Through the Fog with Love

We Know Each Other By Heart

Tag: Dementia

  • 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.

  • I Didn’t Keep Him Safe But the Compassion of Community Saved Him

    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.

  • Trapped Inside His Mind

    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.

  • Moments That Slip Through the Fog

    Sometimes, even now, he surprises me.


    Like the time I asked him what he wanted for breakfast, and he looked me straight in the eye and said, “A glass of champagne and you in a red dress.” I laughed so hard, I nearly burned the toast. He didn’t remember saying it a few minutes later, but the sparkle in his eye lingered — like a curtain momentarily lifted to let the light through.


    Or the afternoon we sat on the couch, and out of nowhere he whispered, “You’re still the prettiest girl I know.” I turned to him, half-expecting confusion or misdirection, but no — that was all him. The man I married. The one who always knew how to make me blush.


    Then there was the sock episode — he wore mine, bright pink and far too small, and insisted they were “limited edition men’s ankle warmers.” He defended them fiercely, right until he tripped trying to stretch one over his heel and we both ended up in fits of laughter.


    These are the moments that keep me going. Because even now, even when memories fade or days blur into each other, there are flickers. Tiny rebellions of joy. Love surfacing in unexpected ways — a cheeky grin, a ridiculous joke, or a sudden urge to walk hand-in-hand around the garden, like we used to when everything still made sense.


    They don’t stay long. But they’re enough.


    They remind me that he’s still here — and so am I. Not just surviving, but laughing. Still living.

  • To the One I Still Love, Even When It Hurts

    There are days I don’t recognise you. Not in your words, not in your eyes, not in the way you look at me like I’m the stranger.

    And I try—I really try—to remind myself that it’s not you, it’s the illness. But when the harshness cuts through, when your voice rises and your eyes narrow, It feels like I’m standing across from someone who no longer knows how to love me.

    And it breaks me.

    Because I remember the man who used to make me laugh,who used to protect me, who looked at me like I was the best thing he’d ever found.

    I still see him sometimes—in the quiet moments, in the flicker of a smile,in the way your hand still searches for mine in sleep. But those moments feel fewer now.And I miss you. I miss you so much it feels like a grief that doesn’t end.

    Sometimes, I resent this journey.I resent that I’m the one carrying the weight, that I have to stay calm when I feel like screaming, that I have to be strong when all I want is someone to say, “Let me take care of you for once.”

    But still, I stay. Not out of duty. Not just because of vows spoken years ago. I stay because love—real love—isn’t about ease or comfort.It’s about presence.

    And I promised you I would be here, even if you forgot who I was.

    So I will hold your hand when it trembles. I will soothe your anger, even when I’m hurting too. I will walk beside you, even when it feels like you’ve turned against me. Because deep down, I know you’re still in there, lost in the fog.

    But I also need to remember me.That I matter too. That my pain is real. That I’m allowed to cry, to ache, to question.And that none of this makes me weak — it just means I’m tired.

    So tonight, I’m writing this for me.To release the guilt. To honour the struggle. To remind myself that I’m still here.

    And I’m doing my best. Even on the days it feels like love is a battlefield. Even when it feels like I’ve lost you, one piece at a time.

    I’m still here.And somehow, I still love you.

  • Inside the Fog: Holding On When He Cannot

    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.