Misaki Takahashi

My days often begin before dawn, the house still shrouded in the quiet of early morning. For over six years, until his recent passing, my husband Haruto required intensive care, a responsibility that transformed my life in ways I never imagined. Haruto was diagnosed with Alzheimer's at the early age of 52, a diagnosis that came like a bolt from the blue. One day, he was vibrant and full of life, the next he was home all the time, gradually becoming more dependent on me. The first few years were the hardest. There were moments when he would look at me with a blank expression, and I knew he didn't recognize me. That hurt more than anything.

I am 61 years old and from Japan, and caring for Haruto was an ongoing struggle, not just physically but emotionally as well. It wasn’t only the daily routines of feeding, bathing, and dressing him but also dealing with health insurance, authorities, and endless paperwork. Those tasks drained me almost as much as the caregiving itself. In the beginning, Haruto was resistant and sometimes aggressive, which made everything more challenging. But as time passed, his aggression faded, and he became more docile. This change, while a relief in some ways, was also heartbreaking. It marked another step in the progression of his illness, another piece of him lost.

Recently, Haruto passed away. His decline was slow, a gradual slipping away. I was with him through it all, supporting him as best I could. In the end, he just lay in bed, barely eating or drinking, mostly sleeping. We had prepared for the worst, but he went peacefully. Reflecting on our marriage during his final days, I found a deep appreciation for the life we shared. Now, as I sit in our quiet house, I sip my tea and think of Haruto. The days ahead will be different, perhaps quieter and less hectic, but his memory will always be with me, a reminder of the life and love we shared.