🎵 “Basket Case” – (EOA)Going to Therapy (Green Day)
It only took me four years.
FOUR YEARS.
Four years of Early Onset Alzheimer's.
Diagnosis.
Doctors.
Medications.
Disability.
Finances.
Driving.
Kids.
Work.
Appointments.
Decline.
Planning.
Watching.
Waiting.
Worrying.
And finally...
I went to therapy.
Not Rob.
ME.
Apparently, I'm the patient now.
😂
💜 Grief? What Grief?
One of the first things that comes up when you're the spouse of someone with Alzheimer's is grief.
And my initial reaction is almost:
Grief? What grief?
He's right here.
He's alive.
We're talking.
We're eating dinner.
We're going places.
He's driving me crazy.
How am I grieving someone who is standing right in front of me?
Ohhhhhhh.
THAT grief.
The grief sitting quietly on the edge of everything.
Anticipatory grief.
The grief for what's coming.
And Alzheimer's adds another layer because you're also grieving what's already gone.
The conversation you used to have.
The person who handled something without being asked.
The husband who remembered the anniversary.
The person who could solve a problem for YOU.
The future you assumed you'd have together.
It's not one giant loss.
It's hundreds of little ones.
And unlike grief after a death, there's no funeral marking the moment when you're officially allowed to grieve.
The person you're grieving is sitting beside you.
Sometimes laughing.
Sometimes arguing with you.
Sometimes asking you the same question for the fifth time.
So you just keep going.
🛋️ My First Therapy Appointment
And you know what?
It was actually...
good.
We talked.
We laughed.
We cried.
Okay.
I cried.
😂
But I liked her.
And there was something surprisingly freeing about sitting across from someone who had absolutely no role in my regular life.
She isn't my friend.
She isn't my coworker.
She isn't my child.
She isn't another family member worried about Rob.
I didn't have to protect her from anything.
I didn't have to make Alzheimer's funny.
I didn't have to say:
“We're doing okay.”
I didn't have to change the subject because I could see someone's face getting uncomfortable.
For one hour...
I got to take the mask off.
🎭 THE MASK
I didn't realize how much I wear one.
I work.
I have meetings.
I get dressed.
I do my hair.
I make jokes.
I go out.
I manage the house.
I handle appointments.
I make plans.
I research.
I write.
I keep shit moving.
People see that and think:
She's doing great.
And mostly?
I AM.
That's the weird part.
You can be doing great...
and still be sad.
You can be strong...
and completely fucking exhausted.
You can laugh your ass off at something your husband did at 2:00...
and cry about Alzheimer's at 2:30.
Both can exist.
📋 And Then Came THE SURVEYS
Ohhhhh, therapy.
Of course there are forms.
“Over the last TWO WEEKS...”
Have you felt anxious?
Have you felt sad?
Have you had trouble sleeping?
Have you been tired?
Have you had difficulty concentrating?
Have you been irritable?
I'm sitting there thinking:
MA'AM. DEFINE NORMAL.
😂
Because are we grading me against an average Tuesday?
Or are we grading me against:
My husband has Early Onset Alzheimer's.
I have a college student.
I have aging parents.
I have a career.
I have a house to run.
I'm in menopause.
My hormones have apparently decided to start their own fucking circus.
Some nights I barely sleep.
Other nights I wake up sweating to high heavens like someone set the mattress on fire.
And you would like me to accurately summarize:
“Over the last two weeks, how often have you felt tired?”
Girl.
NEXT QUESTION.
🧠 But I Understand Why They Ask
I may roll my eyes at the questionnaire, but there is a reason for it.
Those questions give clinicians a standardized starting point for identifying symptoms of anxiety and depression and tracking whether things change over time.
But here's what I realized during the appointment:
A score doesn't tell my whole story.
A two-week snapshot can't explain four years of caregiving.
It can't measure anticipatory grief.
It can't distinguish:
I can't sleep because I'm depressed
from:
I can't sleep because I'm menopausal, listening for my husband, thinking about tomorrow's meeting and wondering what fresh Alzheimer's bullshit we're going to encounter at breakfast.
That's where the actual conversation matters.
The questionnaire may start the discussion.
It shouldn't BE the discussion.
😢 Am I Depressed?
That's another uncomfortable question. (according to the survey NO)
I don't know that every moment of sadness in caregiving needs to become a diagnosis.
Sometimes I'm sad because...
THIS IS SAD.
Sometimes I'm angry because...
THIS IS UNFAIR.
Sometimes I'm anxious because there are legitimately things to be anxious about.
What's his next decline?
Can I leave him alone?
What happens with memory care?
How long can I keep working?
How much is this going to cost?
Will he know the kids?
Will he know me?
What does retirement look like now?
What does my life look like afterward?
Those aren't irrational fears my brain invented.
They're real questions.
But that doesn't mean I should have to carry all of them alone.
💔 Anticipatory Grief Is Weird As Hell
We're grieving a future that hasn't happened yet.
We're grieving events years before they occur.
Graduations.
Weddings.
Grandchildren.
Retirement.
Travel.
Growing old together.
I can see an elderly couple holding hands and suddenly think:
I'll never have that.
And five minutes later I'm standing in Target wondering which laundry detergent is on sale.
That's anticipatory grief.
It doesn't schedule an appointment.
It just shows up.
At a restaurant.
In the car.
At Christmas.
Looking at an old photograph.
Watching another couple.
Hearing a song.
Sometimes right in the middle of an otherwise perfectly good day.
Oh. There you are again.
🤐 Why Didn't I Talk to My Friends About All of This?
I do talk to my friends.
I have wonderful people around me.
But there's still a mask.
Because really...
How many times can you tell somebody about your sad, shitty situation?
😂
Unless you're a little bit of a sadomasochist, nobody wants every conversation to be:
WELCOME BACK TO JESSICA'S ALZHEIMER'S UPDATE!
And I don't want Alzheimer's to become my entire personality either.
Sometimes I want wine.
Or dinner.
Or gossip.
Or somebody else's problems.
PLEASE.
Tell me your problems.
I would LOVE to spend 45 minutes discussing your asshole coworker.
That sounds delightful.
So we edit ourselves.
We give people the highlights.
We make the funny parts funny.
We say:
“We're hanging in there.”
And then we go home.
🛋️ Therapy Is Different
That's what I discovered.
You're literally paying someone to hear the shit you don't necessarily want to dump on everyone else.
What a fantastic business model.
😂
But seriously...
There's freedom in that.
I can say:
I'm angry.
I'm resentful.
I'm scared.
I'm exhausted.
I'm jealous of normal couples.
I'm worried about my future.
Sometimes I don't want to do this anymore.
And saying those things doesn't mean:
I don't love my husband.
That's probably the biggest distinction.
I can love him fiercely and hate Alzheimer's fiercely at the same time.
❤️ Four Years Was Probably Long Enough
Would therapy have helped me four years ago?
Probably.
Would I have gone?
Probably not.
I was busy fixing things.
That's what happens in the beginning.
Find the doctor.
Get the diagnosis.
Research Alzheimer's.
Get the POA.
Figure out disability.
Stop the driving.
Fix the finances.
Manage medications.
Protect the house.
Help the kids.
Keep working.
Keep everybody functioning.
THERE IS NO TIME TO HAVE FEELINGS.
I'll pencil those in for 2026.
Apparently...
I did.
💜 Maybe Therapy Isn't Because You're Falling Apart
This was my biggest takeaway from appointment number one.
I don't have to wait until I'm completely broken down to talk to someone.
Therapy doesn't have to mean:
“I can't handle my life.”
Maybe it means:
“My life is a lot to handle.”
Those are very different statements.
I still work.
I still laugh.
I still make plans.
I still have things I'm excited about.
I still have a future.
And I'm also grieving.
Those things can all exist in the same person.
So say it out loud---“Maybe therapy doesn't mean my life is falling apart. Maybe it means my life is a lot to handle.”
🎵 Why “Basket Case”
Because some days I feel completely rational.
And some days I think:
Am I losing my fucking mind too?
😂
No.
I'm navigating a completely abnormal situation while also dealing with all the completely normal shit that comes with being a middle-aged woman, mother, daughter, employee, homeowner and human being.
And apparently...
I've finally decided maybe I don't need to raw-dog Early Onset Alzheimer's emotionally for the rest of my life.
So I'll go back.
I'll probably bitch about the questionnaires again.
I'll probably laugh.
I'll probably cry.
And for an hour...
I don't have to be the caregiver.
I don't have to solve anything.
I don't have to protect anyone.
I don't have to make anybody else comfortable.
I can just be...
me.
Turns out?
I think she might need a little attention too.
💜 CAREGIVER CHECK-IN
When was the last time somebody asked:
“How are YOU?”
And you actually answered honestly?
Not:
“Fine.”
Not:
“We're hanging in there.”
Not an update about your spouse.
YOU.
If you can't remember...
Maybe that's worth thinking about.
💬 Disclaimer
Keep in mind, I am writing this blog over years, not in one day- I repeat some things, but because it became more applicable today. I’m not a doctor, lawyer, therapist, or expert—just a wife trying to figure this out one day at a time. Everything shared here is based on our experience and things that have helped us along the way. Take what helps, leave what doesn’t, and always check with professionals when needed. I also use AI to help clean up my writing, organize thoughts, and pull together resources because honestly… caregiver brains are tired too. If something here helps another family feel less alone, then it’s worth sharing.
If thoughts ever shift from an exhausted “I can't do this anymore” to actually wanting to die, hurt yourself, or feeling unsafe, treat that differently and get immediate help. In the U.S., call or text 988 for the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.
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