Holding On, Letting Go, and Trying Again

 Holding On, Letting Go, and Trying Again

I’m writing this update even though I feel like a Ferris wheel without a hub — spinning fast and not quite sure which direction is up. But here goes…

We’re back from Austin — already a week!
Mabel turned two. Yes, she did — and there was no stopping her. It was one of those rare, deeply happy gatherings: full of love, laughter, and family harmony. Thank you, Mabel. Thank you, Nora and Andrew. It reminded us that coming together is worth every mile and every ounce of effort.

Mabel stayed a little shy with James this time, though he joined the fun

— took a turn on the backyard waterslide, threw the ball for the ever-obsessed German Shepherd, and soaked in the joy. I let myself relax a bit too; every time I checked, James had already taken his meds and his water — I thought, wow, maybe we’ve found our rhythm again.

So when James and Coby flew home five days before me, there was trust that he’d be fine.
But somewhere between Austin and Forest Knolls, trouble found us again. Despite our new flu and COVID shots, James came down with COVID. And COVID and Lewy Body Dementia do not get along.

Two days after getting home, while alone in the house, James spun out. He didn’t take his meds, didn’t eat or drink, and slipped into confusion. When Coby couldn’t reach him by phone, he left work early and found the house in chaos — chairs overturned, cables pulled out, clothes scattered. James was disoriented, speaking gibberish, and barely able to stand.

It was terrifying.
Coby did everything right — got him fed, gave him his meds, and called me in Austin, calmly but clearly saying: “James can’t be left alone.”

When I got home early Saturday morning, James was still out of it — dehydrated, weak, but slowly responding. With some coaxing (and a few firm words), I got him to drink two liters of water in one hour, then into a bath, and then finally to eat. Coby had a meal waiting. It was teamwork at its finest.

And slowly, like a dried-up plant soaking in rain, James came back to life. Watching him return to himself, inch by inch, was a quiet miracle.

Then, just as I started to breathe again, another wave hit.
A message from Germany: my mother had passed away.

She was 92. She’d gone into the hospital for what they called “minor surgery” — an infection in her toe — but her body was tired. I think part of me knew this was coming, but it still felt like the ground dropped out.

My first reaction was to call our friends in Mexico and cancel our little November trip to Chacala — the one we’ve been dreaming about, the one partly made possible by your generosity here.
But my dear friend in Germany, who helped care for my mom, called and said:

“Margit, don’t cancel. There’s nothing urgent you can do right now. Take James to Mexico. Rest. Everything else can wait.”

And that’s when I finally cried.

Still, I don’t know what comes next.
If James went with me to Germany, the long travel and time change would undo us both. But if I go alone, I’ll need to line up care for him during the days when Coby is at work. I don’t know yet how to make that possible, but I have to try.

Flights to Europe are not cheap right now (apparently everyone else had the same idea — who can blame them?). So here I am again, turning to this village of kindness and courage that has carried us before:

If you’re able to help — with travel costs to Germany, or with the added care James will need while I’m gone — it would mean more than I can say.

Do I sound desperate? Probably because I am.
But I’m also grateful — deeply, wildly, tearfully grateful — for this community that has shown us, again and again, that we’re not alone.

We’ll make it through this one too.
Beyond sad, but still hopeful — and forever thankful.

With love,

James and Margit

Top photo: My mom and I 1959

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