For the Ones Who Loved Until the Very End

My dear Uncle Lenzi passed away last Friday.

He had a tough exterior. Anyone who met him might have noticed that first. But if you stayed long enough, if you paid attention, you could see what lived underneath. A big heart. A sharp sense of humor. A deep, steady kindness that didn’t need an audience.

What I admired most about him was his devotion to his wife.

For six years, she lived with Alzheimer’s. For much of that time, she no longer recognized him. And still, he showed up. Three or four times a day. Every day. Visiting her, checking on her, helping with her care at the care center. Loving her without needing recognition in return.

That kind of caregiving changes you.

Uncle Lenzi always thanked me for taking care of his “little sister,” my grandma. Even though my Grams was a few years older, that’s how he saw her. With protectiveness. With affection. With pride.

Because I was my grandma’s caregiver too, Uncle Lenzi and I shared a bond that didn’t need many words. We understood each other. The exhaustion. The quiet grief. The love that stays even when things become unrecognizable. Caregivers recognize one another that way.

His life reminds me that caregiving is not about being seen. It’s about being faithful. About choosing love again and again, even when it’s hard, even when it hurts, even when it goes unnoticed.

I imagine him now reunited with my Grams, whole again, free from the weight he carried for so long. I hope she wrapped him up in one of her strong hugs.

Give Grams a big hug for me, Uncle Lenzi.

I love and miss you both so much.