Through the Fog with Love

We Know Each Other By Heart

Category: Daily reflections

  • When the news feels personal

    Late afternoon. I put on the six o’clock news. He is comfy and content. The presenter looks into the camera and he leans over and says, “I spoke to her last week.” A similar clip plays and he adds, “We saw this yesterday.”

    I used to get annoyed and I would correct him. It never helped. Understanding what his brain is doing has changed that for me. Here is the simple why, in plain language.

    1. The brain’s reality tag gets fuzzy. Most of us file things as real life, TV, or a dream. With dementia that tagging system slips. A friendly face talking to camera can feel like a real conversation he actually had.
    2. Time gets jumbled. News and YouTube repeat stories. The familiarity is strong, so his mind reaches a reasonable conclusion that we saw it yesterday or last week.
    3. The mind fills the gaps. When memory is patchy, the brain auto completes the story so it makes sense. That is not lying. It is the brain doing its best guesswork.
    4. His eyesight adds to it. With macular degeneration the picture is not crisp, so the brain leans harder on assumptions and feelings. A Live banner or a warm voice can make it feel immediate and personal.

    Put together, it is no surprise that he believes he has spoken to the people on TV. He is not being difficult. He is experiencing the world as his brain now presents it.

    So I have changed my response. I keep it light and kind.
    “It does feel like that, does it not? She is very friendly.”
    Or a gentle anchor. “This is today’s six o’clock news. We are at home and they are in the studio.”

    That is all. No drama. Understanding has taken the heat out of the moment. I am less frustrated, he stays relaxed, and the evening goes better for both of us. Knowing the why helps me show up as the nicer, calmer version of myself. On an ordinary Tuesday at six, that feels like a win.

  • Asking, When I’d Rather Give



    Sometimes the most difficult thing isn’t the caregiving — it’s asking for help. This post is for anyone learning to ask, not because they want to, but because they have to.
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    I’ve always preferred to give.

    It’s in my DNA , in the way I was raised, in how I live, and how I love. I like to show up with something in hand: a cake, a meal, a warm gesture, a practical solution. I like being the one who helps, not the one who needs help.

    But life, as it so often does, has asked me to grow in ways I never expected.

    These days, I spend my late nights doing the quiet work when he is finally asleep and I can catch my breath. That’s when I research, think clearly, and write. I study government websites, read between the lines of policy documents, and craft careful emails — because someone I love depends on me. And even though I don’t like asking, I do it. Because I must.

    That doesn’t mean it’s easy. It can feel humbling. It can feel exposing. But it has also been an invitation to courage.

    You see, navigating the system isn’t just about ticking boxes. It’s about learning a whole new language , the right words, the right framing, the right timing. It’s listening carefully not only to what’s said, but to what’s not. It’s knowing that help exists, but often hides behind unclear forms and closed doors.

    So I’ve made it my quiet mission to learn how to open those doors. Not just for us, but perhaps, one day, for others too.

    And even in the hardest moments, I’ve been met with goodness. With neighbours who just show up. With friends who don’t ask what I need, but simply do. With practical kindness that arrives without fanfare. With the community that rose for me when I needed it most.

    That’s the part I hold on to when things feel heavy. The deep reminder that I’m not alone in this. That grace is often tucked into the smallest acts — a message, a meal, a shared silence.

    I’m learning, too, that asking isn’t weakness. It’s strength wrapped in vulnerability. It’s the quiet bravery of someone who refuses to give up.

    So yes — I’ll keep writing those emails. I’ll keep staying up late and chasing clarity in a system not designed for ease.

    Because there’s a kind of hope that lives in persistence. And because love makes you braver than you ever thought you could be.

  • A Reminder to Myself

    This is one of those moments. He wants to go home again. I’ve explained. I’ve reassured. I’ve tried to redirect. And still, he walks. Or repeats. Or looks at me like I’m not enough to make it better.

    I feel myself tightening — in my jaw, in my chest, in that part of me that wants to scream.

    But I breathe.

    This is not about reason. This is not about control. This is dementia, pulling him away from the world we once shared — and dragging me with it, without a map.

    It is exhausting to keep entering his world. It is draining to keep surrendering my own. But I do it — not because I’m strong, but because I love him.

    And when I lose my patience — because I will — I will not shame myself for it. I am allowed to be tired. I am allowed to be human.

    Even on the days I snap, Even when I hide in the dark or walk away, I come back. I always come back. And that is love.

    So I take a breath. I soften my eyes.

    And I remind myself:I don’t have to fix this. I just have to stay present. And remember that I am still here. Still me. Even in the storm.