Some friendships don’t arrive loudly.

They unfold slowly… over haircuts, hospital chairs, window views, and faithful Wednesdays.

Our story with Bernie began nearly ten years ago when his radiant wife, Mary, walked into our salon for a haircut. She was light — even while living with chronic pain. She didn’t ignore hardship, but she refused to let it define her.

In the last couple of years of her life, Mary was placed in two different nursing homes for very short stays. They were meant to help. But Mary had a strong spirit. She felt displaced. Confined. It simply wasn’t home. The first time she called the salon asking me to pick her up, we knew there were protocols. The second time she called and said, “I’m signed out. Come get me.” So I did.

As we pulled away, she laughed and said we were like Thelma and Louise. I drove her straight to Bernie. They belonged together. They cleaved together until her final breath.

On my 41st birthday she was in hospice. She told me to go enjoy my day. I knew in my heart it would be the last time I’d see her. Two days later, she passed. Before she did, she asked me to look out for Bernie. I promised her I would. I told her I would do my best.

For the last three years, I have visited Bernie nearly every Wednesday — except for a couple of vacations and the six weeks I was recovering from my broken foot and shoulder after ladder fall. During that time, Johnny faithfully stepped in.

Bernie has taught me the beauty of small routines. Every single day, he would get up, get dressed, and make his bed — even when no one was coming over. I believe that was his military background coming through. Discipline. Order. Dignity. He kept structure even when life felt smaller.

We would sit by the window and watch the grass grow in front of his apartment. He cared deeply about that patch of lawn. He got tired of television and started reading more. Sometimes we would listen to old voicemails from Mary just to hear her voice again.

The first Christmas after Mary passed, I brought him a small toy cat. I knew how much he loved cats, and deep down I hoped companionship would find him again. Not long after, a black cat appeared outside his apartment. Bernie named him Zack. A neighbor admitted they had been feeding him too, but somehow Zack chose Bernie — and Bernie chose him back. That little cat filled a quiet space in his home.

Last week, the day after my Wednesday visit, Bernie fell again. He had told me he knew the time was coming when he might need more assistance. He asked me not to call his sons or doctor. He just wanted to stay home with his kitty as long as he could.

On Monday I received a call that neighbors had found him and an ambulance had taken him to the hospital — stable. Relief and heartbreak lived side by side in my chest.

Later he told me a man stood beside his bed and asked, “Do you know who I am?” Bernie said no. The man replied, “I am your son Steven.”

That moment feels like grace.

His sons — Steven, Russ, and Mike — had been estranged for reasons I don’t pretend to understand. Bernie speaks of them often, sometimes with tears. He has told me he was a workaholic and gone more than he wished. Regret softens a man in ways pride never could.

Johnny and I visited yesterday. We straightened his blankets. Asked about charging his hearing aids. Stayed as long as we could before I had to head to work. His lunch arrived and he dug right in — he said they are feeding him well. That brought peace to my heart.

I brought him a teddy bear gifted to me by my friend Dian and a religious poem from my Grandma’s nursing home room. His eyes filled with tears. Bernie is stubborn… but he is tender.

His sons are planning to move him to Kansas City so he can be closer to them. He doesn’t know yet. I’m praying that when that conversation happens, it feels like care — not loss. Like dignity — not displacement.

Loving someone in their final chapter is sacred and heavy all at once. This experience has softened and shaped me in ways I didn’t expect. I have cried more than I thought I would.

If you are caring for Bernie — thank you. Thank you for helping him maintain dignity. Thank you for speaking clearly so he can hear. Thank you for feeding him well and treating him gently. It matters more than you know.

Mary asked me to look out for him.

I promised her I would.

I will do my best.

Stay Rosy,

Amber 🤍🤟

#HalfwayThere #HalfwayToAnywhereYouPutYourMindTo