A career journalist in Wisconsin, Greg Peck enjoyed his work as an editorial page editor and assumed he would continue writing until at least age 60. But his wife, Cheryl, was slipping away.
She had been diagnosed with mild cognitive impairment, which later progressed to full-blown Alzheimer’s. As her memory Greg Peck with his Cairn terrier, Mollydeclined and confusion increased, Greg realized something had to change.
“I knew it would be financially devastating if she ever needed full-time memory care,” Greg said. “So, we pushed more money into retirement accounts. After selling some property, we talked to our financial advisor. That’s when he said, ‘You can retire now.’”
He did so, at age 59.
That decision changed everything. Greg became Cheryl’s primary caregiver for several years as her condition worsened. They had once bowled, golfed, hiked, biked and spent time outdoors with their dog, Molly. But one by one, those activities disappeared.
“She was slowly fading in front of me,” Greg said. “I was in mourning long before she died.”
From bicycles to birdwatching
Even in the midst of caregiving, Greg began building what he called his “four pillars of self-care.” They would later become critical to his healing and purpose after Cheryl’s death.
The first pillar was building a support network of friends, neighbors and former colleagues. The second was bicycling. In 2023, while Cheryl was still in memory care, Greg logged 1,700 miles. The following year, after her death, he biked more than 4,100 miles.
“Even now, I feel like a caged lion if I can’t get out on my bike two or three times a week,” he said.
The third pillar was journaling. Greg kept a private journal for 10 years, documenting the heartbreaking changes, exhausting effort of caregiving and the unexpected moments of joy. When Cheryl died, the journal had grown to 350,000 words. He also wrote short stories and poetic reflections about their experience.
The fourth pillar was photography. A nature lover, Greg bought a small Sony camera and began photographing birds.
“I started with a little pouch on my belt, and every time we went for a walk or bike ride, I’d bring the camera,” he said. When Cheryl no longer wanted to join him but wasn’t at risk of wandering, “It became my escape.”
Through the years, Greg photographed 104 bird species in Janesville alone. He now gives presentations for groups eager to learn about his birdwatching hobby.
A slow and painful goodbye
Caring for Cheryl was not easy. She had a strong personality and resisted acknowledging her illness.
“She was always in denial,” Greg recalled. “We couldn’t talk about it. It was like the elephant in the room.”
As Cheryl’s condition declined, Greg adapted constantly. When she refused to change clothes, he tossed her soiled clothes in the hamper at night so she had to find something else to wear in the morning. He chained the TV remote to a table to keep it from disappearing. He booked salon appointments just to get her hair washed.
Eventually, Cheryl forgot how to safely ride a bike. Greg bought a tandem bicycle so she could still join him. In their final year together, they biked 415 miles with their dog in a basket on the back.
“It was a way to get her exercise and social interaction without calling it exercise, which by then she refused to do,” Greg explained.
When Cheryl entered memory care, Greg thought it would be the worst day of his life. But, it wasn’t.
“I walked away with a deep sense of relief,” he said. “She needed more help than I could give. It was hard, but it was the right decision.”
Cheryl died 13 months later.
Moments of beauty and grace
In the midst of the darkness, there were surprising flashes of beauty. Like the day she saw a giant loon statue for the second time during a family vacation and exclaimed, “We should stop and take a picture there,” forgetting they did so hours earlier. That moment convinced her daughter-in-law that something was truly wrong.
Or the time Cheryl split her head in a fall at the memory care facility and, after returning from the emergency room, spontaneously broke into a Wizard of Oz song, singing, “We’re off to see the wizard.”
Other memories were more frightening, like when Cheryl wandered away in a hotel during a trip to New Orleans.
“She just vanished in the middle of the night,” Greg said. “We searched everywhere. Finally, a guest helped bring her back. She had wandered up to the second floor and had no idea why.”
Greg learned to manage situations like that with creativity and patience. But, there were still moments of anger and regret.
“Looking back, I feel guilty for how angry I got,” he said. “When you’re exhausted, you snap sometimes. But, it’s part of the journey when you’re human.”
Writing his way toward healing
After Cheryl died, Greg leaned heavily into writing. He launched a weekly Substack column that reflects on caregiving, widowhood, aging and grief. He has written a new post every Tuesday for more than 90 weeks.
The column began as a way to show potential publishers that an audience exists for stories like his. But it became something even deeper—a ministry of empathy.
“I’ve received great feedback,” he said. “People say it helps them feel understood, and that’s what keeps me going.”
Greg also hopes to get a manuscript published based on his journal. He has trimmed it from 350,000 words to about 135,000, but a publisher challenged him to get it to fewer than 100,000. Whether or not it becomes a book, Greg believes the story deserves to be shared.
“Caregiving for someone with dementia is lonely,” he explained. “But, if I can show people what I went through and how I made it out the other side, maybe they’ll feel less alone.”
A new chapter with empathy and joy
Life after Cheryl is very different, but Greg is not alone. A few months after her passing, he reconnected with a woman named Jennifer, who he and his wife met while Jennifer volunteered at the Janesville Farmers Market. What started as friendship evolved into companionship.
“She told me early on she wasn’t looking to date, and I respected that,” Greg said. “But, over time, things changed.”
Some family members had concerns that he was moving on too quickly, but most friends were supportive.
“They told me, ‘You’ve been mourning for years,’” Greg said. “And, they were correct.”
Today, Greg continues to write, ride his bike and photograph birds. He and Jennifer enjoy spending time together and supporting each other through life’s transitions.
“Our whole relationship is built on mutual support,” he said. “She even reviews my Substack columns before I post them. She gets what I’m trying to do.”
Advice for caregivers and widows
For others navigating similar journeys, Greg encourages them to build a support network and join a support group.
“Not everyone you expect to help will be there, and that’s okay. Focus on those who show up,” Greg explained.
“Also, my support group gave me a place to vent, ask questions, and to laugh when things got absurd. Most of all, don’t give up on yourself.”
He also recommends learning to adapt. Whether it’s chaining the remote to a table or hiding the car keys, creativity is key to survival.
“Even in the middle of heartbreak, there are things that can bring you joy,” he added. “For me, it was birds, bikes and writing. I found beauty in the middle of the mess.”
And in doing so, Greg discovered that purpose doesn’t end with loss. Sometimes, the journey of renewal begins there.
For more information
People can connect with Greg on these platforms:
- Substack = gregpeck.substack.com
- Facebook = www.facebook.com/greg.peck.754
Greg’s books are available on Amazon, including “Death Beyond the Willows, How a Wedding Day Turned Tragic in America’s Heartland,” “Snakes, Squirrels & Bears, Oh My!: Finding Humor Amid Life’s Frustrations,” and “Memories of Marshall: Ups and Downs of Growing Up in a Small Town.”
If you buy a book from a link above, Forward From 50 may receive a small commission at no extra cost to you.
