It’s been 479 days since Jimmy Carter entered hospice care at his home in Plains, Georgia.
Although the former president’s family initially believed he would only live a few days, Carter, at 99 years old, has defied the odds.
“God had other plans,” Jason Carter, 48, said.
Jason, the oldest of the Jimmy and Rosalynn’s 22 grandchildren, recently shared an update with Southern Living on the health of the 39th president.
According to the oldest grandchild, there’s “really been no change” in the last few months.
After nearly 16 months under hospice care, the last seven without his wife of 77 years, Carter is “experiencing the world as best he can as he continues through this process.”
“After 77 years of marriage… I just think none of us really understand what it’s like for him right now,” Jason said.. “We have to embrace that fact, that there’s things about the spirit that you just can’t understand.”
While family continue to visit the former president at his home in Plains, they find it difficult to predict what kind of day Carter will have.
More often than not, Carter spends his days sleeping.
However, a few weeks ago Jason visited his grandfather and the two watched an Atlanta Braves game and talked about the Carter Center and their family.
“I told him, I said: ‘Pawpaw, you know, when people ask me how you’re doing I say, ‘honestly I don’t know,’” Jason remembered. “And he kind of smiled and he said ‘I don’t know, myself.’”
Jimmy Carter is in my prayers every single day. Please share to keep him and his family in yours.
I WENT FOR AN ULTRASOUND AND SAW MY HUSBAND HUGGING A PREGNANT WOMAN — SO I SECRETLY FOLLOWED THEM
The ultrasound image, blurry yet undeniably real, still swam before my eyes. Two pink lines. Two tiny flickering lines that promised a future I had yearned for, a future I had almost given up on. After five years of longing, of disappointment, of tears shed in the quiet hours of the night, it was finally happening. I was pregnant.
But the joy that should have consumed me was quickly replaced by a chilling dread. As I walked out of the clinic, my eyes fell upon a scene that shattered my world. Ronald, my husband, stood in the hallway, his arms wrapped around a woman with a swollen belly. It wasn’t just a casual hug; it was a tender, intimate embrace, his hands resting gently on her burgeoning stomach.
A wave of nausea washed over me. Who was she? What was he doing here? The questions raced through my mind, each one sharper than the last. My carefully constructed world, the world I had envisioned with Ronald at the center, was crumbling before my eyes.
Gripping my purse tightly, I felt a surge of adrenaline. I couldn’t just stand there, frozen in disbelief. I had to know. I had to understand.
And so, I did something I never thought I would do. I followed them.
My heart pounded like a drum as I trailed behind them, my breath catching in my throat with every step. They walked slowly, their conversation hushed and intimate. I stayed hidden, peering through shop windows, ducking behind parked cars, feeling like a ghost in their world.
They turned down a narrow street, the houses quaint and old-fashioned. My gaze followed them to a small, two-story house with a rose bush spilling over the fence. This was it. Their destination.
I found a secluded spot across the street, my eyes glued to the window. The living room was cozy, filled with sunlight and the scent of freshly baked bread. They sat on a worn-out sofa, the pregnant woman gently stroking her belly. Ronald leaned in, his face radiating a warmth I had rarely seen directed towards me. He spoke softly, his voice filled with a tenderness that made my chest ache.
“I’m so excited, darling,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “We’re going to be parents.”
The woman smiled, her eyes sparkling. “Me too, love. I can’t wait to meet our little one.”
“Our little one,” he repeated, the word hanging in the air.
The scene before me played out like a cruel, twisted movie. Their happiness, their shared dreams, mirrored my own, yet they were a mockery of my own hopes. I felt a wave of dizziness, the world tilting precariously on its axis.
As the afternoon wore on, I watched them. They laughed, they argued playfully, they planned for the future. I saw a love story unfold before my eyes, a love story that did not include me.
Finally, as dusk began to settle, they left the house, hand in hand. I watched them walk down the street, their silhouettes bathed in the fading light. And as they disappeared from view, I was left alone with the shattered pieces of my heart.
The walk back to my apartment was a blur. The joy of my pregnancy, the hope that had bloomed within me, felt like a distant memory. Betrayal, anger, and a deep, suffocating sadness consumed me. How could he? How could he do this to me?
That night, I cried myself to sleep, the ultrasound image of my tiny baby a bittersweet reminder of the shattered dreams. The next morning, I woke up with a resolve I didn’t know I possessed. I would not be a victim. I would fight for myself, for my baby, and for the future I had always envisioned.
The road ahead was uncertain, filled with pain and uncertainty. But I knew, deep down, that I would find my way. I would heal, I would be strong, and I would build a life for myself and my child, a life filled with love, joy, and happiness, a life that had nothing to do with him.
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