Table of Contents
I’m getting older—old enough now to look back and see how much has already slipped away. Things I thought would last forever just… didn’t.
Memory’s weird. Some days it’s a gift—you get to keep the good stuff. Other days it’s a burden—you can’t forget the hard parts even when you want to. I’ve never been big on taking tons of photos, but I’m glad I have some. They’re proof things actually happened. Evidence of the past you can show other people.
When I was a kid, we lived near my school. Mum would wait outside with the other mothers when the bell rang. She always stood out—maybe she really was the most striking, or maybe she just made more effort than most.
She’d be happy, I think, that I’ve got that memory locked away safe.
As I write this now, I don’t know what’s ahead for me. Will I still be present in my mind when I’m old? If I’m physically here, will I even recognize myself?
When the Familiar Becomes Strange
Why am I thinking about this stuff lately?
Last time I talked with my mum, she handed the phone to my dad mid-dinner—she was busy at the table, slipping food to the dog. This was weird for her. We’ve had dogs my whole life—all well-fed and loved—but she never once fed them from the table.
Things change. I don’t take ordinary moments for granted anymore.
It started slow—she’d lose small pieces of herself. During our calls, she’d ask how I was doing, then ask the exact same question a few minutes later. At first I thought she was just being her usual attentive self, checking in twice because we didn’t talk often enough, both of us too busy with everyday life.
I didn’t see what was creeping in.
Have you noticed the early signs of dementia in someone you love? What made you finally realize something was wrong?
Guardians of Vulnerability
My dad’s British, in his 80s now—for better or worse, we Brits keep that stiff upper lip. Talking about tender emotions isn’t something most of us do. That territory’s reserved for black sheep like me.
But I understand him. He protected us from life’s sharp edges—pain, worry, fear—for as long as he possibly could. He’s dealt with his own stuff too. A stroke took the use of his left arm. Years of exercise and staying trim didn’t spare him. But he stayed strong.
When mum’s condition got worse, he took care of her until a doctor finally said it was becoming too much. She’s in a care home now, getting full-time professional care.
How do you know when it’s time to get professional help? What made that decision easier or harder for you?
The Silence of Presence
Her care home is nearby—dad visits for about 20 minutes. He says it’s just too hard to stay longer.
She doesn’t respond to him. Just sits there quietly, seemingly somewhere else, holding a soft toy for comfort. A small thing to hold onto, maybe, wherever she is now.
He told me that seeing her like this really hurts. That admission hit hard. After everything he’s been through in life—losing her this way hurts most. Like watching the final chapter coming and not being able to stop it.
Is she still in there somewhere? Aware but trapped? Does she have access to memories—stuck in ones she can’t escape, or maybe aware of my dad sitting beside her? I wonder all the time what her world looks like now.
What do you think people with dementia experience? Do they know we’re there?
Doorways to Elsewhere
I think about my grandmother a lot—mum’s mother.
When I was a teenager, I’d visit her. In her most vulnerable state, she’d stare out the window at a park. To the rest of us, it didn’t exist—some old London landmark miles away that had been gone for years. But whatever she saw seemed to make her content.
Who’s to say she didn’t really see it? And who’s to say mum doesn’t see something we can’t understand—something dementia hides from our view, like those near-death experiences where people catch a glimpse of what might be waiting on the other side?
Maybe that toy she’s holding is an anchor. Or maybe the window in her room opens onto somewhere more peaceful than where we are.
Finding Comfort in the Storm
Dad’s tired. The care facility costs a fortune—no break for good people, it seems. For those of us watching from the outside, it’s a long, slow ache. Watching her fade gradually, carrying the emotional weight and the money stress.
When he sits beside her, does she know he’s there? Or has she gone somewhere else entirely?
All I can do is love her. Love him too—my steady father who’s held everything together. Love everyone I’ve lost along the way. Whether people leave by choice, by illness, or just because life ends eventually—what else can we really do? Study the condition? Try to find meaning in it? Research new treatments?
I don’t have answers. I’m just a guy watching this happen, trying to understand it.
Mum used to raise PAT dogs—therapy dogs for kids in hospitals. Her way of giving back. Now the tables have turned. She’s the one who needs comfort, and that small toy is all she has to hold onto.
Maybe being in a care home isn’t entirely awful if you’ve got something to hold or a view where you can lose yourself. Maybe someday we’ll understand dementia better—in whatever comes after this life, if anything does.
For now, it’s just quiet sadness. A price we pay. And hope that somewhere inside, she finds moments of peace.
Have you dealt with dementia in your family? How did you make sense of watching someone fade like this?
Share your thoughts below. I respond to every comment, and your experience often helps others more than mine does.
