Wednesday 9th September 2026

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I knew from the phone call Mum made on Monday afternoon that this visit was going to be a difficult one. Nothing, though, could have prepared me for what I was about to see.

Dad has lost so much weight. He can no longer hold himself upright or stand, so every movement now requires a hoist. His voice has become the faintest whisper, his words muddled and difficult to understand. He coughs, splutters, and his breathing is heavy and laboured. He looks so incredibly frail.

All I wanted to do was hold him and make him feel safe, just as he did for me when I was a little girl.

I couldn’t stop looking at him. This man who had always been my protector, so strong and dependable, is now skin and bone, unable to support his own fragile body. As I held his hand—the hand that once seemed enormous wrapped around my tiny one—I realised how alike they now looked. His perhaps a little more skeletal, his bones pressing against the skin beneath his jumper. He looked so small.

I swallowed hard, desperately holding back the tears, searching for something… anything… to talk about. Something that might make Dad smile, even for a moment. Instead, he looked at me with the saddest eyes and whispered softly,

“Gail… take me home.”

Those four words broke my heart.

I thought about the man who worked tirelessly to provide for Mum and me. The man who, alongside Mum, built a beautiful life, a warm family home, a garden they were so proud of, holidays every year, and the security that came from years of hard work. They didn’t want for anything because they had created it together.

And now, through no fault of his own, he lives in a care home surrounded by strangers. The chair he sits in isn’t his favourite. The cup he drinks from isn’t his Denby mug. His clothes are no longer lovingly pressed by Mum. These may seem like little things, but they were his ordinary comforts that made his house a home.

Today has left Mum and me emotionally exhausted. I’m struggling to find the right words because some days grief isn’t about losing someone, it’s about watching the person you love slowly disappear while they’re still here.

If there is one comfort I hold onto, it’s that Dad still knows love. Even in the quiet whispers, even in the confusion, I hope he feels it every time Mum, me and his granddaughters hold his hand.

Monday 7th September 2026

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Many of you will know that travelling and I have a complicated relationship. Leaving my home comforts behind is a huge upheaval, and even a journey to see my family can send my anxiety soaring.

On the Bank holiday Monday afternoon, Mum phoned. Dad had gone downhill very quickly, and she was worried. Instantly, my brain went into panic mode. Living with dementia means my mind doesn’t process information the way it used to. Planning, organising and weighing up options can feel like trying to solve a thousand-piece jigsaw while someone keeps throwing more pieces onto the table.

People often think dementia is simply about forgetting. It isn’t. For me, the ability to plan and work things out has quietly disappeared from my remit.

For a couple of hours I bounced between possibilities. Train? Drive? Wait for Hubby to finish work? Every option felt impossible. Eventually, I admitted defeat and decided not to make any decisions until morning because my brain simply couldn’t take any more.

To someone without dementia, the choices probably seem straightforward: just get the train or jump in the car. Once upon a time, that’s exactly what I would have done. I’d have grabbed my keys and headed to Burnley without a second thought. Now, the furthest I drive is to Blackpool Zoo or the local park a couple of miles away.

It isn’t that I’ve forgotten how to drive. I’m still a capable driver, but longer journeys leave me exhausted and my concentration fades. Dementia has stolen the confidence and endurance that once gave me so much independence.

Tuesday morning arrived, and so did my unwelcome visitor… anxiety!

I took Toby and Sooty for their usual run on the beach, hoping the sea would calm my mind. Instead, every wave seemed to whisper, “Train times… taxis… should you drive?”

I kept telling myself, Gail, you can’t drive. It wouldn’t be safe.

After much deliberation and several trips to the toilet thanks to anxiety, I finally booked the train. Relief lasted about thirty seconds before the next wave arrived.

What am I going to wear? Will the dogs be okay? Should I take a flask? Do I need food?

The thoughts were endless.

Then came booking an Uber. The app muddled me, but eventually it was done. I rushed around the bungalow like a headless chicken: fresh water for the dogs, radio on for background noise, biscuits left out just in case they got hungry, another visit to the toilet, then a glance at my phone.

Uber arriving in 4 minutes!!

I dived into my bag looking for my keys, pulled out my flask instead, and the lid flew off. Hot tea everywhere.

Perfect!

I wiped it up, found my keys and rushed out of the door. Halfway to the gate another panic hit me – Did I leave the keys in the inside lock? If I had, we wouldn’t get back in. Then I remembered I’d left the back gate unlocked… but did I have the back door key?

No!

I could only hope Hubby did.

Too late now, I was already sitting in the Uber on my way to Blackpool North Station.

Thankfully, the staff there are wonderful at the station. I’d booked Passenger Assist, and they made sure I got onto the right train. Without that support, goodness knows where I’d have ended up.

At 10:20am, I arrived in Burnley. Mum was waiting for me on the platform.

No words were needed.

Just a very big hug, because we both knew this wasn’t going to be an easy day.

Friday September 4th 2026

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When I was diagnosed with dementia at the age of 54, it was like my world changed overnight. Like many people receiving a life-changing diagnosis, I was filled with questions, fears, and lots of uncertainty about what the future would bring.

Living with a disability is not something anyone plans for. It can bring challenges that others do not see. There are days when tasks take longer, when words don’t come as easily, or when frustration creeps in. Yet a disability is only one part of who we are and Dementia in my case should not define.

What surprised me most was the change in lifestyle which I discovered after my diagnosis. As one chapter of my life changed, another began. I found an online community DEEP, like-minded people who understood the chapter I was now living. Their support reminded me that I was not alone.

I also discovered new passions. Before dementia, I had never really painted, but now art has become a way for me to express myself. Through watercolours, crafts, and creativity, I have found joy, purpose, and a sense of achievement. What I once saw as a limitation has opened doors to experiences I may never have explored otherwise.

Nature has become another great teacher. Walking with my two Scotties whilst taking photos, allows me to slow down and appreciate the beauty around me, the changing seasons, birdsong, flowers in bloom, and the simple pleasure of being outdoors. These moments remind me that life can still be rich and meaningful.

Living with a disability has taught me resilience. It has shown me that while some of my abilities have changed, new opportunities have emerge. It has taught me to celebrate small victories and focus on what I can do rather than what I cannot. Even though sometimes I do get very frustrated with myself which shows I’m only human.

This chapter is different from the one I imagined, but it is still my chapter. Disability has brought challenges, but it has also brought unexpected gifts: opportunities, creativity, connection, gratitude, and a deeper appreciation of life.

We may not choose our circumstances, but we can choose how we live within them. And for me, that means continuing to paint, continuing to walk with my dogs, continuing to share my story, and continuing to find beauty in each new day.

As my dementia progresses, I may not be blogging as much as I once did, and I may not be involved in as many projects. There may be times when I need to slow down, step back, or do things differently. But please know that I am still here. I am still connected, still interested, and still care about the people and causes that matter to me. I continue to find joy in creativity, nature, my walks with my two Scotties.

My voice may be quieter at times, but it has not disappeared. While my path may look different now, my desire to connect, create, share, and be part of this wonderful community remains, I’m just a little quieter.

Wednesday 2nd September 2026

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On Monday 24th August 2026, I climbed into a rickshaw bike for something a little different. This wasn’t just any bike ride, it was a filmed journey filled with conversation, laughter, and shared story.

The project A Lifetime of Wisdom was created to help tackle loneliness by bringing people together, giving people the chance to chat about their lives and the experiences that have shaped them.

Many of the people that have taken part in this project were in their later years, but I’ve always believed age is just a number and in my head, I’m still 54!

I was invited to share my young onset dementia story, and it was such a privilege to talk not only about life since my diagnosis, but also about the person I was long before dementia became part of my journey. Raising awareness that young onset dementia is very different from the end stages of the condition is something I’m incredibly passionate about.

The short film will be released in a couple of weeks, so watch this space.

We had such a wonderful time as the sun shone down, whilst being driven around chatting, laughing, and reminiscing, and I can’t wait to share it with you all.

Click the Home link below ⬇️ to find oit more about this wonderful project A Lifetime of Wisdom

Home

Monday 31st August 2026

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It is another chapter in my dementia story, and one that will take time for me to accept. If you know me, you’ll know that care homes have always been my greatest fear. Walking through those doors has never been easy, because I can’t help wondering if one day it could be me.

But this story isn’t about me.

It’s about my lovely Dad, who has just moved into his new home. He doesn’t understand that it’s permanent; he thinks he’s only there for a little while. In many ways, I wonder if that’s kinder than knowing the truth.

This care home is different from the one where Dad stayed for respite. Apparently he even had a short stay here last year, although I can remember very little about it, only that he wasn’t happy. Then again, would anywhere ever feel as comforting as his own home? Probably not.

As we walked into reception, it wasn’t the luxurious surroundings that caught my attention. In fact, it was much less plush than the previous home. What struck me immediately was something far more important: the atmosphere.

Dad wasn’t slumped in a chair. He looked bright, alert and genuinely pleased to see us.

I smiled and waved good morning to other residents, and most smiled or waved back. Staff were chatting naturally with people as they walked past, and even the kitchen staff were laughing and talking through the serving hatch. It felt warm. It felt human.

I found myself pleasantly surprised.

The walls displayed a weekly programme of activities, alongside beautiful artwork and thoughtfully placed flowers. A bright conservatory opened onto a patio filled with outdoor seating and parasols, and the whole space seemed full of light and good energy. Yes, there were moments when a resident shouted out, but what I noticed was how quickly a member of staff responded with kindness. The shouting faded as connection replaced distress.

We took a little tour to Dad’s room on the first floor. Outside the lift was a cosy seating area where residents could simply sit and watch the world go by as cars arrived in the car park. From one of the windows, you could see gardens, the fields and hills stretching out towards Pendle Hill. I was so relieved to know there was somewhere Dad could enjoy fresh air, because who wants to be indoors all day?

At one point Dad became a little agitated, but it was gently deflected. Mum helped him into some clean clothes, and suddenly he looked so smart and so much like himself.

After about an hour he was beginning to tire, so we wandered into the dining room for a cup of tea.

And yes… it came in a proper mug not some scuffed plastic mug!

Hurrah.

Before we left, I gave Dad what he calls a snuggle, a great big hug that neither of us wanted to end. I couldn’t look back as we walked away. I’m just not there yet.

I made a point of telling one of the staff how lovely the home felt, because kindness deserves to be recognised.

Has this changed my feelings about care homes? No. I still find this stage incredibly difficult. I still carry the fear that has lived with me since my own diagnosis.

But it has made one thing a little easier.

It has helped me know that my Dad is somewhere he is cared for, and sometimes, for now, that has to be enough. 💙

Friday 28th August 2026

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For weeks I’d been saying that I was struggling to keep on top of the chores at home.

You know those little jobs that need doing around the house — the washing, the ironing, putting things away, keeping everything ticking along as you normally would.

The thing is, most of these jobs are done every day, or at least regularly, so surely I should remember to do them?

But lately, I haven’t.

And it was beginning to upset me.

I knew I had a lot on my mind. My dad’s dementia is progressing so quickly, and there are so many thoughts and worries about Dad, Mum and what the future might hold constantly floating around in my head.

But even knowing that didn’t make it any easier when I realised just how much I was struggling with the ordinary things at home.

Then came Thursday.

Hubby came home from work as usual. We had our evening meal, I had a shower and got ready for bed while hubby watched television and got his things ready for work the next morning.

Nothing unusual.

The next morning, hubby came to find me.

“Gail, have you seen where my boxer shorts are? There don’t seem to be any in my drawer.”

I searched the house.

I looked in the washing machine.

I checked the dryer.

I looked where I would normally keep my ironing.

Nothing.

No boxers.

Then hubby looked in the washing basket.

“Oh my goodness…”

The washing basket was absolutely full.

And then it hit me.

I hadn’t done any dark washing for two weeks.

Two weeks!

I was mortified.

How had I not realised?

How had I completely forgotten something so ordinary, something that I have done countless times over the years without even thinking about it?

I rushed into my craft room, my sanctuary, and I could feel the tears coming.

I was so upset with myself.

How can I forget to do the dark coloured washing?

Hubby followed me in.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m not having a go at you.”

I knew he wasn’t.

He wasn’t angry because I hadn’t done the dark washing. He was more concerned that I had completely forgotten to do it.

Then, as only hubby can, he decided to make me laugh.

“Well, I’ll just have to wear your black lacy knickers.”

And there it was.

A little bit of humour in a moment that had felt enormous to me.

I laughed.

Because sometimes you have to.

But underneath that laughter was something much deeper.

This wasn’t really about the washing.

It was about what the washing represented.

It was another little reminder that things I have always done automatically are becoming harder. Routines that once happened without any thought now sometimes disappear completely from my mind.

And that can be frightening.

People sometimes think dementia is about forgetting names, appointments or where you’ve put your keys.

But sometimes it’s forgetting the washing.

Forgetting to eat.

Forgetting why you walked into a room.

Forgetting the little routines that have been part of your everyday life for years.

And perhaps the hardest part is that you don’t always realise you’ve forgotten until something brings it to your attention.

That full washing basket did exactly that.

It showed me that I need to be a little kinder to myself.

There is a lot going on in my head at the moment. Worrying about Dad, worrying about Mum, thinking about what the future might hold… sometimes there simply isn’t enough room in my brain for the washing.

So, yes, the washing eventually got done.

Hubby got his clean boxer shorts.

And thankfully, he didn’t have to resort to wearing my black lacy knickers after all!

But that washing basket taught me something.

Sometimes the little things matter.

Not because they are important in themselves, but because they can tell us when something else is going on underneath.

And maybe instead of beating myself up because I forgot, I need to stop, take a breath and remind myself

**I haven’t failed.

I’m just having a difficult time.

And that’s okay.**

Wednesday 26th August 2026

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After one of the hardest weeks our family has ever faced, we finally have a permanent care placement for Dad.

I spent hours making phone call after phone call to Adult Social Care, trying to explain the urgency of the situation. Dad had suffered a number of falls, and Mum, now in her 80s, was desperately trying to lift and care for him. She was beyond tired. She was physically and emotionally exhausted, and beside herself with worry.

As a couple, this must be one of the hardest decisions anyone ever has to make.

Mum and Dad will have been married for 65 years this September. In all those years, they have only been apart for the odd day here and there. Now, the relentless progression of advanced dementia has made it impossible for Mum to continue caring safely at home. I cannot begin to imagine the heartbreak they are both feeling.

The tragedy is that Dad doesn’t understand. In his mind, the marriage is over. He believes Mum has abandoned him. Meanwhile, Mum is carrying the unbearable weight of providing care 24 hours a day, and I really do mean 24 hours.

Every night Dad lays in bed calling her name repeatedly. On a bad night he wanders the house which has lead to falls. He becomes frightened and angry if Mum cannot reach him instantly, he sometimes removes his incontinence pad and soils the bed in frustration…There is no rest!

When morning comes, the work simply changes. Meals need preparing. Soaked bedding and nightclothes need washing. Carpets need scrubbing after yet another accident. Drinks are spilled, food is dropped, and through it all Mum is constantly responding to Dad’s calls.

This is the reality of late-stage dementia.

It is devastating. It is cruel. It robs people not only of memories, but of the ordinary life and companionship they built together over decades.

Watching Mum and Dad go through this has been incredibly difficult, especially as someone living with dementia myself. But this is our reality, and it has made me think very deeply about my own future.

I’ve even made an appointment with my GP to update my advance care wishes and medical decisions. It’s not an easy conversation to have, but it is one of the kindest things we can do for ourselves and the people we love.

Please don’t put it off. Have those conversations. Put your Lasting Power of Attorney in place, for both health and finance. Record your care wishes. None of us knows what is waiting just around the corner.

And above all, live for today. Make memories, and treasure every single minute!

Monday 24th August 2026

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Nobody really understands the impact dementia can have on an entire family until care becomes difficult.

When a wife, husband or partner is caring for someone they love, there can come a point where caring at home is simply no longer manageable. And when access to help and support is fragmented, difficult to navigate, or doesn’t seem to work for the person and family who desperately need it, the pressure can become overwhelming.

And it isn’t just the person living with dementia who is affected.

It’s their partner.

Their children.

Their grandchildren.

It’s the whole family.

There are so many emotions involved, and sometimes difficult decisions have to be made about care. Will everyone agree? Will everyone feel that the decision is right? And, most importantly, what would the person living with dementia have wanted?

I think these are conversations we should all be having long before we reach crisis point.

People living with dementia, and people who don’t have dementia, should be encouraged to think about their future care and talk about what they would want that care to look and feel like while they are still able to express their wishes.

Because when that point comes, it can be incredibly difficult for families to make those decisions without knowing what their loved one would have wanted.

Right now, my own family is experiencing just how difficult the care system can be.

I have tried my best to support my mum, even though I’m doing it remotely. I’ve made phone calls, explained the situation, explained again that things are becoming desperate.

My dad keeps falling.

My mum cannot physically lift him.

He is calling for her constantly during the night, meaning she is getting very little sleep.

She is exhausted.

And her mental wellbeing is taking a huge hit.

This isn’t simply a difficult situation anymore. It has reached a point where I believe my mum’s wellbeing and safety have to be taken seriously too.

Today, Wednesday 19th August, I spent a good part of my day making phone call after phone call trying to speak to someone in Adult Social Care.

At one point I was even sent a text asking me to complete an enquiry form.

I honestly wondered what more information I could possibly provide when I was repeatedly explaining the situation to the automated service, giving the caseworker’s name and my parents’ case reference number.

At one point when trying to get through to the automated system , I joked that Lancashire County Council didn’t recognise my Lancashire accent!

I laughed, because sometimes you have to.

But underneath the frustration, I was close to tears.

Because this isn’t just paperwork.

This is my mum.

This is my dad.

This is their life.

And while I know that social care services are under enormous pressure, families living with dementia cannot simply wait until everything falls apart before support arrives.

Dementia care has felt like it has been at the bottom of the priority list for far too long.

But can we really look at dementia care in isolation?

When a person living with dementia is struggling, their family can struggle too.

When a carer becomes exhausted, their own health can suffer.

When someone reaches breaking point, the consequences can spread much further than one household.

And ultimately, that can mean more pressure on our already stretched health and care services.

This experience has taught me something too.

It has spurred me on to make more decisions about my own future care.

I want to think about what I would want my care to look like. What would make me feel safe? What would make me feel listened to? What would help me continue to live well and maintain my identity for as long as possible?

I don’t want my family to have to guess.

And I don’t want them to have to fight for support when they are already exhausted and frightened.

This is a very tough chapter for my family, and I know we are not alone.

There are families all over the country trying to navigate the care system while supporting someone they love who is living with dementia.

They shouldn’t have to reach crisis point before someone listens.

They shouldn’t have to become exhausted before help arrives.

And nobody should have to feel that they are shouting into the void while desperately trying to keep their loved one safe.

We need to talk about care before crisis.

We need to listen to families.

We need to listen to people living with dementia.

And we need a system that recognises that when one person is struggling, the whole family can be affected.

Because it shouldn’t have to be like this.

No one should ever have to reach breaking point before they get the help they need.

Friday 21st August 2026

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It was early morning, and my mind was full. I was thinking about my dad, the pain in my hip, and those comments that people so often make:

“You don’t look like you have dementia.”

Those words hurt. They also make me angry.

I find myself wondering, Is it my fault? Is it my fault that I don’t behave in the way people expect someone with dementia to behave? Is it my fault that I’ve become so good at covering it up?

The truth is, I think many of us living with dementia become very good actors. We work incredibly hard to hide our confusion, our forgetfulness and the moments when our minds simply won’t cooperate. We don’t do it to deceive people. We do it because we want to fit in, to avoid embarrassment, and to hold on to our independence for as long as we can.

Simple everyday conversation is usually manageable. Talking about the weather, the dogs, or what we’ve been up to feels safe. It’s when the questions become more personal that things become difficult.

“How old is your grandson?”

“Which school does he go to?”

I wont be able to answer.

Sometimes I might guess and come up with something that sounds convincing. Other times, I’ll simply say, “Actually, I don’t know.”

Which is the better choice?

If I make something up, I probably appear “normal.” If I hesitate, search for the words or become confused, then suddenly my dementia becomes visible.

So, when I’m talking to someone I don’t know, I often keep the conversation simple. It feels safer. It means I can hide the struggles that are going on inside my head.

Perhaps, in a strange way, I have become so good at masking my dementia that people tell me, “You don’t look like you have dementia.”

But maybe that’s the point they’re missing.

Dementia doesn’t have a look.

It isn’t written across our faces. It doesn’t announce itself every minute of every day. Many of us spend enormous amounts of energy hiding the symptoms, only to be told they don’t exist because we’ve hidden them so well.

What people don’t see is the effort behind every conversation, every pause, every smile, and every moment spent trying to appear as though everything is fine.

So, the next time you think someone doesn’t “look” like they have dementia, perhaps remember this:

You are only seeing the performance.

You are not seeing the battle taking place behind the scenes.

Wednesday 19th August 2026

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Wednesday 12th August was a little different from an ordinary Wednesday.

Me and hubby decided to take the short walk from home up to our local beach to see the eclipse. It’s a walk we’ve done so many times that we could probably do it with our eyes closed… although perhaps that wouldn’t have been particularly helpful when we were actually trying to watch an eclipse!

We walked through the little snicket that leads up towards the beach, expecting the usual few people enjoying an evening stroll by the sea.

How wrong could we have been

Cars were jostling for spaces, people were seated on those foldable chairs all along the prom, and the beach was certainly busier than we had have ever seen it.

It was manic!

Even the local ice cream man was struggling to keep up with the influx of people, with the queue for ice cream reaching record numbers. I’m not sure whether people had come to see the eclipse or simply thought it was an excellent excuse for an ice cream… perhaps a bit of both!

We decided to escape the crowds and found ourselves a little spot on some rocks down on the beach. It was quieter there, and we could sit together and watch the spectacle without feeling like we were in the middle of a festival.

Of course, my camera came out.

I tried to find a good focus, but I don’t have any fancy lenses or specialist equipment for photographing eclipses, and it was proving rather difficult.

Then I remembered something that I had put in my camera bag at home…A little something that I was hoping would work.

Camera film negative paper.

I decided to try placing a piece over the camera lens.

And do you know what?

It worked a treat!

Well… it worked a treat as long as I could position it correctly, hold it steady and stop it from moving. Looking back, I really should have taped it to my lens before we left home.

But of course, that would have required me to actually think ahead!

The negative paper was also brilliant for looking at the eclipse because it cut out most of the glare, allowing us to look up without being completely dazzled.

I have to admit, I was a little dubious about what the eclipse would actually have to offer. Perhaps I’d built it up in my head, or perhaps I was expecting the sky to suddenly become dramatically dark.

It didn’t quite happen like that.

It certainly wasn’t the dramatic darkness I had imagined, but it was still something different. Something unusual. And sitting there on our little patch of beach, surrounded by hundreds of other people who had all come out to witness the same thing, made it feel rather special.

Slowly at first, the Moon began to creep across the face of the Sun, looked like someone had taken a bite out of the sun. The light around us seemed to soften, the brightness slowly fading as though someone was gently turning down a dimmer switch.

We stood there watching, mesmerised, as more and more of the Sun disappeared.

And then came that magical moment when the Moon was nearly covered by the Sun, creating a sight I will most probably never see again in the UK

It was more than simply watching an eclipse. It felt like being part of something truly special… a moment that we had all stopped to share together.

Perhaps if we’d had the right equipment and a proper camera filter, we could have enjoyed it even more.

But I wasn’t about to spend hundreds of pounds on fancy filters for my camera for something that lasted around an hour!

Sometimes you just have to make do with what you’ve got.

A piece of camera film negative paper, a camera, two people sitting on some rocks and a little bit of curiosity was enough for us.

And I’m glad we went.

I’m glad we made the effort to walk to our familiar little beach and experience something that transformed a place we know so well into somewhere completely different for an evening.

Our quiet local beach had become the place to be.

As we made our way home, I thought about how easily I could have decided not to bother.

But sometimes it’s the things we nearly don’t do that end up becoming the best memories.