Why Labels Matter to Neurosparklers

It’s Easy to Try Hard Things When You Have a Soft Place to Land

The label that most defines me is this: I am Bill and Ann LeFevre’s daughter. 

Everything else you call me is simply your interpretation of how you see that. If you knew them, then you know me—because I am the best and worst of them, wrapped in a package my Mommy called Poopsie and my Daddy calls Paige, Baby, or sometimes Paigey Poo.

Can you imagine what it feels like to know, without question, that you are loved for who you are? I can—and I do. And the older I get, the more I realize how rare that is.

I was apparently reared by unicorns. My parents, two extraordinary people, created a world where my sister and I could thrive as ourselves. They didn’t ask us to be the children they wanted; they became the parents we needed. Their love for each other was the foundation, and their love for us was the lens through which I see the world.

Daddy - The Eternal Optimist

My father has always been an optimist—a man who believed he could shape his destiny. At just 13, he met my mother, and she became his reason for everything. Together, they built a beautiful life guided by his mantra (borrowed from an Old Milwaukee beer commercial): “It doesn’t get any better than this.”

Fifteen years ago, that optimism was tested when he received a de facto Alzheimer’s diagnosis. The medication that improved his symptoms seemingly confirmed the diagnosis. Alzheimer’s is a death sentence but it is a death that comes in stages - each bringing it’s own slow and relentless grief.

My father, however, refused to surrender. He made it his mission to outlive my mother and care for her, no matter what. He waged war against time—eating every brain-healthy food he could find, exercising obsessively, and maintaining an unshakable focus on his goal.

Last July, a stroke and a fall marked a turning point. He fought hard to recover, but after months of hospitalizations, we realized they could no longer remain in their home alone and I could not longer care for them there. My parents moved to my hometown of Quincy, IL, in October, hoping it would be temporary.

By Christmas, it was clear their stay would be permanent—but one month later, my mother passed away unexpectedly.

A Love Story’s Hollow Victory

She was his reason for living—not just emotionally, but practically. For decades, he cared for her through countless medical challenges with dignity and grace. Her loss wasn’t just heartbreaking; it left him with the hollow victory he’d fought so hard for: a life without her.

Her love story had an incredibly happy ending. One I will tell as soon as I can find the right words to do it justice. In the end, the hero got his girl and rode off into the sunset.

But he rode off into the sunset carrying her ashes in a wooden box. In that box, he carried the weight of a love story that on his side now felt unfinished. If life were a fairy tale, he might have passed away alongside her. But this isn’t a Nicholas Sparks novel—it’s real life, where love’s greatest triumphs are often paired with its heaviest losses.

The Plot Twist

After her passing, my father’s decline deepened, and we prepared for the worst. We stopped his Alzheimer’s medication, expecting it to reveal the full scope of his symptoms. Instead, something extraordinary happened: he got better.

It turns out my father never had Alzheimer’s. The medication itself was causing many of his symptoms. What likely began as a minor stroke 15 years ago had been misdiagnosed, leading to incorrect premises upon which we made life decisions.

He has had a series of small strokes, followed by a big one last year. His memory issues now resemble ADHD more than Alzheimer’s—his brain works in a way I deeply understand because it mirrors my own neurodivergent brain. This twist reframed everything: his journey wasn’t about losing his mind but adapting to a new normal.

And I am uniquely equipped to help him navigate it.

Footnote:

I had this newsletter ready to send out yesterday when I realized I’d written it in the stream-of-consciousness style that reflects how my brain thinks out loud. That’s not the way most people read or consume content, but for some (namely me), the backstory is as fascinating and important as the underlying message.

If you’d like to read the original version in my unfiltered words—the full, unedited deep dive into my father’s story, why it matters, and what it means to me—you can read it here.