Because yes, Greg is declining.

And yes, his language in particular is declining pretty quickly.

But one thing that was really helpful for me this week was being reminded that those two things don’t necessarily tell us everything about what is happening in his brain.

Greg has logopenic Primary Progressive Aphasia, or lvPPA, which in his case is caused by Alzheimer’s disease. And unlike the version of Alzheimer’s most of us tend to picture, where memory loss is often the most obvious first symptom, Greg’s disease is hitting his language especially hard.

Which also means that some cognitive tests can make him look more impaired than he actually is in other areas because those tests are based on language.

For example, his MoCA score (a 30-point test doctors use to get a snapshot of different areas of cognitive functioning, including memory, language, attention, and problem-solving) was 27 out of 30 in January 2025, 23 in April 2026, and 18 this week.

That was obviously hard to see.

His neurologist told us that a decline of around 2–3 points a year would be more typical, so there is no question that this disease is moving fast despite all the things we’re doing to slow it down.

But then he helped us look underneath the number a little.

On the MoCA, Greg scored zero on questions that measure memory like asking him to repeat back five words or repeat an entire sentence. Which sounds alarming until you remember that those are incredibly language-heavy tasks for someone whose disease is specifically attacking his ability to retrieve and repeat words.

So his neurologist tried something different. He hid three objects around the room and about 15 minutes later, he asked Greg where they were.

And Greg easily pointed to all three places.

I wasn’t surprised as I have not yet been concerned with his memory, but I found that strangely comforting. Not because it means his memory is completely unaffected—it isn’t—but because it helped illustrate something I need to remember: just because I see a worsening of language symptoms does not mean everything else is also declining at the same rate.

Sometimes his language could make him appear more cognitively impaired than he actually is. But the truth is he still always knows who he is and where he is. He is still making decisions, problem-solving, managing much of his own life, and functioning pretty independently in so many ways. (As I’m writing this, in fact, he is in the kitchen following a recipe to bake his own granola!)

His neurologist felt those broader areas have shown only mild decline. That’s worth some serious gratitude and relief!

And I think that’s one of the trickier things to understand about this particular version of Alzheimer’s. He may score an 18 on a test, and that number matters, but it still doesn’t tell us the whole story of Greg.

If I’ve learned anything from reading so many stories of other people living with this disease, it’s how differently it can show up in every brain—what functions are affected first, what order things change in, how quickly some abilities decline while others can hold steady for quite a while.

So yes, it is sobering to think about Greg continuing to lose his ability to speak and understand language… but I also find myself taking a lot of solace in all the parts of his brain we still have with us.

And honestly, I surprised myself by immediately saying, “I think that’s a good idea!”

I think I was surprised because I already have so much emotional support in my life. Shasta and I talk deeply about this stuff all the time. I have two close friends I talk honestly with every single week. I write these posts. I don’t exactly keep my feelings bottled up.

But maybe that’s actually part of why I said yes.

I wanted a therapist who could work with me as I continue my Alzheimer’s Journey. Someone who could help me stay in the middle of the road. Someone who could empathize with me along the road. And someone who could work with me.

And let me tell you… it has been a game changer for me!

Not because my therapist is giving me magical answers or fixing everything. Honestly, a lot of the time it just feels like having a place where I don’t need to protect anyone else from my thoughts. I can say the hard thing out loud. The scared thing. The confused thing. The exhausted thing. And sometimes just hearing myself say something out loud changes it.

One of the things my therapist and I have worked on is Grief. She has helped me notice what’s actually going on underneath the surface instead of just reacting to it. We’ve had such a good time going through all of this. And it’s been so meaningful, helping me to go through grief and then acceptance for my latest diagnosis of Logopenic PPA.

I’ve appreciated that my therapist somehow slows me down a little. When I’m living with a diagnosis like this, there are days my brain is racing ahead into the future, other days I’m trying hard to stay present and not spiral, and other days when my brain simply doesn’t give me what I really want and need.

I’m starting to think one of the healthiest things we can do is admit we were never meant to carry everything alone. My therapist sitting across from me asking one good question I didn’t even realize I needed to hear—that’s healthy.

I guess I just want to say this out loud because I think a lot of us quietly struggle longer than we need to.

There’s something humbling about admitting that even with a loving marriage, close friendships, meaningful work, faith, and community… I still needed another place to process all of this.

Honestly, I’m glad I said YES.

I think too many of us wait until we’re completely overwhelmed before we reach for support. And … there’s no prize for suffering alone.

We need support. All of us. It’s a part of being human.

Writing used to be something that came very easily to me. Words were just… there. I didn’t have to fight for them. Unfortunately, that’s not really how it works anymore.

These days I still spend a lot of time on each post. Sometimes hours, or honestly sometimes most of the day. Even with help, these still take a lot of work for me. But over the months Shasta has started helping me more with them.

So even though I’m getting help, they feel like they’re mine. I have to admit, every post I send out brings satisfaction and joy. Nothing goes out in my name that I haven’t worked on. I read everything. I change words. I add things. Sometimes I take things out. And I’m the one who presses “post.”

Where I struggle the most now is a few parts of the process.

(1) One is coming up with the idea in the first place. My brain doesn’t always bring them to me the way it used to. Sometimes it comes, and other times it doesn’t. When I finally see my ideas, I am able to put things together and try to make a good post. And often, Shasta helps me with ideas based on what she hears me say and sees me do. I love that!

For example, one of the Posts had some really good research that Shasta had found. And it was so amazing and helpful to us all. I’m so glad she found it and shared it.

(2) Another hard part is getting started. A blank screen is surprisingly overwhelming for me now. If I had to start from nothing every time these days it would take forever.

So sometimes Shasta is helping me to get going—writing an opening, a bit of an outline for me, sometimes a closing. Or she’ll start a paragraph with a few prompts so I can try to say what I’m feeling. Then I can take it from there.

(3) The part I still enjoy is reading through everything and changing things. That part still feels like me. I’ll move words around, add a sentence, take one out, read it again. Sometimes many times.

In some ways writing is still easier than speaking. When I’m talking, I can get stuck and the word just won’t come. With writing I have more time. I can look things up. I can reread it and try again.

But there’s no question it has gotten harder over the last months. And you’ll undoubtedly start seeing more mistakes as time goes on (which Shasta isn’t going to edit unless she feels it’s not clear.) With her help, I hope I can keep the posts going for a longer time.

And I’ll be honest, that part isn’t just humbling. Writing used to be one of the things that felt very natural to me. So, realizing I need help with it now is discouraging.

I have written several books through the years – and I loved every moment of putting them together. It was so much fun and much more easily.

I’m sharing this partly because I know a lot of you are watching someone you love go through something similar. Maybe a parent or partner. That is probably a lot more work for all of us who are trying find our words and ideas. But know, we’d still be doing it if we could!

And I’m so grateful that Shasta is willing to sit in this process with me so I can keep sharing what this experience is like from my point of view.

Alzheimer’s and Logopenic Primary Progressive Aphasia diagnosis has the power. It’s not easy for me to keep things going. But I’m thankful for Shasta and all of you as you see us trying to stay moving … but little by little getting away.

We are so thankful for all of you! And we will work hard to continue our posts so that you might be able to understand our journey and maybe even yours. Blessings to you!

More posts will come.

But after a morning like I just had last week, I find myself wondering how friendly I should keep being.

Shasta and I woke up and walked the 15 minutes to our gym. Along the way, a woman was walking her dog. I wanted to say good morning. Something simple like, “Sure is a little cool out here today, isn’t it?”

Instead, I got her attention… but then I couldn’t get the sentence out.

What should have been a friendly greeting turned into an awkward moment. She couldn’t tell what I was trying to say. Shasta wasn’t sure how to help. And I just kept trying to push the words out.

It happened again at the gym that day. And then again.

In my head, it should be easy to say “good morning” and make a little small talk. But in reality, as I’m struggling to get the words out in a way that makes sense, I can see the other person trying to figure out what I’m saying. Sometimes I even see a little panic in their eyes.

My whole life, including my career, has centered around my communication, especially my speaking and talking. So to watch it go away little by little is terribly painful for me.

I think it might be worse with strangers and acquaintances.

• Maybe because they don’t know I have Alzheimer’s.

• Maybe because it should be such a quick and simple interaction.

• Maybe because I feel some pressure to “perform” and be the person I’ve always been.

Shasta is naturally a little more quiet with strangers, so I hate putting her in the position where she has to jump in and explain things for me.

And yet… I still want to be friendly. I still want to be the guy who says hello.

But it hurts in a new way to realize that sometimes the words just aren’t there when I need them.

• It leaves me feeling embarrassed, frustrated, and even lonely at times.

• What goes through my mind afterward often is wishing I had stayed quiet.

But I’ve made a commitment to not withdraw from people. I know how easy that would be. But moments like this sure make me want to.

And maybe the real question I’m asking myself right now is this:

How do I keep being an “ambassador”… even when speaking is becoming one of the hardest things I do? Can I do it?

This morning at the gym I talked to several people and it was good. I kept it small, knowing what I was saying. The gym friends understood completely. And I loved it! Yay!