Before I share today’s story, I invite you to take a quiet moment with me.

Step away from the noise.
Take a breath.
Bring your focus inward.

Breathe in slowly through your nose… and exhale gently through your mouth. Again, slow inhale, soft exhale.

Picture the most important person in your life. They may still be here, or perhaps they’ve passed. Let yourself feel how deeply they matter to you.

Now imagine finding them sitting quietly at the edge of a bed their head down, hands in their lap. You gently ask, “Are you okay?”
And in the softest voice, they say:
“I’m so tired of the pain. If I had a pistol, I’d end this right now.”

How would you respond, or react? What would you do?

Those are the words Doug spoke. And they crushed me.

Doug, my sweet guy, my “tough ol’ bird” has been quietly enduring a deep, relentless head pain for months. Not a headache. This different. On the bad days I can see the pain in his eyes.

I’ve raised the issue repeatedly with his doctor: the head pain, and consistently high blood pressure. At first, she recommended pharmacological options, ok, let’s try it. She suggested a new pillow, ok, let’s try it. I added gentle movement exercises, massage, fascia release, and supplements. We walked more. I adjusted pillows. I did everything I could to ease his pain without speeding up his diminishing cognitive state.

But the pain didn’t stop. And neither did I.

After months of advocating, his doctor finally ordered an MRI. Then came the wait to get in for the MRI and Cartoid Ultrasound. Weeks of Doug quietly suffering.

If you know him, you know he doesn’t complain. Years ago, he had a bleeding ulcer that ulitmately required a blood transfusion of five pints of blood in the ER.

Yesterday was different.

His pain has been impacting life. Doug knows I’m his safe space and felt safe enough to speak his truth of being tired of the pain.

So I sat beside him. I held him. I told him I was sorry. I told him I loved him. I told him the MRI and Cartoid Ultrasound have been done; we’re just waiting on answer. It didn’t feel like enough because it wasn’t.

I won’t fall apart in front of Doug. It serves no purpose.

I’m his advocate. I messaged the doctor again. I asked for answers. 

This is the beautiful part of the  “in sickness and in health” that our wedding vows mean.

This isn’t just about dementia.
It’s about why advocacy matters regardless of the illness.

We live in a world where pain is often filtered through systems and waitlists. But behind every medical chart is a human being. And behind that person is someone who loves them enough to fight like hell for their care.

Advocacy isn’t always loud.
Sometimes it’s a quiet persistence.
A soft voice that says: “Please help.”
A second call. A third message. A refusal to give up.

I don’t spend energy fearing MRI results. We’ll handle whatever comes. What I fear is not having an answer for the pain. Being dismissed. 

Doug’s life is changing. And some of the deepest heartache comes from witnessing your person suffer and not being able to fix it.

If you pray, please pray for Doug and his medical team.
If you believe in energy or intention, please send some his way.
And if you simply hold him in your heart for a moment, thank you. That matters more than you know.

A note on safety: All firearms in our home are securely stored. Doug does not know their location and cannot access them. He is safe. I will always keep him safe.

This is one moment in a long, complicated journey. But it’s a reminder:
Being an advocate is love in action.