I tell myself I’ve done everything I can.
That I’ve planned for this. That I’ve made it as safe as possible.
But dementia doesn’t follow plans.
He was gone.
Only an hour at most—but in that hour, I aged. My thoughts spiraled. My heart raced. The fear was physical. It was raining. It was dark. I checked the Ring camera. He had walked out silently. Just like that.
I grabbed my keys and got in the car. I drove through the streets he’d wandered in before—routes etched into memory from past incidents. I called his name out the window, over the sound of rain and my own panic. My tears threatened to spill, but I forced them back. I needed clear vision. I had to see through the dark.
What consumed my mind was the recent news—a woman with dementia who had gone missing. Two weeks later, she was found deceased. That fear haunted every turn of my steering wheel.
Please, not him. Not like that. Not our story.
When I returned home, I knocked on my neighbour’s door. He’s always been my go-to in a crisis. Without hesitation, he came to help.
I then posted—shaky and panicked—on two community pages online. No photo. Just a frantic message: “I’m looking for my husband. If he turns up at your door, please message me. I’m out looking.” In my panic, I forgot to include important details. But the community didn’t hesitate.
The response was instant. Strangers asked for more information. Some began searching. People took to the streets on bikes, in cars, walking under umbrellas and hooded coats. The police arrived quickly and calmly. They reassured me and launched their own search. Suddenly, it wasn’t just me. Everyone had rallied around me.
Eventually, he was found by a kind family. He had fallen, his glasses were broken, and he was bleeding. But he was still cracking jokes—oblivious to the panic he’d left behind. He thought he was just “going home.
The ambulance came. He was safe.
And I? I finally allowed myself to fall apart.
Despite all my preparation—Ring cameras, GPS watch (whose battery had run flat that very day), detailed routines—he still got out. And guilt crept in:
I should’ve checked the battery.
I should’ve seen the door.
I didn’t keep him safe.
But the truth is—I couldn’t have done it alone.
The people around me—my neighbour, the community, strangers, the police—stepped into that terrifying hour and made sure it didn’t become a tragedy. They carried what I couldn’t carry alone. They didn’t just help me find him. They helped me find strength again.
He was gone for an hour.
But it felt like forever.
It was terrifying.
I didn’t keep him safe.
But the community saved him.
This isn’t just a story about someone going missing.
It’s about being found—in every sense.
It’s about how kindness still lives in people, and how compassion can show up with headlights in the rain.
They say it takes a village.
That night, I saw the village rise.
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