Craig was an incredible husband, father, and son. He adored his family and spent every extra moment he could with us. He was also a healer — a brilliant, Harvard-trained vascular interventional radiologist. He was deeply admired not only for his intelligence and skill, but also the compassion and empathy he showed to every patient he cared for.
We made a loving, warm, and beautiful family together with our four children in Baltimore, Maryland, where Craig ran a thriving practice. Craig enjoyed many interests including traveling, music, movies, theater, dining, tennis, mountain biking, and spending quality time with his family. His love and work ethic were respected and admired by many. Craig generously shared his knowledge with anyone needing medical expertise. He was most proud, though, of his four brilliant and beautiful children and strived to make lasting, meaningful memories with them.
Some of our most cherished memories are the family trips Craig planned for us. He worked so hard, so getting time away was when he fully embraced life with his family. He went to great lengths to make each trip special, creating moments we will treasure forever. But our blissful, peaceful life was to come grinding to a halt as I watched Craig slowly change in ways that were confusing, frightening, and heartbreaking.
At first, it showed up as extreme OCD behaviors, then came the compulsive eating. He would become enraged over food, sometimes yelling about being hungry, other times forgetting he had just made eggs and leaving them on the stove. He would wake me up early in the morning, yelling in confusion, asking what he should do, “Should I shower? What should I wear?” It was relentless.
There were moments of aggression, banging his head, hitting the wall, and lashing out verbally, often at me or his youngest son. Then, in an instant, he’d be crying... or suddenly calm, like nothing had happened. It was disorienting and terrifying.
I remember once asking him, “Are you aware of your behavior?” And he said, “No, but I must be doing something wrong because everyone is telling me I am.” That moment broke my heart. He was lost, and he knew it, but couldn’t find his way back.
To make things even more complicated, Craig also had Type 1 diabetes. With every outburst, every mood swing, every mental fog I was asking myself, “Is this the dementia, or is it his blood sugar?” It felt like I was in a constant state of triage, trying to decode what was happening and how to help. I also discovered a mountain of unpaid bills, signs of how long things had been unraveling without us even realizing it. Looking back, the signs were there. But when you’re living it day by day, you don’t see the full picture until it crashes down on you.
It took almost two years to finally reach a diagnosis. He was so young and a brilliant Harvard trained doctor, so his doctors brushed my comments off, telling me his behavior was “normal.” But I lived with him every day, and I knew something was deeply wrong. The turning point came when I videotaped one of his episodes. Only then did the doctors begin to pay attention. A psychiatrist hesitantly suggested seizures, but that didn’t explain what I was witnessing. I pressed on and told the internist, “This is not my husband. It’s either a brain tumor or dementia.”
Looking back, I realize how much persistence it took to be heard. Those two years were filled with fear, frustration, and heartbreak, but also the unwavering conviction that I knew my husband better than anyone else, and I refused to stop until someone listened.
What stands out about our journey with FTD is how terrifying it is to receive a terminal diagnosis for your loved one, especially when you’re still young, with children to raise, and the person you’re caring for is the love of your life. The grief runs deep: grieving the loss of dreams you built together, the life you once had, and the friendships that slip away when others can’t understand. Every day you live overwhelmed, exhausted, and in constant survival mode. You’re trying to hold yourself together while navigating the unrelenting demands of FTD - the financial strain, the emotional weight, the physical exhaustion. The disease changes so quickly, sometimes week to week, that you’re always scrambling to adjust.
And then there was the brutal reality of the symptoms: we experienced screaming, crying, Craig hit himself in frustrated anger. There were heartbreaking struggles with eating and showering, the behavioral outbursts that demanded strict routines and endless patience. Doctor visits, medications, and unanswered questions piled up. Worst of all was watching a brilliant, capable man slowly become lost to this disease, his light dimming before my eyes. The decline was relentless, and no matter how much love I gave, I couldn’t stop it.
My caregiving journey was filled with grieving the loss of my husband while he was still alive. I woke each day with love in my heart and fear in my gut. I became his emotional anchor, even when I was drowning myself. My hair felt like it was on fire, and my brain hurt from the overwhelming amount of stress, learning about SSDI, long term disability, getting the right doctors and adjusting his medications. I lived every day with anticipatory grief. “Will he wake up today? Will he be okay today?” It was a constant weight on my chest. And it was lonely, heartbreakingly lonely. No matter how much help I had, no matter how many hands pitched in, at the end of the day, the final decisions were mine to make. The responsibility lived with me, and I carried it alone. What made it even harder was that I wasn’t just losing my husband, grieving the loss of the life we dreamed of, the future we had planned, and the partner I thought I’d grow old with. I was also raising our four young children, and doing it without help from my soulmate.
Caregiving was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. And yet, it was also an act of deep, unwavering love. I would do it again, but I want people to understand the cost, the courage, and the complexity of what it really means to show up for someone in this way. Caregiving is emotionally, physically & financially exhausting. It’s saying, “I love you” and “It’s okay” while changing their soiled clothes or gently reminding them to chew and swallow their food. It’s looking into their eyes and getting a blank stare back, not because they don’t care, but because they can’t understand that all you want is to help. And sometimes, you get screamed at for trying. Caregiving is knowing the humiliation they must feel, even if they can’t say it, and choosing to honor them anyway, with grace, patience, and dignity.
The type of support I needed during our journey was emotional, physical, and financial, but even more than that, I desperately needed breaks, just a few hours to myself. But even that felt like a struggle. The thought of giving up control, of stepping away from Craig for even a short time, was terrifying. What if something happened to him while I was gone? What if I wasn’t there when he needed me? And what about the person I asked to help, what if I was putting them in a situation that made them uncomfortable, or they didn’t know how to handle him when things got tough? As a caregiver, asking for help takes an immense amount of courage. But it also comes with a great deal of stress. You feel torn between the need for relief and the fear of relinquishing control, and that creates a constant inner conflict.
I remember it took years for me to admit that I needed help. For the first three years, I kept pushing through, thinking I could handle it, thinking I had to. But eventually, my body and mind just couldn’t take it anymore. I realized that if I didn’t get help, I wasn’t just going to burn out, I was going to get sick. I was already exhausted in every possible way, and I knew if I didn’t step back, I wouldn’t be able to keep caring for Craig the way he deserved. I needed sleep and stop my brain from reeling. It was the hardest thing to admit I needed help, but it was also the best thing for both of us. The moment I acknowledged my limits and started to make space for self-care was when I finally started to understand that I couldn’t pour from an empty cup.
My mantra throughout the hardest moments of caregiving was simple but powerful: “One day at a time.” And I meant that with every fiber of my being. I never knew what tomorrow would bring, or even what the next few hours would hold. Every day felt like a battle, and I walked through each one with a pit in my stomach, constantly unsure of what was coming next. The toughest moments were the ones when I felt most alone, when the weight of caregiving was too heavy to carry. In those moments, I relied on my family, my children, and grief therapy to get me through.
You can never truly prepare yourself for this kind of journey, but I would say: prepare yourself for everything. I was fortunate to have incredible children who were willing to talk openly with me about how sick their father was. That honesty helped take away some of the fear and kept us connected. My family reminded me often that I also needed to care for myself, so I wouldn’t become sick, too. I discovered how important it was to breathe — deeply — and rest whenever I could. Sleep was a lifeline.
To anyone who finds themselves in a season of struggle, you are not alone, even if sometimes it feels like you are. And to those who know someone who is a caregiver — don’t be afraid to reach out, even if it feels intimidating. Call, text, drop a note, show up. Caregivers are often deeply lonely, and the smallest act of connection can mean the world. Even if you don’t know the perfect words, reach out. A simple text, a gentle hug, a moment of your time to just sit and listen… these small things are lifelines.
I am more determined than ever to carry on Craig’s legacy. He was a healer in every sense, believing in living life with compassion and purpose. He made a difference in so many lives, and we will continue to carry that light forward. We will honor him by supporting others who are walking the difficult path of caregiving, and by striving to make the world a little kinder, a little healthier, and a little more connected — just as he would have wanted.
