What I question is my ability to provide support to my husband, John, as he struggles with father’s illness from 1,000 miles away. I would know what to do if I were with his father, Bob. I don’t know how to help John when he calls and is non-verbal.

Sure, I can keep the house stocked with chocolate-covered pretzels and bourbon, but man cannot (nor should he) live on chocolate and alcohol alone. We did that after September 11. I don’t recommend it.

I can watch every stage of the Tour de France with him because it is our summer ritual.

I can suggest he go on a long bike ride because I don’t really need his help to clean the bathroom.

I can listen attentively as he asks which kilt he should wear to the funeral, and make my recommendations accordingly. And when he calls from an airport bar crying to say he’s reading “Living at the End of Life” by Karen Whitley Bell, R.N., I can helpfully suggest that his tears will ruin his glass of wine, but if he switches to a margarita, it won’t even be noticeable.

And when he came home with a new tattoo last week in honor of his dad, I complimented him on its elegant simplicity.

John and I have a lot of history. We are high school sweethearts and at this point we have known each other nearly 29 years, which is why I am having so much trouble knowing how to respond. I can’t look in the archives to see how we handled this situation previously. I am so proud of the son he has become, and I admire how his engineering brain and loving soul are guiding him on this journey with his dad.

I guess my role is to make sure he has a good map and a good navigator.

Be well.