I am often asked when I first knew my husband, Lew, who was in his 50s at the time, had Alzheimer’s. There were moments of feeling something was off, like fluffy clouds moving and subtly changing without a pattern. The early stages of Alzheimer’s are like that. The person is intelligent, coherent, and continues to live their daily life. They may run five miles a day, read financial journals, analyze stocks, drive to appointments, or order dinner. And then one day, they can no longer perform even a simple task.
I saw these sort of changes one afternoon when the bulb in an overhead light fixture in our home needed to be changed. Lew carried a ladder to the room and placed it several feet away from the target. He seemed so proud of himself, yet there was a blank look on his face. Did I have to explain where to place the ladder? Wasn’t it obvious—the ladder goes under the fixture to make it reachable?
After several moves, he at last lined the ladder up correctly. Screwdriver in hand, Lew climbed up. But his face had a vacant stare as if to ask, “What do I do now?” He just stood there on the ladder, looking down at me, detached from the task at hand. Didn’t he know that the screwdriver he was holding was to remove the fixture cover in order to change out the bulb? And why was he now turning the screw in the wrong direction, tightening it instead of loosening it? This simple task—one that he’d probably done a hundred times before—was now entirely overwhelming and puzzling to him. And my instructions as to what he should be doing weren’t making any headway with him. We were frozen in the moment.
My anxiety started to build, but I wanted to remain patient and appear calm. Lew had not yet been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s or dementia, so I was confused and scared. What was going on here? Was his inability to do a simple task a symptom of Alzheimer’s? I hadn’t yet learned that one of the signs of Alzheimer’s was difficulty in completing ordinary tasks, like changing a light bulb. Here was my accomplished and intelligent husband, seemingly incapable of doing this. We had been attempting this task for fifteen minutes and had accomplished nothing.
Trying to be the brave, supportive wife, I felt suspended, like I was in a slow-moving movie in another language, trying to find my way through. I beckoned him to come down from the ladder, took his place, and removed the cover in minutes. I asked Lew to bring me a new light bulb. He walked into the other room and returned without it. Smiling his endearing smile, he looked up at me with love in his eyes and nothing in his hands. Eventually, I climbed down, got the bulb, screwed it in, and put the cover back on. I again asked myself, “Why couldn’t he do this simple job?” Meanwhile, Lew didn’t seem to have a clue as to what had just happened.
Deciding to move on without questioning, I decided to replace the uncomfortable with the comfortable—laughter. “Well, I didn’t marry you for your handyman skills, just like you didn’t marry me for my cooking skills.” Lew smiled, the twinkle in his eyes returned and the questions were momentarily silenced. We laughed and went on with our day.
For me, however, the light bulb experience was a turning point. Maybe memory loss isn’t just about forgetting what day it is or getting lost, I learned. The uncertainty of dementia creates questions without answers or experience. I wanted answers, and I wanted to find them. Living in the question was an uncomfortable concept to me. I needed to know what to do. I started to understand that memory loss creates situations with questions that may not have answers, or the answers may take longer to come or come in a different way. The lightbulb moment was the beginning of my learning process, where I grew to slowly acknowledge that not knowing the answer can be a sign of strength, the ability to be flexible, and move on in an uncertain situation. Moving on may be the first part of living in the question and accepting that dementia might be the real diagnosis.
This incident would shadow my journey and become one of many new lessons that I would learn over and over. The journey would continue for another four or five years. I never could have imagined how many twists and turns the journey would take, how many more questions I would have and how our lives would worsen. There were so many hurdles to come and so much Lew would lose…crossword puzzles, driving. memories, and more.
*****
Sharon Portin Parker spent 30 years as a media executive specializing in marketing and business development. When her husband was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s in his mid-50s, she took on the role of caregiver and advocate—a life-changing experience that sparked her deep involvement with Alzheimer’s. Through her volunteer work, she has contributed to programs, fundraising efforts, and public speaking initiatives. Parker was a founding member of the Celebrating Hope Gala in Greenwich and launched the Paint the Town Purple campaign in Old Greenwich to raise awareness for the cause. She is currently writing a book of personal essays that chronicle her journey with Alzheimer’s. The collection explores themes such as isolation, fear, denial, relationships, uncertainties, and moving forward. The book is slated for release in early 2026, and will be available on Amazon. You can reach Sharon at portpark@optonline.net.
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23 Aug 2025
0 Commentsthe lightbulb moment
I am often asked when I first knew my husband, Lew, who was in his 50s at the time, had Alzheimer’s. There were moments of feeling something was off, like fluffy clouds moving and subtly changing without a pattern. The early stages of Alzheimer’s are like that. The person is intelligent, coherent, and continues to live their daily life. They may run five miles a day, read financial journals, analyze stocks, drive to appointments, or order dinner. And then one day, they can no longer perform even a simple task.
I saw these sort of changes one afternoon when the bulb in an overhead light fixture in our home needed to be changed. Lew carried a ladder to the room and placed it several feet away from the target. He seemed so proud of himself, yet there was a blank look on his face. Did I have to explain where to place the ladder? Wasn’t it obvious—the ladder goes under the fixture to make it reachable?
After several moves, he at last lined the ladder up correctly. Screwdriver in hand, Lew climbed up. But his face had a vacant stare as if to ask, “What do I do now?” He just stood there on the ladder, looking down at me, detached from the task at hand. Didn’t he know that the screwdriver he was holding was to remove the fixture cover in order to change out the bulb? And why was he now turning the screw in the wrong direction, tightening it instead of loosening it? This simple task—one that he’d probably done a hundred times before—was now entirely overwhelming and puzzling to him. And my instructions as to what he should be doing weren’t making any headway with him. We were frozen in the moment.
My anxiety started to build, but I wanted to remain patient and appear calm. Lew had not yet been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s or dementia, so I was confused and scared. What was going on here? Was his inability to do a simple task a symptom of Alzheimer’s? I hadn’t yet learned that one of the signs of Alzheimer’s was difficulty in completing ordinary tasks, like changing a light bulb. Here was my accomplished and intelligent husband, seemingly incapable of doing this. We had been attempting this task for fifteen minutes and had accomplished nothing.
Trying to be the brave, supportive wife, I felt suspended, like I was in a slow-moving movie in another language, trying to find my way through. I beckoned him to come down from the ladder, took his place, and removed the cover in minutes. I asked Lew to bring me a new light bulb. He walked into the other room and returned without it. Smiling his endearing smile, he looked up at me with love in his eyes and nothing in his hands. Eventually, I climbed down, got the bulb, screwed it in, and put the cover back on. I again asked myself, “Why couldn’t he do this simple job?” Meanwhile, Lew didn’t seem to have a clue as to what had just happened.
Deciding to move on without questioning, I decided to replace the uncomfortable with the comfortable—laughter. “Well, I didn’t marry you for your handyman skills, just like you didn’t marry me for my cooking skills.” Lew smiled, the twinkle in his eyes returned and the questions were momentarily silenced. We laughed and went on with our day.
For me, however, the light bulb experience was a turning point. Maybe memory loss isn’t just about forgetting what day it is or getting lost, I learned. The uncertainty of dementia creates questions without answers or experience. I wanted answers, and I wanted to find them. Living in the question was an uncomfortable concept to me. I needed to know what to do. I started to understand that memory loss creates situations with questions that may not have answers, or the answers may take longer to come or come in a different way. The lightbulb moment was the beginning of my learning process, where I grew to slowly acknowledge that not knowing the answer can be a sign of strength, the ability to be flexible, and move on in an uncertain situation. Moving on may be the first part of living in the question and accepting that dementia might be the real diagnosis.
This incident would shadow my journey and become one of many new lessons that I would learn over and over. The journey would continue for another four or five years. I never could have imagined how many twists and turns the journey would take, how many more questions I would have and how our lives would worsen. There were so many hurdles to come and so much Lew would lose…crossword puzzles, driving. memories, and more.
*****
Sharon Portin Parker spent 30 years as a media executive specializing in marketing and business development. When her husband was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s in his mid-50s, she took on the role of caregiver and advocate—a life-changing experience that sparked her deep involvement with Alzheimer’s. Through her volunteer work, she has contributed to programs, fundraising efforts, and public speaking initiatives. Parker was a founding member of the Celebrating Hope Gala in Greenwich and launched the Paint the Town Purple campaign in Old Greenwich to raise awareness for the cause. She is currently writing a book of personal essays that chronicle her journey with Alzheimer’s. The collection explores themes such as isolation, fear, denial, relationships, uncertainties, and moving forward. The book is slated for release in early 2026, and will be available on Amazon. You can reach Sharon at portpark@optonline.net.