MLMorgan

Just about sums it up.

@LuccaLudovica @Michaeljos92972 I just remembered some things I threw away that were my mom's and I regret doing that, now. They were things that made us laugh, as they were intended, and they made us appreciate her wicked sense of humor. It does stay in my memory, though it does cloud up sometimes. 😢

@Michaeljos92972 Don't overdo it. You have time. Don't throw away things you might regret later. A hug here from Brazil.

UPDATE CLEANING very sad day. Went through 100s of HOLIDAY CARDS through the years that Rebecca has given me. Reading all of her words, thoughts and feelings towards me and the family- JUST HEARTBREAKING. Today my guts feel like they were ripped out. 😪😪💙

@Michaeljos92972 I love all of your posts. You're just such a beautiful writer and I think lots of people can relate to how you feel. 💙

THE NIGHT😓😓😓😪😪 I’ve noticed something about myself lately, and I guess this is me trying to explain it the way I would if we were just sitting across from each other with a cup of coffee. At night, I post more. It’s not because I suddenly have more to say. It’s because nighttime has become the hardest part of my day. During the day, I can keep moving. There are things to do, people around, distractions that let me breathe a little. I can almost convince myself I’m managing. But when the day winds down and I start getting ready for bed, everything changes. That’s when it hits me that Rebecca isn’t there anymore. For almost fifty years, going to bed meant something. It meant we’d talk, laugh a little, say “I love you,” and fall asleep knowing the other one was right there. It was comfort. It was routine. It was… us. Now it’s just quiet. And not the peaceful kind. The kind that reminds you of what’s missing. So instead of just lying there with that feeling, I reach for my phone. Posting, writing, putting something out into the world—it gives me a sense that I’m not completely alone in that moment. Like there’s still some connection out there, even if it’s small. I know it might look like I’m just more active at night. But the truth is, those are the hours when the house feels the emptiest… and the bed feels the biggest. And sometimes, hitting “post” is the closest thing I have left to saying goodnight to her.

@PuebloPicasso @Michaeljos92972 I was also my mom's caregiver for about 6 years. That's how long she lived at my house until she passed, but in reality, I was her caregiver for much longer. It feels like it was my whole adult life. I commented earlier that I had to take 2 years before I could go back to work.

@Michaeljos92972 I know, and I totally get it after caregiving for my mom 6 years. Very, very slowly, you'll recover and heal. Your grievous loss is so recent, it's going to take time--even with loving relatives, exercise and fresh air, and thousands who understand what you've experienced.

CAREGIVERS SYNDROME by Michael Whelan My nieces are here, and it’s been… wonderful. Truly. We’ve taken long walks together—well, long for them. For me, they feel like marathons I barely finish, each step a quiet negotiation with a body that doesn’t want to cooperate anymore. Still, I go. Because they're here. Because I want to feel something normal again. Last night, they took me to a comedy show at the Universal CityWalk Hard Rock Cafe. A room full of laughter. Real laughter. The kind that used to come so easily. I even laughed a few times myself. Or at least something close to it. You’d think I’d feel better. But I don’t. I feel exhausted. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes. The kind that settles into your bones and refuses to leave. Like a cell phone stuck on 1%… dimmed, flickering, holding on—but barely. And what’s even stranger cruel, really—is that I’m so exhausted… I can’t sleep. My body is begging for rest. My mind won’t allow it. So I lie there, awake in the dark, wondering how something so full of love… could leave me feeling this empty. They don’t tell you that love can make your body collapse. They tell you caregiving is noble. They tell you it’s an act of devotion. They tell you you’re strong. What they don’t tell you… is that one day you’ll wake up and feel like your bones have turned to sand. I can barely move. Not because I’m lazy. Not because I’ve given up. But because for so long, I didn’t have permission to stop. Caregiver syndrome isn’t loud. It doesn’t arrive like a storm. It seeps in—quietly, politely—like a leak behind the walls of your life. A little less sleep here. A little more worry there. Another night listening for breathing instead of dreaming your own dreams. Until one day… you realize you’ve disappeared. Your body keeps the score of every moment you pushed through. Every time you said, “I’m fine,” when you were anything but. Every time you chose their comfort over your survival. And you would do it again. That’s the cruelest part. Because love—real love—doesn’t keep receipts. It just gives. And gives. And gives… until there’s nothing left but a man sitting on the edge of a bed, wondering why standing up feels like climbing Everest. I can barely move. Grief is part of it now, too. Because caregiving doesn’t just take your energy— it slowly prepares your heart for a goodbye you are never ready to say. And when that goodbye comes… your body finally stops. Not in peace. But in collapse. The adrenaline that carried you for months… years… disappears. The purpose that kept you upright is suddenly gone. And what’s left is a quiet house, a hollow chest, and a body that says: “I can’t do this anymore.” Caregiver syndrome is loving someone so deeply that you forget you are someone worth saving too. It’s sitting in silence, unable to move, not because you’re weak but because you were strong for far too long. And no one saw the cost. No one saw the nights you broke down in the dark. The mornings you stitched yourself back together with nothing but willpower. The invisible war you fought with your own mind just to keep going one more day. You weren’t just caring for someone you loved. You were holding the entire world together with trembling hands. And now those hands are tired. So tired. If you can barely move today… it isn’t failure. It’s the truth finally catching up with you. It’s your body whispering or maybe begging— for the same compassion you gave so freely to someone else. You didn’t lose your strength. You gave it away. Piece by piece. Out of love. And maybe just maybe the most heartbreaking part of all… is that you would do it all over again for one more moment with her.

@Michaeljos92972 And we're all the better for you and your keyboard. ❤️

@CAEparentCMC I'm never going back. Except pounding the the little keyboard.

I Miss Being Her Caregiver. by Michael Whelan No one prepares you for this part. They tell you how hard caregiving is. How exhausting. How relentless. How it steals your sleep, your time, your sanity. And they’re right. But no one—no one—tells you what it feels like when it’s over. For years, my life had a rhythm. Not an easy one. Not a fair one. But a rhythm just the same. Pills at this hour. Bathe her. Meals at that one. Adjust the blankets. Lift her gently. Listen to her breathing. Watch. Wait. Stay. Always stay. Every second of every day, I had a purpose that mattered more than anything I had ever done in my life. Not television. Not awards. Not success. Her. Rebecca. She was my schedule. My responsibility. My mission. My reason to get up even when my own body and mind begged me not to. And now… There is no schedule. The house still wakes me up at the same time. My body hasn’t gotten the memo. I still listen for her. Still expect to hear something—a movement, a breath, a soft sound that says, “I’m here.” But the silence answers now. And silence is cruel. I didn’t just lose my wife. I lost my job. My identity. My purpose. People don’t understand that. They say, “Now you can rest.” As if rest is a reward. But what they don’t see is this— I don’t want to rest. I want to help her sit up again. I want to fix something. Adjust something. Do something that matters. I want to be needed. Caregiving is strange like that. It breaks you slowly, day by day… and then, when it’s gone, it breaks you all at once. Because in all that exhaustion… in all that fear… in all that relentless, unforgiving responsibility… There was love. Not the easy kind. Not the kind you see in movies. But the real kind. The kind that shows up at 3 a.m. The kind that doesn’t leave when things get ugly. The kind that says, “I will carry this with you. I will carry you.” And now my hands— The same hands that held her, lifted her, steadied her— They have nothing to do. They just… hang there. Useless. Empty. The dogs still look for her. They sit by the places she used to be, waiting in that quiet, loyal way animals do. As if love, if patient enough, might bring her back. Sometimes I sit with them. Three souls… waiting for something that isn’t coming. I used to measure my days in how well I took care of her. Now I measure them in how long I can stand the quiet. There’s a guilt that comes with this, too. Because there were moments—God forgive me—when I was tired. When I felt overwhelmed. When I wished, just for a second, for a break. And now I would give anything—anything—to have that life back. To be exhausted again. To be needed again. To hear her voice call my name one more time. People think caregiving is about sacrifice. But they’re wrong. It’s about privilege. The privilege of loving someone so much that their pain becomes your purpose. The privilege of being the one they trust when the world is falling apart. The privilege of being there… at the very end… when love is the only thing left in the room. I had that. I had her. And now, in this unbearable quiet… in this house that no longer knows how to breathe… I realize something I never expected to say. Not in a million years. Not after everything we went through. I miss taking care of her. More than anything in this world… I miss being the one she needed.

@Michaeljos92972 Once again, your writing has moved me to tears. I'm an animal lover and we just had to put down one of my chihuahuas down due to congestive heart failure. She was the sweetest dog ever and I miss her terribly.

The Space She Left — Through Bambi’s Eyes. by Michael Whelan Bambi does not understand death. She understands presence. For thirteen years, Rebecca was not a concept or a memory or a photograph in a frame—she was warmth. She was breath. She was the rhythm beneath the covers, the heartbeat Bambi pressed her tiny body against each night as if guarding something sacred. Bambi chose her. Not me. Not the house. Not the life we built. Her. I remember the moment like it just happened. The papers signed, the foster parent smiling, Bella curious, me hopeful. And then—like instinct carved in bone—Bambi leapt from my lap and ran straight to Rebecca. No hesitation. No doubt. As if she had finally found the one she had been searching for her entire life. And she never left. Not once. Six pounds of fierce, unrelenting devotion. A bodyguard in a world that didn’t deserve Rebecca. If you got too close, Bambi let you know—this Queen was taken, protected, loved beyond reason. At night, our bed became something holy. An ark of love. Rebecca. Me. Bella. Bambi. Winston. Penny. A small, breathing universe where nothing bad could touch us. And for thirteen years, it didn’t. Until it did. The morning Rebecca died, something in the air changed before anyone said a word. Bambi knew. Dogs always know. She climbed onto Rebecca’s chest, gently, carefully, as if afraid to break something already breaking. She didn’t move. Not when we cried. Not when the room filled. Not when the world began to shatter around us. She stayed. Because leaving never occurred to her. And then… they took Rebecca away. The house didn’t just go quiet. It went hollow. Grief has a sound. I didn’t know that before. It isn’t loud. It isn’t dramatic. It’s the absence of everything that once made noise worth hearing. And Bambi—my brave, unyielding Bambi—has not been the same since. For thirteen years, she never missed a night. Not one. She would burrow under the covers, press herself into Rebecca’s side, and sleep like she had fulfilled her purpose. Now? She won’t get on the bed. Not once in twelve days. She sleeps alone in the living room, in a small bed that was never meant to hold this kind of sorrow. And at night, when the house is at its quietest, she cries. Not a bark. Not a whimper. Something deeper. A sound that feels like it’s being pulled from the center of her soul. She’s calling for Rebecca. Over and over again. And Rebecca doesn’t answer. I sit there sometimes, listening, completely helpless. I’ve lost the love of my life. But Bambi… she’s lost her entire world. Her purpose. Her reason for waking up and climbing under those covers. People will say, “She’ll adjust.” Maybe. But I don’t think Bambi is built for replacement. Some loves are too pure for substitution. Too complete to be redirected. I wonder if she’ll ever come back to the bed. If one night, she’ll climb up, circle twice, and settle beside me like she used to beside Rebecca. But deep down… I know. That wasn’t my place. That was Rebecca’s. And Bambi is still waiting for her to come back.

@Noirchick1 @Michaeljos92972 I knew it wasn't you the minute I saw the crypto post. But I didn't want to comment on it because I was afraid I'd get hacked, too. I'm glad I saw that guy's post that gave us your new profile because I don't think I'd be able to find you if he hadn't. ❤️

Oh, Michael... please do not be angry at those who needed extra validation that you are most certainly you. The hacker sent many of us private messages to "click on a link" which would in turn have hacked our own accounts. I looked at your account, every day, hoping and praying you would get words out somehow. Now that you have, look at your old page, look at the folks you followed, send them a friend request again and also those that followed you. Do it slowly, for overloading requests can lable a person as a spammer.

I Held Her… And the World Let Go of Me. by Michael Whelan Without question, this has been the worst week of my life. Fifty years… gone in a breath. I held my wife—the love of my life, my partner, my witness to everything—in my arms as she slipped away. I felt her final breath dissappearon me. The room was quiet in that sacred, unbearable way. The kind of silence that doesn’t just fill a space… it hollows you out. And just when I thought a human heart could not possibly take more— it did. Because while I was still trying to understand how to exist in a world without her… someone, or something, decided to take me too. My name. My voice. My work. My identity. Eight years of showing up every single day with honesty, vulnerability, integrity—reduced to a question mark by bots, by algorithms, by strangers who chose doubt over decency. I wasn’t just grieving my wife. I was fighting to prove I was still alive. Do you know what that feels like? I spent 8 years supporting all of you. And within seconds many of you doubted me. 😪 To hold the woman you love—still warm in your arms—and at the very same time be told by thousands that you are not you? That your voice isn’t real. That your pain is suspicious. That your life’s work might belong to some faceless machine. I begged—quietly, desperately—not for sympathy… but for recognition. For someone to say, “We know you. We see you.” But for over 24 hours, silence… skepticism… suspicion. People I had written for. People I had lifted. People I had believed in. They hesitated. They chose AI over a human being. Over a man who had just lost his wife of fifty years. There are no words for that kind of loneliness. Grief is already a thief—it takes the person you love most in the world. But this? This was something darker. This tried to take my existence. And here’s the part that will stay with me forever— I didn’t break when she died. I broke when I realized how quickly the world can forget who you are… even when you’ve spent years showing them. I am still here. Still her husband. Still the man who never left her side. Still the same voice that wrote every word, every story, every truth. Not a bot. Not AI. Not a fraud. Just a grieving man… who lost everything in a single week— and then had to fight to prove he was real. There was a time when my heart shattered i knew where to turn; now I'm not so sure. 😪

@Michaeljos92972 Your writings are all still there. It would just take a few of your followers to take screenshots of them to send to you. I think I remember you saying you were going to write a book based on those writings. I don't mind helping you out. Just let me, and your followers, know.

@Michaeljos92972 I believe it's you. I knew you were hacked when I saw the crypto crap. There has to be a way for you to get your writings back. They're so valuable because your writing is just fantastic. ❤️

It's me and Rebecca.

@espn Looks like they got it. 😂

9-seed TCU leads 8-seed Ohio State at the half 👀 40% of brackets picked TCU to win 😮

@NiallHarbison Absolutely!

The secret is not in always seeking to have more

@dpudz @Buccigross His mural is on the side of an Arlington restaurant called Gilbertos. Call them and ask how to reach him.

@Buccigross Idk the guys name but we need the dude who painted Odor punching Bautista at second base to do the mural.

An all time ESPN+ freeze frame of the protagonist/antagonist Justin Hryckowian. The Stars should commission a local artist in Dallas to paint this and gift it to Hryckowian. I'm serious. This is an all timer. It is pure organic art. All-time chirper Ray Ferraro with the headset.. Connor McDavid, with the amalgamation of bemusement and respect for the rookie with the cocksure stick point like Moses parting the Red Sea. Hryckowian has embraced a role and it will pay handsomely. There are hundreds who could have this job if they just did what it took. It's take big balls, a large heart, quick brain, thick skin, and a relentless spirit. Like all Northeastern alums!!!!

@rx0rcist From everything I've read, the D3 ones absorb better. I don't know why my Dr would prescribe D2.

@CAEparentCMC I can relate. I’m also low in vitamin D, but I can’t tolerate the weekly prescription capsule so I take OTC every day and it’s been working thankfully.

B12 deficient and PMDD girlies to the front. These are prescribed for documented medical needs. I will never use my credentials to sell you a medication or supplement for profit. Integrity matters, and the people who follow my work are not a customer base. 💉✨

@mikejwhelan Such a beautiful and thought provoking piece of writing. ❤️

Nobody Warns You About the Weird Stuff By Michael J. Whelan Nobody really prepares you for losing the love of your life. They tell you it will be sad. They tell you it will be hard. What they don’t tell you is how unbelievably weird it is. For years there were two of you in the house. Two opinions about everything. Two voices talking over each other about what movie to watch, where the car keys went, and whether the thermostat was trying to freeze us to death. Then one day… it’s just you. And suddenly the entire house feels like it’s looking at you saying, “Well… now what?” Her toothbrush is still sitting there like she’s coming back in five minutes. Her phone still rings; POTENTIAL SPAM. Her favorite chair still holds the shape of where she used to sit. Even the animals seem confused. My dog looks at me like, “Okay boss… you broke Mom. When is she coming back?” I’d like to know that myself. But here’s the strange part about grief. It doesn’t stay sad all the time. Sometimes it sneaks up on you in ridiculous ways. You’ll be crying because you miss her voice… and then suddenly remember the time she tried to parallel park and nearly took out a mailbox, a shrub, and a small portion of municipal infrastructure. Or the time she insisted she wasn’t hungry and then slowly ate half your dinner like a stealthy food burglar. Love leaves you with those memories. And the annoying thing is… they’re funny. You’ll laugh. Then feel guilty for laughing. Then realize she’d probably be laughing harder than you are. What you really lose when your partner dies isn’t just a spouse. You lose your witness. The only person on earth who saw the entire ridiculous movie of your life and somehow still decided you were worth sticking around for. She knew every dumb thing I’d ever done. And trust me, my list is long. Yet every night before we fell asleep she’d still say, “I love you.” That’s the part that echoes the loudest now. So yes… losing the love of your life will break your heart. But if you were lucky enough to share a lifetime with someone who loved you despite your bad jokes, strange habits, and questionable life decisions… Then even after they’re gone, somehow the love still manages to sneak in a few laughs. And honestly… that feels exactly like something she would do.

@mikejwhelan Once again, your writing transports me to another place while making me cry. Just beautiful.

After the House Goes Quiet By Michael Whelan For the first two or three days after the love of your life dies, you are strangely… busy. The house fills with people. Friends arrive carrying casseroles and bakery boxes like offerings to the gods of grief. The phone rings constantly. Cards appear on the kitchen counter in neat stacks. People hug you, hold your hand, tell stories about her. Some cry with you. Others talk nervously about anything at all. There is movement. Noise. Human presence. And for a brief moment, grief is diluted by activity. You’re too busy answering the door to think. Too busy thanking people to collapse. But then something happens around the third or fourth day. Everyone goes home. The casseroles remain, but the people disappear. The phone stops ringing. The house that was once crowded with voices suddenly becomes so quiet it almost feels like the walls themselves are holding their breath. That’s when the real grief begins. Because if you don’t reach out… no one comes by. A few calls trickle in, but mostly the world resumes its normal rhythm while yours has shattered into pieces. People assume you need space. They assume time is doing its quiet work. But I’m not talking about time. I’m talking about right now. Right now is waking up in a house that no longer feels like a home. Right now is realizing the person you spoke to every day for decades is simply… gone. I don’t have a big family circling around me. It’s just me and the echo of a life that used to be full. On top of that, something strange happens to your mind. Doctors have a name for it—widow brain or grief fog. After a spouse dies, the brain goes into survival mode. It stops prioritizing focus and memory and instead just tries to help you endure the trauma. The result is forgetfulness, confusion, feeling mentally foggy… sometimes even feeling a little looney. I can't pick up the c phone. I'm paralyzed. I’ve experienced all of it. I walk into rooms and forget why I’m there. I lose my train of thought mid-sentence. Sometimes I just sit staring into space wondering how the world kept spinning while mine stopped. Add severe depression to that and the sadness becomes overwhelming. All I want to do is sleep. Not because I want to die. But because sleep is the only place where the pain loosens its grip for a little while. When someone asks me, “How are you?” I answer honestly. “Not well.” And that answer seems to scare people. They expect something polite like, “I’m hanging in there.” But the truth is I’m not hanging in there. I’m grieving. People try to help with phrases they’ve heard their whole lives. “One day at a time.” If I hear that one more time I might throw up. Not because it’s cruel—but because the day itself feels unbearable. Someone once said the past is depression and the future is anxiety. If that’s true, then I must be living somewhere else entirely. Because I’m not trapped in the past or the future. I’m living almost every moment in sadness. This is what people don’t understand about losing the love of your life. You’re not just mourning a person. You’re mourning the entire life that existed around them—the conversations, the routines, the laughter that once filled the air. All of that disappears in a single moment. And what remains is silence… in a house that suddenly feels far too large for one human being to survive inside alone. 💔

@mikejwhelan What a fantastic love story for you to experience. Many people don't even have half of that. You guys looked super happy. You stayed and persevered until the very end out of the extraordinary love you had for her. It's something to aspire to. ❤️

My Love

Thank You For Holding Me. by Michael Whelan Thank you to each and every one of you who reached out to me over the past 36 hours. I’ve read your messages. Your prayers. Your memories of Rebecca. Your simple words that say, “I’m here.” Right now those words are holding me up. Because without you, I honestly feel like I might fall violently—to the ground under the weight of this loss. Rebecca wasn’t just my wife. She was my partner, my protector, my calm in every storm life threw at us. For years we fought together against cancer, against Parkinson’s, mental health, against fear itself. And even on the worst days, I never felt alone because she was there. Now the house is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that echoes in your chest. Her chair is still there. Her things are still where she left them. But the laughter, the voice, the soul that made this place feel alive… is gone. People keep telling me that time will change things. That somehow the pain will soften. That one day I’ll remember her and smile instead of break. I hope you’re all right. I truly do. Because right now it doesn’t feel that way. Right now it just feels like half of my heart has been taken out of my chest. I miss her voice. I miss her smile. I miss the way she would say my name like it actually mattered in the world. My house is no longer a home. It’s just walls and furniture filled with memories that keep whispering her name. I’m lost without her. But tonight, through the tears and the silence, I want you all to know something. Your kindness is the only thing keeping me standing right now. And if Rebecca can see any of this—if somewhere she’s watching all of you wrap your arms around the broken man she left behind—I know exactly what she would say. She would smile that beautiful smile… look at me… and gently remind me that love this deep doesn’t disappear. It just waits. And one day, somehow, somewhere… I will find her again.💙

@SouthDallasFood @Cbluepacific Well, I LOVE the crescent rolls, but stew needs crusty French rolls (cornbread is acceptable) and spaghetti for SURE needs garlic bread.

@Cbluepacific Hell, yes, you know the ones that come in a tube that scared the shit out of you when you try and open them? Man, those are the perfect match to like a pot roast or a spaghetti

What is the goatiest of all the dinner breads? Texas toast Crescent rolls Breadsticks Yeast rolls •As always, there is only one correct answer to this question

@SouthDallasFood Crescent rolls, always.