My husband Jed and I met on a fateful night in December, 1996 at Puffy’s on Hudson Street in Tribeca, then sporting the best juke box in the City. We had one chance to meet and make something of it, and we took it. Fairly early on we discovered we shared a love of boxing. I had just taken a course at the local gym, and earlier had practiced on the heavy bag in the basement of my friend Eddie. Jed had just fought in his first “white collar” bout at Gleason’s Gym, and otherwise with his black belt firmly affixed, was teaching beginning karate at a Dojo in downtown Manhattan.

We’d watch Friday Night Fights on ESPN, regaling ourselves about Teddy Atlas’ commentary (who didn’t in those days). He was also my biggest booster when I trained at Gleason’s. And using his brilliant skills as a New York Times columnist and editor, went on to help me edit my first book, A History of Women’s Boxing.

Our affinity was the boxer’s heart we shared and our ability to push through our collective traumas to face our truths.

Jed’s always been there for me-through tough times, arguments big and small, differences and non-differences, and through the love that exudes through the pores of our being and into our shared joy, Izzi.

Jed’s formal diagnosis with behavioral variant of Frontotemperal Dementia over seven years ago was a near on knockout blow-but Jed persevered as did I.

Round after terrible round of the disease we adjusted.

During the pandemic it became obvious the Jed was no longer able to be alone. I retired from working with the City to care for him and have continued ever since. In those days, he could still take a long walk or go to the store at the corner. And in my company, we’d retrace his former route through downtown Brooklyn: A walk up Cadman Plaza to Olde Fulton. Then a walk through Brooklyn Bridge Park before meandering our way home through the side streets of Brooklyn Heights.

Each June we’d walk through the rows of privit grasping it in our hands to keep the scent alive on our bodies.

We’d hold hands.

I’d give him some water – though he mostly refused.

He still walked a pace, but was beginning to slow by the Fall.

I started having companions for him in 2022. That allowed me a few hours of respite a couple of days a week and it was also still possible to run out in the morning to the supermarket because he still slept in. Our boxer’s heart keeping faith with one another-has he began to have medication to help with the symptoms and found it harder and harder to comprehend what was going on around him.

From then to now feels like a blur, but the now is a late round effort.

This past Thursday was the last day that he walked-though he can still punch (and land some good shots that leave black and blue marks) when we turn him in his hospital bed in order to wash and clean him.

The Friday before that, he forgot how to swallow, but fought his was back to solid food.

Bed bound. Losing weight. Coughing. Endless sleeping.

Yet treated with kindness and love by wonderful women. That’s what I cling to as I take the decisions necessary to transition him to hospice care. Here at home. Among his books and enough camping gear to outfit a boy scout camp (a feature of FTD is obsessive spending!). Feeling the love of what home brings when Izzi sits besides him.

The journey of this illness is a terrible one. Yet the key has been keeping faith with our pas-de-deux. Our pact of love and faithfulness that saw us care so deeply for one another. To fight on the same team. Playing at doubles. Each of us having each other’s back. Literally.

Jed is 77. This all feels way, way, way too soon and yet he’s here. Still punching. Smiling between cursing us when he feels hurt by this or that turn. Still saying I love you and lighting up with the broadest of smiles when Izzi enters the room.