Last Thanksgiving I was seated at the head of the dining room table with my family gathered around, enjoying our traditional feast: turkey, potatoes, cranberry sauce, gravy and a mashed-yams-with-mini-marshmallows concoction we affectionately call “glop.”

My sons, 18 and 20, piled their plates high. My mother worked her way through smaller portions and a glass of wine. And I held the hand of my love, who was seated next to me with tears in her eyes as she looked across the table at a woman, her contemporary, who was eating with the help of a caregiver.

That woman is my wife, Bridget, aged 59.

Before Alzheimer’s devoured Bridget’s neurons along with her essence, Thanksgiving was her favorite holiday. Now, a decade into the disease, my wife had no idea what Thanksgiving was or who we were. The caregiver had to keep reminding her to stay seated. That evening was also the first time she and my new partner ate at the same table.

None of us could have imagined this scenario until recently. For a decade, my wife and I were happily married and parenting, until her executive functioning skills started to falter. Bridget — who expertly organized both our wedding and the budgets of the Museum of Modern Art and the Whitney Museum on Excel spreadsheets — refused to believe it was anything serious until the mistakes became too frequent and dangerous to ignore: running stop signs, burning pots, missing play dates, forgetting to show up for her own 50th birthday dinner.

After the neurologist delivered the devastating news, eight years ago, that Bridget had early onset Alzheimer’s, I cared for her at home with the help of caregivers while continuing to work full-time and parent our sons, then 11 and 13.

Eventually, Bridget required round-the-clock care at home. Forced from our bedroom by her incessant agitation, I created a separate space in our home for me to sleep and live in.