^{Caregiver Wisdom}

by Gregg Fous, Caregiver/Founder

My wife is still the woman I fell in love with thirty years ago.
She always will be.

Thirty years ago, Gail was a woman of style and grace—the kind other women admired and men noticed. When she walked into a room, people turned their heads. It wasn’t just her beauty. It was her confidence, her sense of self. She carried herself like she knew exactly who she was. I’ll never forget that woman—because she’s still here, just quieter now.

Today, that confidence wavers. She’s self-aware enough to know what’s slipping, and that awareness is its own kind of pain. Dressing and makeup—things that once came effortlessly—have become chores. So I do what I can to make them easier. I take pictures of her favorite outfits, and when she says, “I don’t know what to wear,” I pull up a photo and say, “How about this one?”

I can’t help her apply makeup, but I can help her feel like herself again. Once, on an overnight trip to Asheville, we went to Dillard’s. I asked the cosmetics manager to put together a travel kit of everything Gail would need so we’d never have to unpack and repack her makeup. It was a simple gesture, but she lit up. That day, she felt seen again—stylish, elegant, alive. She doesn’t remember the day anymore, but I do. The joy on her face is something I’ll never forget.

Now our life is simpler. We don’t go out much. I’m the cook; she’s the cleanup crew. I dirty the clothes; she washes them. It’s a rhythm of care we’ve built together, one quiet task at a time. She sometimes forgets steps—where the plates go, whether she’s already run the washer—but I stay beside her, gently suggesting, never correcting.

She still shines when I ask her opinion, especially on things she used to know well. Her first husband was a doctor, and she worked in his office for years. So I’ll float an answer to a medical question and ask what she thinks. It’s not about the right answer—it’s about reminding her that her insight still matters.

I’ve learned that purpose isn’t about productivity. It’s about participation. When she sets a table I’ve already laid out, when she folds towels I’ve already folded, when we do something together—it’s not the outcome that counts. It’s the moment.

Care, for me, is just that: being present with the person you love, in the time when love must do more of the lifting.

Takeaway:
Purpose doesn’t fade with memory. It changes shape. Sometimes the greatest purpose is simply being needed—and knowing someone still sees your grace.

—Gregg

If this resonates, share it with another caregiver. And if you would like a companion that listens and remembers, visit Atenda.Care.

 

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