I don’t know what dementia feels like from the inside. I can only speak from where I stand—next to him, watching, listening, guessing at what it must be like for him.
There are times he tries to speak and I can tell—he knows what he wants to say. I can see it in his eyes, that familiar spark of clarity. But then, the words come out wrong. Or not at all. And he knows it. You can see the flicker of frustration, like he’s just missed a step he’s taken his whole life.
It’s not just forgetting. It’s like the mind is trying to work, but something misfires—like a wire has come loose and the message just can’t get through.
And I think: how must that feel?
To still know… but not be able to say.
To try… but not have the right pieces fall into place.
To see the world carry on around you while you stand in the fog, waving, hoping someone still sees you.
It’s heartbreaking. Not just for him—but for me, too. Because I remember how sharp, how witty, how precise he used to be. And now, he’s still all those things in spirit… but the bridge between us is harder to cross.
I don’t claim to understand it fully. I just know what I see. And I know the ache of standing next to someone you love as they fade in and out of clarity. Sometimes I get glimpses of the him I’ve always known. Other times, it feels like he’s slipping through my fingers.
Dementia doesn’t steal everything all at once. It unravels. Slowly. Cruelly. And somewhere in that unraveling, I try to hold the thread.
So I listen differently now. I pay attention to tone, to gestures, to the way he looks at me when the words fail him. Because even when the words are wrong, the meaning is often still there. I just have to reach for it.
And in those moments, I remind myself—and him—that he’s still here. Still him. Still loved.
We may have to meet in the fog sometimes. But love… love always finds its way through.
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