Wednesday 30th September 2026

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Preparing for a trip to Switzerland was never on my agenda. It’s funny how life works sometimes, just when you think you know what’s ahead, an unexpected opportunity appears. Switzerland was one of those opportunities.

I haven’t been in an airport or on a plane since the year I was diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimer’s. I found it overwhelming then, so I honestly have no idea how I’ll cope seven years on.

Strangely, the packing has been much easier than when we go away in the UK. We are not self catering, this trip we are staying in a hotel, we don’t have Toby and Sooty with us, and all the walking gear. So that has taken away quite a few jobs from my list.

The part I’m quietly worrying about is eating out. Cafés and restaurants are well outside my comfort zone because I like familiar places and familiar food. I’ve become quite a fussy eater since my diagnosis. I tend to eat what I know, what I’m used to, and although some people might think my meals are boring, they’re comforting to me. Left to my own devices, I’d probably eat the same two meals every day!

This trip has been planned for us, which is both reassuring and unsettling. On one hand, it’s lovely not having to organise every little detail. On the other, hubby and I are usually in control of every aspect of our holidays…choosing the flights, the seats, the hotel, and knowing exactly what’s happening. This isn’t really a holiday though; I’m travelling to speak at an Alzheimer’s event, which makes it feel even more important.

It’s funny the little things that have caused me the most anxiety. Choosing a seat on a plane, knowing where we’re staying, or waiting for an itinerary might sound trivial to some people, but for me they’re the details that help my brain feel safe. When the itinerary finally arrived, I felt an enormous sense of relief. My flight seats were good ones… I think!

On Sunday, with three days to go, I had a complete wardrobe panic. The wardrobe doors flew open and clothes were strewn all over the bed while I tried outfit after outfit.

“How am I supposed to know what I want to wear on Thursday… when it’s only Sunday?”

I struggle enough choosing what to wear on the day, never mind planning days ahead. It really does mess with my head. Eventually, after far too many changes, everything was chosen and neatly put to one side, ready for packing on Tuesday evening.

Then there were the dogs. Our lovely neighbour has kindly offered to look after Toby and Sooty, so I’ve been measuring out all their meals into Tupperware containers. It sounds like such a simple job, but it took my brain a surprising amount of effort. Still, I got there in the end.

All this planning, thinking and organising leaves my head feeling as though it’s spinning, wrapped in a little layer of fog. The nerves are definitely beginning to kick in. To top it all off, I’ve done something to my back—an unwanted distraction I could have done without!

So now it’s simply a case of waiting.

Roll on Wednesday morning at 5am… airport, here we come.

Eeek! 🇨🇭

Monday 28th September 2026

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Complaints procedures… ugh! What an eye-opener.

It’s exhausting. You make one complaint, only for it to be passed to somebody else, then somebody else again. It feels like playing pass the parcel, except I’m the one left standing in the middle.

My head feels constantly heavy from writing letters, filling in forms, and replying to endless emails. It’s no wonder so many people never complain. The whole system is so complicated that many simply give up. Pages and pages of nonsensical questions, many with little relevance, make an already distressing situation even harder to navigate.

I keep thinking about people in their later years. How on earth are they expected to cope with this level of complexity? So much of the process is online, yet many older people either don’t have a computer or aren’t confident using one. That becomes another obstacle placed in front of families who are already overwhelmed.

When a complaint involves care, a lack of care, and a safeguarding issue, you would imagine it would be treated as a matter of urgency. We’re talking about someone’s life… yes, a life.

I’ve said many times that once the word dementia is mentioned, it can feel as though that person slips to the bottom of the pile. It’s as if their voice matters less. That should never happen. A diagnosis of dementia does not make someone less worthy of dignity, protection, or justice!

I am absolutely exhausted trying to get my dad’s case heard. But what worries me even more is knowing that our family is not alone. There are countless families fighting the same battles, filling in the same forms, and desperately trying to make someone listen.

Things have to change. Families need clear, accessible complaints procedures. People need to be listened to. And dementia education and training should be mandatory in every care setting, because understanding dementia isn’t an optional extra…It’s essential to providing compassionate, safe care.

For my dad, and for every family still waiting to be heard, I will keep speaking up!

Friday 25th September 2026

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After two or three’s weeks of worrying about Dad and how he has been treated since going into full-time care, my own dementia finally said, “Enough!”

The endless complaints, phone calls, emails, and filling in safeguarding and complaint forms had taken their toll. I wanted to be strong for Dad and support Mum, but somewhere along the way my own brain became overwhelmed. Without warning, the familiar heavy fog descended. It’s hard to describe unless you’ve experienced it. My head feels full of grey fuzz, thoughts become slow, and even the simplest task takes far more effort than it should.

On Sunday evening I retreated to bed early, cocooning myself beneath my soft duvet with a pile of pillows around me. That feeling of being wrapped up brings a sense of safety and comfort when the world inside my head feels anything but.

I woke a couple of times during the night needing the bathroom. My balance was a little wonky, and as I walked the hallway the walls became my guide. There was no 6:30 am walk by the sea with Toby and Sooty. Instead, I stayed tucked up in bed listening to the morning begin outside. It was nearly 8 o’clock before I finally threw back the covers to see what the day would bring.

The dogs still needed their walk, so we compromised with a gentle stroll around the block. I couldn’t face venturing too far from home, and that’s something I’ve learned to accept. Some days you don’t push through, you simply work with what your brain will allow.

At 9:30, Julie, the Assistant Admiral Nurse, arrived. I quickly grabbed the first dress I could find in the wardrobe and made myself look vaguely respectable! It was lovely to chat. I was able to get everything off my chest, the worry about Dad, the stress of the past fortnight, and then, quite naturally, our conversation drifted onto ordinary things like holidays, painting, and what I’m planning next. Sometimes the greatest gift someone can give you is simply listening before reminding you that life still contains normal moments.

After Julie left, I wandered around our little bungalow looking at the jobs written on my notice board:

• Finish painting the bird table.
• Top up the gravel in the fairy garden.
• Order the food shop for Friday.
• Tend to front lawn
• Tidy back lawn from leaves

Having a list helps me enormously. I may not complete everything, but it gently guides me when my memory and concentration decide to take the day off.

Before starting anything, I glanced through my emails and one message caught my eye.

Hi Gail, I hope you had a lovely weekend! Last summer you submitted a design for one of our partner’s mug competition… We’re delighted to tell you that your design was selected as one of the winners!

I just stared at it for a moment.

I honestly couldn’t even remember designing a piece of art work to go around a mug!

Dementia steals memories in the strangest ways, so receiving an email celebrating something I’d completely forgotten doing was such a wonderful surprise. It made me smile and reminded me that even when I can’t remember creating something, it doesn’t mean I’ve stopped being creative.

As the afternoon wore on, the fog returned and my head grew heavier. Rather than fighting it, I listened to my body. The jobs could wait. Sometimes resting isn’t giving up, it’s just being kind to ourselves.

Living with dementia has taught me that there will always be foggy days, but they often arrive alongside unexpected moments of sunshine too. Today, that little mug reminded me that even on the heaviest days, life still has a wonderful way of surprising us.

Wednesday 23rd September 2026

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After Dad’s fall at the care home where he was living, everything that followed has left our family heartbroken.

He wasn’t properly checked over after his fall. For four days he was moved using a hoist because he couldn’t walk. A doctor was called and said it was behavioural that Dad was “putting it on.” A physiotherapist also saw him, yet Dad told them his leg was sore and it was ignored.

When I rang the care home, I was simply told, “He’s okay, just very grumpy.”

But what people don’t always do is ask why someone has suddenly become grumpy, withdrawn or angry. Behaviour is communication. A change in someone’s mood often has a reason, and pain can be one of the biggest reasons of all. Did anyone stop to find out what Dad was trying to tell them? Sadly, no.

When a loved one moves into a care home or is admitted to hospital, we place enormous trust in the people caring for them. We expect them to show compassion, respect and dignity, whether that person is living with dementia or not. Everyone deserves equal care. Everyone still has worth.

After seeing Dad in Urgent Care on Saturday 5th September, I knew I couldn’t sit back and do nothing. I’ve heard too many stories about people living with dementia being treated differently, and I can’t bear the thought that my own dad may have experienced that first-hand while being unable to explain what was wrong.

Before setting off on our short break, I made it my mission to seek answers. I contacted the care home, Lancashire County Council, the safeguarding team and our local MP, requesting a full investigation into the circumstances surrounding Dad’s fall. I asked for answers to some very important questions:

• Why was no immediate physical assessment carried out despite Dad repeatedly complaining of leg pain?
• Were the correct falls and safeguarding procedures followed?
• Was the communication and decision-making between care staff and the GP appropriate?
• Why was Dad’s fractured hip not identified for four days?
• And was it appropriate to continue moving him with a hoist before the fracture was diagnosed?

This has not been an easy process to navigate while living with dementia myself. Forms, phone calls and trying to keep everything in order have been overwhelming at times. But I couldn’t stay silent, because this isn’t only about my dad. It’s about every family who has gone through, or may one day go through, something similar.

People living with dementia are not behaviours to be managed…they are people. They deserve to be listened to, believed, and treated with the dignity every human being deserves.

Monday 21st September 2026

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Thursday 10th September was the last day of our short break. Dad was constantly on my mind, and I woke up hoping today would be the day he had finally turned a corner. All I could do was wait and hope.

We decided to visit the little shopping village in Hornsea. The weather had been incredibly kind to us all week, with beautiful sunshine making our break feel that little bit brighter. Today was no exception, in fact, I think it was the warmest day of them all.

We wandered around the shopping village, but if I’m honest, it was a little disappointing. So many of the shops were empty and boarded up. I remembered visiting this very place as a child with Mum and Dad, although back then the main attraction was always Hornsea Pottery. Mum and Dad loved it, and I can still picture them happily browsing the pottery before it sadly stopped trading in 2000. Funny how childhood memories stay with you. I even remembered Dad buying a coat from the TOG24 outlet there, that had gone too.

After our nostalgic but slightly sad visit, we headed to Hornsea Mere, one of the largest freshwater lakes in Yorkshire. During the First World War it was used as a base for the Royal Naval Air Service and later the Royal Air Force. Today it’s a peaceful haven for wildlife, with vast open water, countless birds and a lovely walking trail. There’s even a little café where you can sit with a cup of tea and watch the world go by.

After taking a few photographs, I walked back to the car and messaged Mum, asking if there had been any improvement with Dad.

Her reply simply said:

“Just got back home. He seems a lot better…Back to his normal, ha ha xxx.”

I cannot describe the relief I felt. Even better, he’d managed to eat some food, which felt like such a positive sign.

Back at the lodge it was time to start packing for home. It had been a strange break. We’d enjoyed our time on the East Coast, and I’m sure we’ll return next year, perhaps just to a different site, as this one was a little too far from some of our favourite birdwatching spots.

The following day, Friday 11th September, Mum rang to make sure we’d arrived home safely. Then her voice changed. She told me Dad wasn’t looking well. He was sleeping most of the time and becoming increasingly confused.

The moment I put the phone down, I knew I had to see him.

I rang Mum back later that day, and we arranged to meet at Blackburn Hospital on Saturday morning. Hubby would drive the 35 miles.

Hospitals give me terrible anxiety. Even thinking about walking through those doors makes my stomach churn. But it’s my Dad, and sometimes you simply have to go with the anxiety and be brave anyway.

Saturday 12th September arrived.

We reached Blackburn at around 10:30 and met Mum in the hospital foyer. Together we took the lift to the second floor. As we turned the corner onto the ward, there was Dad.

His head was bowed, his eyes closed, his body looking so incredibly frail, cocooned beneath pillows and a blanket.

Mum gently touched his hand. Slowly, he lifted his head and opened his eyes. For just a moment, a little spark of brightness appeared. He looked towards me with the faintest smile. I don’t know whether he truly recognised me, but I’d like to believe he did before drifting back to sleep.

He reminded me of someone desperately fighting tiredness, his head falling forward, then suddenly jerking awake, only for sleep to win again.

Mum and I sat quietly beside him, speaking only occasionally. She noticed the menu for Sunday’s meals and tried to ask him what he’d like. The choices seemed to confuse him, but between us we worked out that he wanted mashed potatoes and sponge pudding…just not on the same plate!

A nurse came to check his observations, smiled reassuringly and told us everything looked okay before leaving.

It was nearly lunchtime, so we knew it was time to go. We each gave Dad a long hug and a kiss.

And once again, I was reminded that sometimes the hardest part of loving someone is turning around and walking away.

Friday 18th September 2026

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It was late on Tuesday 8th September when Dad finally went down for surgery on his broken hip. Mum rang to let me know he was out of theatre and safely back on the ward. She was going to visit later with my daughter just to make sure everything was alright and that Dad was as comfortable as could be expected.

Hearing he had come through the operation was a huge relief, but my mind immediately turned to his recovery. Later that evening my daughter phoned to say that my Dad looked very pale and had been quite sick. We both wondered if the strong pain relief simply wasn’t agreeing with him. It was worrying, but we hoped it was something that would settle.

On Wednesday morning, Hubby, the dogs and I set off for Bempton Cliffs, one of my favourite places. We usually visit in April or May to see the puffins crowding the cliff faces alongside the gannets, kittiwakes and razorbills. It’s a real birdwatcher’s paradise.

I knew most of the seabirds would have left for warmer places by September, so we were amazed to see so many gannets still there. Some even had surprisingly young chicks. Gannets to me are such graceful birds, gliding effortlessly on the wind, barely flapping their wings as they soar above the cliffs. It was completely captivating to watch.

Our cameras were clicking away with excitement, while Toby and Sooty were clipped safely to the belt around my waist, leaving my hands free for my camera. They’re so used to my photography now that they patiently wait while I stand for ages, hoping to capture the perfect bird in flight.

We wandered for hours along the clifftops, stopping at every viewpoint. Each lookout offered something different: gannets diving like arrows into the sea, fluffy chicks calling to their parents, and breathtaking views stretching for miles. My foot was beginning to ache, and I was definitely feeling tired, but it was one of those walks you never want to end.

Sooty, of course, lived up to his reputation. If another dog appeared, he was determined everyone should know about it! People and birds don’t bother him at all, but dogs and cats are a different story. Toby, meanwhile, couldn’t have cared less and just ambled along, taking everything in his stride.

Before leaving, we had a quick browse around the gift shop. Two china mugs somehow found their way to the till, and then we headed back to the lodge.

As we were driving, I suddenly said how unusual it was that Mum hadn’t phoned. I sent her a message: “How’s Daddy today? xxx” Then I realised we had no mobile signal. A few moments later the bars appeared on my phone, so I rang her straight away.

“Where have you been?” Mum asked. “I’ve been trying to call you.”

I explained we’d been at Bempton with no reception.

Then came the words I’d been dreading.

“Your dad isn’t very well. He’s still being sick, and this morning there was blood in it.”

My heart sank.

After everything Dad had already endured, this was another cruel setback. He was now nil by mouth while the doctors tried to find the cause of the bleeding.

Only moments earlier I had been watching gannets soaring effortlessly above the cliffs, feeling a rare sense of peace. In an instant, that calm disappeared, replaced by the familiar helplessness of being miles away from someone you love.

Sometimes life reminds us just how quickly everything can change. One moment you’re looking out across an endless blue sea, and the next your heart is back in a hospital ward with the person who needs you most.

Wednesday 16th September 2026

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We set off for our little four-day break, heading up the motorway to the East Coast. Our lodge is at Tunstall, a place we stayed about three years ago, so it already felt familiar. For me, familiarity eases some of the anxiety that comes with leaving home.

But this holiday felt different.

I was worried about my Dad, who was supposed to be having his hip operation this morning, and although I was sitting in the passenger seat looking out at the countryside, my mind was a million miles away. I carried that familiar feeling of guilt too. Should I really be going away when Dad was lying in a hospital bed?

While we were travelling, Mum rang. My heart instantly sank. Dad’s operation had been cancelled and now rescheduled for Tuesday.

Hospitals can be incredibly confusing for anyone living with dementia. The unfamiliar surroundings, constant noise, different faces and endless waiting can be frightening. More than anything, I hoped the staff would take the time to explain what was happening, even if Dad asked the same question over and over again. I hoped someone would notice if he needed help eating or drinking. I kept trying to convince myself, he’ll be looked after.

We arrived at the lodge around 2 pm, unpacked the car and went for a wander around the site. I always need to get my bearings somewhere new, especially if I’m planning an early morning walk. Working out where paths lead and recognising little landmarks helps settle my busy mind for a short while.

Everyone had told me, “Don’t worry, just enjoy yourself.”

If only it were that easy.

As night approached sleep didn’t come easily. Somehow I fell asleep and woke up sleeping the wrong way round in the bed! My thoughts just couldn’t switch off.

At 6 am I quietly slipped out with Toby and Sooty. We wandered between the lodges and caravans searching for the sea. I knew that if I could find the cliff edge, I’d find my way down to the beach.

And I found it.

This morning the air was beautifully cool, and the beach was almost silent. Toby and Sooty raced off their leads, running with the freedom that only dogs seem to truly understand. I stood still, camera in hand, looking out across the vast expanse of sea.

That was when Dad filled my thoughts.

The tears came without warning. Standing in such a peaceful place while someone you love is facing surgery feels like living in two completely different worlds at once.

I called the dogs, and we wandered back along the shoreline before climbing up to the cliff top. We paused by the fishing pond to catch our breath before the gentle incline back to the lodge. I felt quietly proud that I’d found my way, a small victory that meant more than most people would realise.

With the weather warm and dry, later we planned to visit Kilnsea Wetlands Nature Reserve. Drinks, snacks, my camera, binoculars, Toby and Sooty all packed into the back of the car, and off we went.

We’ve visited Kilnsea wetlands before, so I was completely shocked by what we found. Large areas of the wetlands had almost dried out. It hardly seemed real. Months of dry weather had transformed the landscape, and with so little water there was far less wildlife than we’d hoped to see.

But nature always has a way of giving you a gift when you least expect it.

Out on the other lake was a bird I’d never had the pleasure of seeing or photographing before, an elegant Avocet, sweeping its beautifully curved bill through the water. Not long afterwards, deer quietly emerged from the grassland, followed by a hare that raced across the field and suddenly stopped for a photo!

As we walked back towards the car, we could hear the unmistakable calls of geese. We looked up, and the sky was filled with their beautiful sounds as flock after flock flew gracefully overhead. For a few moments, everything else faded away, and it felt like nature was gently reminding me to simply stop, look up, and breathe and for a little while, the fuzz in my head disappeared.

Then, reality came flooding back. My phone was the first thing I reached for, desperate to know whether Dad’s operation had finally gone ahead.

It hadn’t.

It had been postponed again, this time until late afternoon.

Sometimes carrying hope is the heaviest thing we do. Even beside the sea, with beauty all around me, my heart was still waiting just like in that hospital corridor with Dad.

Monday 14th September 2026

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I can’t remember exactly what day it happened. Living with dementia means dates often blur together, but I do remember Mum telling me that Dad had fallen in the care home.

After that, she said he’d changed. When I rang the care home to see how he was, one of the carers told me, “He’s been so grumpy today, but he’s okay.” At the time, I wanted to believe that he was ok.

Looking back through messages the fall must have been before Monday 31st August, because that was the afternoon Mum phoned me after lunch. I knew from the moment I heard her voice that something was terribly wrong. Mum was deeply concerned about Dad’s wellbeing. She said he had deteriorated dramatically, and when Mum is worried, I know it’s serious.

The very next morning, Tuesday 1st September, I caught the early train to Burnley to see Dad.

Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw.

Dad had declined so quickly. He had lost so much weight, struggled to hold himself upright, and could barely whisper. It was heartbreaking to think that only days earlier he had moved into the care home and was ok

Sometimes people see behaviour before they see the person!

After my visit, my concerns grew, and a doctor’s visit was arranged.

Whether it was Wednesday 2nd or Thursday 3rd September, I would have to double check my dates. What I do remember is the doctor’s response.

“He’s putting it all on.”

Those words made me angry. The doctor did not even know my Dad!

Throughout the week, Mum visited every single day. My daughters visited too, and every one of us said the same thing: the decline was dramatic. We weren’t imagining it. We were watching a man change before our eyes in the space of a week.

Why is it that once someone has dementia, their physical symptoms can be so easily dismissed? Dementia affects the brain, but it doesn’t make someone immune to pain, injury or illness. They are still deserving of the same careful assessment as anyone else.

Then on Friday 4th September, the care home called Mum. They were concerned about Dad. They had noticed his right leg had turned inwards, and they requested another doctor to visit, the doctor booked an X-ray for Monday 7th September at the local hospital

Today as I write this blog it is Saturday 5th September, Mum messaged me to say they were waiting for an ambulance. His leg now swollen and bruised looked even worse, and the care home was now seriously concerned about his health.

I have also since learned that for 4 days, my father had been transferred around the care home using a hoist because he was unable to bear weight on his feet. This raises deeply troubling questions about the fall, was his pain recognised appropriately, and whether opportunities were missed to diagnose a serious injury sooner.

I would have thought that you shouldn’t attempt to use a hoist if someone has a suspected or confirmed broken hip, as rolling or lifting them without specialized medical care would worsen the fracture and cause severe pain! Surely care staff are trained in this sort of thing…Aren’t they?

I feel sick to my stomach.

I also feel angry.

I can’t shake the feeling that Dad wasn’t taken seriously soon enough. Just because he has dementia does not make him any less worthy of compassion, investigation, or proper medical care. He is still my dad. He is still a husband, a grandad, and a human being whose pain deserves to be believed.

Right now, we’re just hoping he’s finally getting the help he needs.

Unfortunately, it’s not good news. Dad remained on Corridor 3 in the Emergency Hospital until 10pm on Saturday 5th September. That means he spent at least 10 hours on a corridor bed with a broken hip. At around 10pm, he was finally moved onto a ward, where he is now awaiting hip surgery.

It’s deeply worrying, to say the least.

Friday 11th September 2026

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Me and hubby have a couple of breaks booked in September, one on the 7th of September we’re we are due to go away for four days, and then another trip on the 23rd for 3 days. The breaks are only short, but as Dad has deteriorated so quickly, I found myself wondering whether we should cancel and stay at home.

Mum gently told me to carry on as normal. She said, “What could you do?” And the truth is, she’s right. I can’t make him better. I can’t be with him every day even if I was at home and I certainly can’t take away his dementia . But that doesn’t stop the guilt creeping in. The thought of being away if something happened to him is heartbreaking, and I kept asking myself how I would feel if I wasn’t there.

After a lot of thinking, we weighed everything up. We’re staying in the UK, just over two hours from Burnley, so if anything changes we can be back pretty quickly. That gave me a little reassurance.

Dad will be at the back of my mind every single day. How could he not be? I’ve loved him for over 80 years. He was my whole world as a little girl, and he is still such an important part of my world as a woman today.

I suppose Mum is right, life doesn’t stop, even when your heart wants it to. So we’ve decided to go on our little holiday, knowing she’ll keep me updated every step of the way. And if we need to come home, we’re only a couple of hours away.

Sometimes carrying on doesn’t mean you’ve stopped caring. It simply means you’re learning to live alongside the hardest moments life can bring.

Just before we were due to go on holiday Dad was admitted into Hospital, so it was a quick dash down the motorway…

Find out more in Monday’s Blog

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.