Am I Happy That My Husband is Dead?
In many ways, yes ... but in addition … I also continue to grieve and miss him more than ever.
We are coming up on the tenth anniversary of my husband Gregory’s death. He passed on to his new adventure on October 4, 2015, at 12:00 noon, after living with dementia, most likely Alzheimer’s Disease for twelve years.
I call those twelve years “our ordeal.” They were filled with tears and sadness, but they were also filled with laughter and joy.
They were filled with frustration, confusion, anger, and fear, but they were also filled with travel, adventure, growth, and faith.
Mostly, they were filled with love, unqualified love, as we walked the Alzheimer’s Path together, me right next to him, supporting him through what I always call
OUR diagnosis, OUR changes, OUR losses, and OUR day-to-day difficulties which the disease brought with it.
At a far point in the progression of this insidious disease, my main job became making sure that Gregory always knew WHO he was and WHERE he was, that he was in the RIGHT PLACE, doing the RIGHT THING, at the RIGHT TIME, and if lost, physically or emotionally, that I/we would always find each other.
He always knew who I was, his love for me, and my place in his life. He knew he could trust me, that he was safe, loved, valued, and respected.
Even though the times were not easy, we persevered and did a good job.
I was able to support him by freeing him from daily worries, reducing his responsibilities as close to zero as I could.
I didn’t correct him, allowing him the reality of the situation even when he remembered it incorrectly.
I constantly focused on helping him manage his fears, frustrations, confusion, and concerns.
I was able to help him compensate for his often-changing abilities, while always trying to make sure that the respect and communication that had always defined our relationship never faltered.
Even though there were many skills he could no longer accomplish, I always remembered that while he presented as if he were a child, he was not. He was an adult and needed to be treated as such.
Alzheimer’s Disease is an illness that affects, as of 2026, approximately 7.4 million Americans aged 65 and older,with projections indicating this number could rise to nearly 13 million by 2050.
In the beginning days of Gregory’s and my dealing with the day-to-day of Alzheimer’s, and still to this day, stigma, social death, and silence surround the lives of many of those living with Alzheimer’s.
Sadly, I found myself defending Gregory from that stigma even from family and friends.
The misunderstandings, although better today than in the past, continue to echo through the hallways of hospitals, medical school lecture rooms, doctor’s offices, textbooks, and even possibly ... your own living room.
This is where stories come in.
Stories can rewrite the narrative. Stories can bring back the humanity of a person with dementia and to their family.
In facing and talking about illness and death, people find ways to forgiveness and healing.
Healing in this sense does not necessarily mean curing a disease nor avoiding death, but rather creating a shared social meaning, understanding, and the ability to cope.
This social process of sharing stories lets our collective memories meet, and through story, we make peace and move on, even if we are the one who is sick, hurt, or dying.
It helps us grieve our losses and helps those of us still here to continue on.
That said, after twelve years of walking the Alzheimer’s Path together, when Gregory passed, on my way out to the car on that balmy October day, I paused to enjoy the sun, and the clouds, and the flowers outside the Lieberman Health and Memory Care Center, to reflect on what I was feeling.
Besides the numbness of trying to understand death and its relationship to life, I felt vibrant with RELIEF and JOY.
The minute Gregory died, the Alzheimer’s disappeared.
PUFF...
Up in smoke.
Both of us no longer had to deal with the disease, and we could move on to whatever was next for us, on this side of life and on the other.
I could get back to figuring out who I was for the years I had left and Gregory ... well, even though he comes to me often in dreams, I still do not know exactly what his adventure consists of.
All this brings us back to the topic of this essay:
Am I Happy That My Husband is Dead?
The answer is easy:
YES and NO.
Occasionally, I reflect on what my life has become over the last ten years without Gregory’s participation in it.
I wonder what my life would be like if he were still alive and we were still living our lives in wedded bliss.
I am sure that we would still be very much in love and enjoying older age together. We would be traveling, locally and overseas, attending opera, theater, and musicals.
We would be spending time with married friends and single friends, gay and straight.
We would enjoy elegant restaurants, fast-food places, and be creating masterpieces in our own kitchen.
As Gregory lost his cognitive abilities, I learned how to cook. Today I continue to do so and have become an excellent cook.
Supporting Gregory also gave me the knowledge that allows me to advocate for others living with dementia and those who love them.
It gave me the ammunition to write extensively about Alzheimer’s and caregiving.
After retiring from teaching, it even helped create a second career in public speaking.
My claim to fame was serving as the opening keynote speaker for 1,500 people at the Minnesota-North Dakota Chapter of the Alzheimer’s Association in conjunction with the Mayo Clinic.
I also presented a breakout session on “The Dimensions of Alzheimer’s and Grief”
and participated in a Public Radio interview with the director of Mayo Clinic’s dementia department.
When Gregory and I could no longer process life together through language, I turned to writing and to my computer.
I processed our experiences, the lessons learned, and the good, bad, and ugly of the disease and of being a caregiver.
More recently, I have used those same skills to write about aging, aging as a gay man, and the challenges facing the LGBTQIA+ community today.
Although I miss Gregory deeply and miss being part of a couple, there are advantages to living alone.
I live on my own behalf.
I make my own decisions.
I eat what I want, when I want.
I travel when I choose.
I decorate my home as I wish.
I answer only to myself ... and my cat.
But none of those freedoms replace the companionship, love, and support that
If you are willing to work at it, the love and support that comes out of being committed to another person, and spending your life with that person, far outweighs any benefits of living alone.
But when you have had the love of your life and they have died, the need to find another relationship, at least for me, becomes less important.
Living alone becomes a side benefit.
Grief and gratitude are not opposites.
They can exist together.
Ten years later, I carry both grief and gratitude every day.
So, while my life is what it is, and I really have no choice about Gregory’s still being my present husband or not, I am enjoying my life and am blessed with the comfort, tranquility, and beauty of it.
I am very aware that it is quite different from what it would be if he were still alive.
Obviously, I would never want him to have continued living in the reduced Alzheimer’s condition he was in, simply for my benefit.
Again, life is what it is.
And I am grateful for having had him as my husband for 41 years.
And still counting.
This would have been our 50th year together.
His spirit is still very present in my life and in my memories.
Thank you.
If you would like a text copy of this podcast, for you or to share, you will find it on my website: www.horvich.com. You are welcome to use it for yourself or to support others, but please always give me name credit.