He passed away on Saturday afternoon. I am so happy to say it was peaceful. The doc thought he had had another stroke which left him largely unresponsive and he had nothing to eat or drink since Tuesday night. The end of life meds and paraphernalia were all here ready but in the end they were not needed. He reacted to my voice, to the voices of my daughters and my granddaughter. And not long after, he just stopped breathing. I think in the context of this horrible disease this counts as a good death. I am now bereft. There is no shape to my days any more, I can do what I want when I want, and I am paralysed. I feel relief for him. He has had much suffering in recent years, not all due to dementia. He was tired of it all and there was enough left of the man I love for me to know that. But I am filled with anger against the destructiveness of this disease, and the indignities it forces on its sufferers. And guilt is kicking in, for the times when I lost my patience even though I knew it was not his fault and he couldn't help it. Tomorrow I start the paperwork and should start pulling myself together. In the meantime, he has just stepped out for a minute so I shall carry on talking to him.