07/28/2026
Today would have been Pops' 98th birthday. π
Not a day goes by that I don't think about him.
He was an old English gentleman through and through. Sharp, witty, unbelievably cheeky, and fiercely independent. He never talked about getting old because, in his mind, he simply wasn't.
As a family, we watched dementia slowly change him.
We watched my dad and his brothers, my mom and my aunts, become caregivers in ways none of us ever expected.
We watched him hand over his driver's license, even though it represented so much of his independence.
We watched him recover from a hip replacement. Then, a few years later, from a fractured pelvis after deciding to walk to the corner store for a chocolate bar.
He'd lived with diabetes for most of his life, which somehow made the whole thing even more "Pops." He'd lost his license and wasn't about to let that stop him from getting where he wanted to go.
Like so many families, we learned that navigating the later years of life isn't always straightforward. Sometimes what people need most is simply a little extra support, a little extra time, and someone who can help preserve their independence for as long as possible.
One of the greatest gifts we gave Pops was a little extra support when he needed it most.
Looking back now, I realize it gave our whole family something too: peace of mind.
By the end, dementia had taken away my name.
He couldn't always tell you who I was.
But he always knew I was one of his girls.
My sister and I had Sundays with Pops.
We'd take him for coffee, lunch, scenic drives, or long walks, always arm in arm. We were his girls, and he was our guy. Those afternoons are some of the most treasured memories of my life.
When the time came, our family brought him home from hospital because we knew exactly where he wanted to be. Home. Surrounded by the people who loved him.
People sometimes ask why my husband and I chose to open Senior Helpers.
We each have our own story.
For me, it's Pops.
Not because dementia was part of his story.
But because I experienced firsthand how the right support can preserve the moments that matter most.
It's the coffee dates.
The drives.
The walks.
The companionship.
The dignity of staying at home.
The relief it brings to families.
I think about him every single day, and I often wonder how much we could have helped if we'd been doing this back then.
Every family we have the privilege of supporting reminds me, in some small way, of Pops. He shaped the way I see this work, and the kind of care I hope we're able to provide every single day.
Happy 98th Birthday, Pops.
Miss you guy, and I hope we're making you proud. π
Janelle