It has been six months since I received a call on Mother's Day from the nursing home saying my sweet husband died softly in his sleep. Occasionally, I found myself scrolling through the Mayo caregiver support group for dementia and cancer, which gave me support, but where I now felt like a fraud. I even tried to cancel the site a few times because the email was a reminder of a time I would prefer not to linger on. And, of course, there are those events other than dementia and cancer that are not in our control. The legal, the financial, those who care too much, who need more support than you have to give, and those who care too little. -- I am 88, and my Dear Boy was 95 when he passed. We had a late-in-life, 27-year partnership filled with respect and fun. We were lucky and worked at it. Together we battled his diminishment from dementia, combined with the challenges from cancer with radiation, multiple surgeries, a colostomy, and then a permanent catheter bag for urine. It gave me all the opportunities I needed to build confidence in my ability to redesign life. And, still, I miss what we had, even when he was dying slowly and I was slowly going under. -- Within the week of his death, I found myself consoling the widows of two of his friends. There were funeral arrangements that were mine alone to make. There were the legal details to attend to for the relinquishment of our home to an estate set up for his grown children. A home I could have legally kept, but could not financially support without my husband. Not a shock, not something of which I had not prepared myself, but a loss. There was a house to purge and pack for a move to another state to at last be close to my now only child, a daughter. Her brother died four years ago. Another loss. And then two weeks ago, after having made a transition to my new home, I received a phone call telling me my best friend of 50 years had died in her sleep. -- Even with the support of a loving family on an adventure to reinvent myself, I have finally reached a tipping point. So I am here with whoever will read this message. -- Last year, when my brother died, I became the final person standing in the family of my childhood. They are the people who have left me as the only one to carry their stories forward. It is a lonely challenge. And still, I must move forward. This thing called life is a gift not to squander. How much time is left for me to achieve anything besides unpacking those boxes scattered in every room of this new place, I do not know. I plan to use the same strategies in my new life that I used in my old one. Every day, work at something that gives a sense of accomplishment (no matter how small). Do something kind (a phone call to a friend who needs an uplift, or ask the mail lady how she's doing (not as an opportunity to complain, but because you care). Good cheer given always comes back on the next tide. Learn something new. We live in a technological age. All the knowledge of the world is available. No excuses, only the limits of your imagination. And, find a way to laugh, even if but a moment. Best if with another human being, but a comedy show, a cartoon, a meme, or YouTube videos of cats will do the trick. -- Towards the end of my husband's life, I would ask him what my name was. It was a joke we both laughed at. It was a way to monitor the advancement of dementia. One day, he said, "I don't know who you are, but I know we are a pair." And so we were, and so we will be to the end. His story will be another to carry forward to whatever future I may have. I want to do it in a manner that honors his love. I want to honor the love of all the others I have lost. When they insert themselves in my days to come, I want to smile instead of cry. Easier said than done, but I will give it my best shot. GloRo