Please read the article in the attached link, and share. This is important.

In the last few weeks of my father’s life, his doctor gave him permission to move back into the little cottage behind our house. Dad had lost a leg to diabetes. After surgery, he struggled diligently in physical therapy, yearning to live with my mom once again. During 41 years of marriage, my dad took care of my mother, ever her sentinel, vigilant for signs of her recurring mental illness. Now she took care of him. Mom made sure he ate and took his insulin on time, serving him copious cups of coffee, calling us for help as needed. On the days when Dad found the wheelchair too cumbersome to navigate the sidewalk to our back door, I brought them their meals. I often discovered them in a gentle embrace, sitting side by side on the bed, just holding on. Or Mom would stand behind his chair at the kitchen table, arms around his shoulders, dropping small kisses on his head every few moments. This is how I found them on the morning my father died.

After we returned from the hospital on that day of loss, my mother shyly confessed that they had fallen in love all over again, quietly repeating their marriage vows to each other one morning at dawn. They had both acknowledged that some things in life could not ever get “fixed.” I knew they were happy.

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