I’ve known for some time that this was coming. Months ago, I noticed that Mike’s cognition had deteriorated in new and notable ways. Dementia is a progressive disease, so this wasn’t a shock. Not exactly. But discovering yet another missing piece is always a surprise—especially when it was right there just a week earlier.

At first, I told myself Mike was just having a bad day. The missing pieces would turn up again. But eventually, I had to concede that this wasn’t going to happen. Some losses are permanent.

So I started making appointments to tour memory care facilities. The one I liked best—five minutes from our house, bright and airy, friendly staff—had one opening, the first they’d had in five months. But the available apartment was much too large for Mike (and therefore much more expensive than other options.) It made no sense to pay for a kitchenette that he would never use, among other amenities. I asked the center director, Annie, to put his name on the waiting list for a studio apartment, and I put down a ridiculously large deposit to move his name to the top of that list. Then I crossed my fingers and held my breath.

I regretted that decision almost immediately, when the nurse from Mike’s current dementia care program called me a few days later.

“I’m just wondering if maybe our records aren’t up to date,” she said. “Has Mike had any recent health issues that we didn’t make note of? Like maybe a small stroke?”

The nurse in question was a floater—she’s on duty only when a regular staff member takes a day off. She hadn’t seen Mike for well over a month, and the difference since the last time she’d seen him was glaringly obvious. That was both affirming (I’m not imagining things) and terrifying (things are getting really bad.) I told her I didn’t know of anything to report, but we had an appointment for our regular checkup with Mike’s neurologist in a few days, so I’d mention this concern.

Mike’s neurologist, Dr. H, is the only medical provider I have trusted without question throughout this entire journey. She did an exam, then told me there was nothing to suggest anything other than the expected progression of Mike’s dementia. Good new/bad news: no stroke, but a clear decline in his condition.

“We could do an MRI, if you want,” she said, “just to see if there’s shrinkage in any unexpected areas of Mike’s brain. That would tell us whether he’s dealing with another type of dementia, although there was nothing on prior MRIs to suggest that. Or we could do a head CT, to rule out a brain bleed.”

“Unless you think there’s a reason to do either of those things,” I said, “or those tests are going to tell us something that would improve Mike’s care, I don’t want to put him through that.”

Dr. H shook her head, then nodded in agreement with my decision. “Okay then. Those tests would give us additional data points, but you’re right—nothing would change. We’re already doing everything we can do for Mike.”

My husband is not a science experiment, and Dr. H has always understood this Whether I’ve turned down the offer of a drug trial or agreed to genetic testing, she has always responded with a resolute nod: Okay then.

As we were wrapping up our appointment, I mentioned that Mike was on the waiting list for a dementia care facility.

“Is that a residential program?” she asked, as she made a record of that information.

I said that it was. She nodded again.

“I think that’s probably the best option, at this point. For both you and Mike,” she said.

I went home that day and called to make an appointment with my financial advisor—just to keep him apprised of the situation and set things up, so I’d be ready to move if a space did become available. A friend who’d dealt with placing several grandparents in memory care told me that if a spot opened up in the fall, I should jump on it.

“Assisted living is like the gym,” she said. “After the first of the year, everyone wants in. Nobody wants to move grandma out of her house during the holidays, but when the family gets together everyone can see that something needs to change. So they wait until January.”

Not even an hour after I’d called to make that appointment with my financial advisor, I saw Annie’s name pop up on my phone. She told me that a resident who’d been on hospice was expected to pass away within the next few weeks.

“I know you said you weren’t sure you were ready to make a move yet,” she said, “and I’m not trying to pressure you to make that decision. But I wanted to let you know a studio space will be available sometime soon.”

She offered to give me 48 hours to think it over. I surprised myself by saying yes on the spot. I’d seen and heard enough, apparently, to know that this was the right thing to do.

Whether or not I actually wanted to do it—that was another matter. One I knew I should take up with my therapist, though. Not with Annie.

This past month has been among the most difficult stretches of my life. I’m trudging uphill and headed straight for a fork in the road that will leave me headed in one direction, Mike another. I can see it up ahead. It’s right there.

People keep telling me this isn’t true, that Mike and I will still be together, just in a different way. I say this with all the love in my heart for those people who desperately want to make me feel better: Lying isn’t helpful. Mike and I aren’t together now, most of the time. Even when we’re in the same room, in the same house, we’re usually not in the same world. Not even close.

Which is particularly sad when you consider that we used to joke about being one person with a brain so big it required two bodies—that’s how alike we were, in both mind and spirit.

Now we’re moving farther apart every day, and fast. I’ve had to advance Mike’s original move-in date because his decline has been so steep, the staff at his day program wasn’t sure they’d be able to keep him (and his fellow residents) safe through the end of the month. That’s why, as soon as there’s a bed in his new apartment, we’ll move him in.

Our family has made a plan for one last big gathering at home. Some of us will put the finishing touches on Mike’s new apartment while others stay with him and keep him company; then we’ll have a ridiculous dinner and just hang out.

It won’t be last time we’re all together, I know. It’s not as if Mike can never come home again. He’s not going to prison. And memory care might not turn out to be the right solution for us, for any number of reasons.

But even if Mike’s path brings him home again, it won’t bring the two of us back together. Not in the way we used to be, anyway. We’re way past that point on this journey.