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.

Monday 17th August 2026

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Since my diagnosis with Alzheimer’s, I’ve noticed how often conversations begin with loss.

What have you forgotten?

What can you no longer do?

What will happen next?

Dementia is often spoken about through the lens of what disappears. But the more I thought about it, the more I realised that loss isn’t unique to dementia.

As we go through life, we all lose things. We may lose our health, people we love, jobs, confidence, dreams, or the future we once imagined, even our keys!

If we only ever counted our losses, life could begin to feel very small.

But what if we changed the way we looked at life?

What if, instead of focusing only on what’s gone, we noticed everything that remains?

A beautiful sunrise.

The birds singing in the trees.

The warmth of a cup of tea.

Food on the table.

A roof over our heads.

The love of family and friends.

A smile from a stranger.

The feel of the breeze on our face.

When we begin to notice what’s still here, we often discover that hope hasn’t disappeared.

It has simply changed shape.

For me, living well isn’t about pretending Alzheimer’s doesn’t exist. It’s about refusing to let it be the only thing I see.

The world often encourages us to look for what’s missing.

I choose to look for what’s still here.

Not because I’m ignoring what has been lost…

But because there is still so much to be grateful for.

Hope.

Kindness.

Laughter.

Nature.

Love.

Purpose.

“There is still so much life left to live. And I intend to enjoy every bit of it.”

Friday August 14th 2026

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“You don’t look like you have dementia”

Those words I have heard so many times.

Hearing those words, “But you don’t look like you have dementia.”

Always leaves me in a quandary…How should I look?

Should I stop wearing make-up? Should I stop smiling? Should I stop enjoying life so that my diagnosis somehow becomes more believable?

The truth is, dementia doesn’t have a look.

Dementia can look like someone laughing with friends while desperately trying to remember what was said five minutes earlier.

It can look like someone confidently walking into a supermarket, only to stand frozen because they’ve forgotten why they’re there.

It can look like sticky notes covering the house, alarms set on a phone, lists tucked into pockets, and hubby quietly filling in the gaps without anyone noticing.

It can look like someone who still loves to travel, paint, walk in nature, and spend time with the people they love, but who also battles confusion, anxiety, exhaustion, and memory loss every single day.

What you see is often the result of hours of planning, adapting, and working around the challenges dementia brings.

You see the smile.

You don’t see the panic.

You see me enjoying a day out.

You don’t see the rest I need afterwards because my brain has worked overtime.

You see me giving talks, writing blogs, and speaking up for others.

You don’t see the notes I’ve written, the words I’ve lost, or the concentration it takes to stay on track and the Dementia Fog that lingers when I’ve overworked my brain.

Invisible disabilities are exactly that…Invisible!

Just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean they aren’t real.

So the next time you’re tempted to tell someone, “You don’t look like you have dementia,” perhaps try saying something different.

Maybe ask, “How are you ?”

Or simply, “It’s lovely to see you.”

Because the greatest gift you can give someone living with dementia isn’t disbelief, it’s trying to understand.

Dementia doesn’t have a look.

It has a thousand different faces, and every one of them deserves to be seen with kindness, respect, and without judgement.

Wednesday 12th August 2026

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This morning my brain felt quiet, but not in a peaceful way. It was one of those mornings where I wanted to write, yet the words simply wouldn’t come.

So instead of forcing them, I did what helps me most. I put on my shoes, picked up the dogs’ leads and headed out into nature.

As I walked, I realised something. Not every day has to begin with finding the right words.

Some days begin with just finding the right place.

The sunrise hid behind layers of cloud, yet its light still found a way through.

The water reflected the sky so perfectly it was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began.

The bridge stretched out ahead of me, inviting me to keep walking, one step at a time.

Living with Alzheimer’s can often feel like searching for words that sit just beyond my reach. Thoughts become tangled, concentration fades and frustration creeps in. But out here, none of that matters.

The birds don’t care if I forget a word.

The clouds don’t mind if I lose my train of thought.

The water asks nothing of me except to stop and look.

Nature has a wonderful way of slowing everything down. It reminds me that I don’t always have to achieve something. Sometimes it’s enough simply to be present.

Ironically, it was only after my walk that the words began to return.

Perhaps that’s nature’s greatest gift. It doesn’t just calm my mind, it gently gives it room to breathe again.

I don’t pretend dementia is easy. I simply try to keep going because I can’t let it have the final word. There is still wonder in a moonlit room at 1:27 a.m. when sleep won’t come. There is still beauty in birds gliding across still water on a day when my head feels muddled. There are still clouds painted across the morning sky, reminding me to stop and look. And sometimes, simply finding the strength to put one foot in front of the other is enough….

And tomorrow, I’ll do it all again.

Monday 10th August 2026

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We pull into the car park. Cars are everywhere, with not a single space to be found, so we park on the main road and walk the short distance to the care home entrance.

Hubby gently squeezes my hand. “You OK?”

I nod, but the truth is I’m not OK.

Inside, I’m terrified of what I’m about to see. Every visit feels like dementia takes me out of my present and drags me into a future I’m not ready to face.

We sign the visitors’ book and make our way up the stairs to the first floor. The push buttons on the walls that unlock the corridor doors always confuse me for a moment, although I understand why they’re there.

The corridors are empty. The smell of disinfectant drifts from open doorways as the cleaners go about their work. At least it doesn’t smell of urine, as some care homes sadly do.

Slightly unsure of where I’m going, Hubby gently leads me through the maze of corridors, past the many different coloured doors, until we reach the TV room.

Through the glass window I spot my dad.

He’s slumped in a chair, looking so tiny and frail. A nurse is tending to the wounds from his previous falls and checking the fresh scrapes on his back from another recent fall. She also takes his blood pressure.

Dad looks at me and says, “You need to take me home, or I’m going to kill myself.”

I gently cup his frail face.

“Dad, please don’t say that. It really upsets me when you talk like that.”

He looks at me and quietly stops.

It’s so hard not to let my emotions take over. As I step back to sit down, the nurse catches my eye and simply smiles. It isn’t a smile that needs words; it’s one that says, I understand. Sometimes that kind of kindness means everything.

The nurse continues checking Dad over.

“She’s a good nurse,” Dad says. “I like her.”

We all smile, as she quietly leaves the room.

I look around.

People sit with their heads bowed. Some appear to be asleep. There are the occasional mumbled sounds, but no real conversation, no stimulation. The only noise is the rattle of the tea trolley as it’s wheeled into the middle of the room.

“Who wants a cup of tea? Coffee, Mavis?”

No response.

Plastic cups are placed on tables or gently put into people’s hands. Some forget they’re even holding them as the warm drinks slowly drip onto their laps. Staff return every so often to see if anyone has finished, but most of the drinks remain untouched or have been spilt.

Dad’s coffee sits on the table, slowly going cold as he comments on how awful the mug is. “ The bloody handle bends, awful cups here”

We do our best changing conversations to distract my Dad from his agitation of wanting to leave the care home. I take out my iPad and scroll through old family photographs. Almost instantly, his attention changes. He begins telling me who people are and where the photographs were taken. His voice is soft now, he mumbles more which makes understanding difficult sometimes. There are still moments of joy in his eyes and smiles as he points to certain people, touching the iPad screen.

As we continue looking through them, I notice a pattern. Some photographs bring him comfort and happiness, while others stir difficult memories. I quickly learn which ones to scroll past to avoid upsetting or agitating him.

Time slips by, and before long it’s almost lunchtime.

People begin to be woken and moved from their chairs using hoists. As they are lifted, urine-soaked cushions are left behind. My heart sinks. All I can think about is how long they may have been sitting there in wet incontinence pads.

Perhaps every person involved in care training should spend just a few hours wearing an incontinence pad. Not as an exercise to embarrass them, but so they can truly understand how uncomfortable, undignified and isolating it can feel to sit in one for hours.

These last two weeks have heightened my fears about care homes even more.

As someone living with young onset Alzheimer’s disease, I can’t help but see glimpses of what could be my future. It leaves me thinking that some serious conversations need to happen about what good dementia care should look like, and about my own future wishes, while I can still make them known.

It’s almost as though my Dad is trying to tell me something, to warn me.

More than anything, I want you to know that if the day ever comes when you need care, make sure people still see you as a person…Not just another resident sitting in a chair.