There are moments when he looks around and says, “I don’t know where I am.” And in that instant, I imagine how frightening it must be inside his mind—searching for something familiar, anything to hold onto.
So he reaches out—not just with his hands, but with his memories. Do I need to go to work? What day is it? I think I need to go home to my parents. He speaks of people long gone, of places that no longer exist, trying to anchor himself to something—anything—that will make sense.
And yet, the world he wakes into each day doesn’t match the one he remembers.
That’s the heartbreak of dementia. The world slips away piece by piece while the body remains. I see it happening right in front of me, and still I can’t imagine what it feels like from where he stands—caught between time, place, and memory.
Sometimes, he looks at me and doesn’t know I’m his wife. But he knows I’m someone who cares.
And that’s enough.
Because I have to be his anchor when the fog rolls in. His guide through the mist.
I can’t pull him out of the confusion. I can’t give him back the certainty that once lived so easily in him. But I can be kind. I can be steady. I can stay.
It takes courage—more than I thought I had. But love asks that of us. Not the kind you see in movies or read in stories. The real kind. The patient kind. The kind that shows up even when the person you love forgets who you are.
Because every now and then, through that dense fog, there’s a flicker—a moment of clarity where he smiles, where recognition dawns, however briefly.
And for those few precious seconds, it feels like the sun breaking through the clouds.
So I keep going. I walk beside him through the confusion, holding his hand through the uncertainty. I remind him—gently, often silently—that he is not alone.
Even if he forgets everything else,he will never forget how it feels to be loved.
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