It started after my husband, Bud, finished writing a book about his career as a journalist that he had been working on for over two years. On April 1, 2023, the day after he sent the manuscript to the publisher, he ended up in the emergency room of a hospital off-Island after experiencing what they called “a psychotic episode”.

The doctor immediately gave him a sedative, explained what was going on (diagnosis: Vascular Dementia plus other things that I didn’t understand) and said “I’ve seen this happen to a lot of creative people. They’ve overspent their creative reserve.”

At least that made sense. He had been feverishly trying to meet the publisher’s March 31 deadline and had been writing 10 to 12 hours a day, at the age of 88, with few breaks for anything else but meals and sleep.

After being completely at sea, we came home to our house in Edgartown, now looking at a life and lives that would change forever. This man, my husband of 65 years, with a brilliant mind — this father, grandfather and great grandfather, would never be himself again. How had this happened so fast? Where did the husband I once knew go?

It was all too much to process. I had never heard of, nor understood, Vascular Dementia. I had a lot to learn. I had a lot of questions. I had a lot of sadness.

As we started connecting with all kinds of doctors, hospitals, caregivers, nonprofit organizations, it occurred to me that I was living in an outer body.

“No, I don’t think so, I don’t remember.” “ No, I don’t understand.” “Can you go over the symptoms and the progression with me again?” “You say that this can go on for a long time, but you can’t tell me how long?”

I was living between reality and denial. Every day.

Bud, who was the co-creator and executive producer of CBS Sunday Morning had been at CBS for 45 years, starting in the mailroom when we married in 1959. When he retired, he played a lot of golf, cleared brush in the backyard, planted bushes, read all the newspapers on a daily basis and gave his all to his family.

Mostly, we enjoyed a lot of quality time together after years of raising children, working and dealing with all of life’s challenges. Now was supposed to be our time, traveling, attending concerts and lectures, and just being where we wanted to be, mostly on Martha’s Vineyard.

His most important achievement in his later years was starting the Martha’s Vineyard Hospice charity golf tournament at Mink Meadows Golf Club, where he was an avid golfer and made life-long friends —a marvelous mix of men who adored each other. For 13 years he organized and ran the tournament that raised thousands of dollars for an organization that was close to his heart.

This disease, dementia, is a monster because it steals one’s brain, one’s memories and, in the end, one’s dignity. It erodes the blood vessels to the brain little by little, changing the whole body, from speech, to motor skills, to social graces.

However, I defy the experts to deny that there are still emotions intact, touches that are felt, voices that are recognized. During his illness, he may have forgotten many things, but he never forgot the sound of his daughters’ voices, the joys of his life, nor their faces when they walked into a room. He also never forgot my own face or voice. That was a blessing.

Yet there were many times that I was told “he has to do this or that” because of the stage of dementia he was in, and I just had to stick to my own intuition about what he was and was not ready for, even though the doctors told me otherwise.

How many times did I protest that he wasn’t ready for a hospital bed? I knew he hated the thought of being in a hospital bed in his own house. We had discussed it before he got sick. So I said, “No, not yet. This is our marriage bed. He will sleep here with me, with his arm around me.” It made him feel secure given his diminished state, and somehow he knew that.

How many times did I have to tell his caregivers that he needed more food, or less food, more or less fresh air, patience, patience, depending on the stage he was in? He loved going for car rides. People around me would tell me, “No he can’t maneuver in or out of the car on his own”. But we went anyway. Sometimes he’d fall asleep, but we were together.

Bud passed away in March. Now the hard, hard road of loss begins. The quiet is deafening. Missing him is endless. For our conversations over breakfast each morning I now have with a photo of him by my side.

Family gatherings will be less filled with his stories, the laughs we’d have, the walks we would take after a big meal. We’ll miss his gourmet cooking at Thanksgiving, tours of his gardens.

The last year of him here at home with a caregiver was the best gift he had because he was surrounded by family and friends until the very end. I know he’s at peace and probably already playing his beloved game of golf and telling his wonderful stories. And, maybe cooking for the angels.

Susan Lamoreaux lives in Edgartown.