On the way home today, he said he wanted to buy something—but couldn’t remember what. He tried to describe it, but the words wouldn’t come. After a moment, he sighed and said quietly, “I feel silly.”
I gently told him he wasn’t silly. “It’s just your memory playing tricks,” I said. “That’s all.” But he insisted with a cheeky grin, “No, I’m definitely silly.”
So I smiled and teased back, “Alright, maybe just a little—but that’s just the dementia.”
Without missing a beat, he shot back, “Well, I’m not sharing my dementia with you!”
I laughed and said, “Good—because someone has to stay sensible.”
And just like that, the weight of the moment shifted. His frustration gave way to humour, and we met in that place we both know so well—where laughter becomes a balm.
Moments like this don’t erase the hard parts, but they soften them. And sometimes, the best way to face what’s happening is not by fighting it, but by finding each other through it
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