious about Bill’s journey. You can’t change what’s happening to him, but you can change how it affects both of you.” Wow. Exactly the words I needed to hear.
Bill had been a serious diver — over 3,500 dives — and a top-tier political campaign manager, the kind of man who leveraged detail into winning strategies. Now he laughs at himself instead of getting angry when he can’t remember yesterday. He still plays Go, the ancient Chinese strategy game, and walks the ramps gripping the rails whenever he can. When reading got hard, he traded the newspaper for audiobooks — and decided that was a good thing too, since he no longer has to read the disturbing news every day. He delights in watching wild turkeys peck through our garden. He’s thankful — for our house, our puppy, and for me.
My curiosity expanded too. Bill’s transitioned from equal partner to mentor — teaching me to blend flavors in the kitchen, urging me to attempt paintings I thought were beyond my ability. His willingness to ask for help encouraged me to ask for help too. He was afraid his condition would keep me from pursuing new interests — dancing, art, workshops, speaking. Instead, he’s become my biggest cheerleader, reflecting on my work and offering great suggestions.
To Gratitude
He makes every day the best day he can. When he loses a word mid-sentence, we’ve turned the search into a game — he gives me clues until I guess it. Yesterday’s favorite: What’s the device people roll down the sidewalk? (A wheelchair.) Today’s: How can I hear what you’re saying? (Wear your hearing aids.) A man who once hated the idea of playing charades now finds clues to communicate — and it’s fun, for both of us.
I never wanted to be needed. Now I realize being needed was never what scared me. I was afraid of not having options. Thanks to Ben’s advice, I’m enjoying each day more fully, learning to slow down. Bill and I cherish our coffee in the morning and a glass of wine at night, hand-in-hand in our recliners.
I don’t feel trapped. I feel grateful and privileged to love and be loved by this incredible man — to have a front row seat watching him navigate his challenges with grace. Yes, I’m sad that our dream of being equal partners has faded. But he never stops inspiring me.
Bill’s complete mantra?
I am lucky. I am healthy. I am free.
