Through the Fog with Love

We Know Each Other By Heart

Tag: family

  • 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.

  • The Life I Thought I’d Have

    Seven years ago, I began stepping back.

    Not all at once but just enough to adjust. I started reducing hours, working from home, taking on smaller jobs that gave me space to be with him. To soak up the time while his memory was still intact. I told myself: Let’s make good memories now, while we can. For the harder days ahead.

    I kept juggling multiple roles, short hours, different hats. I was still me, just a scaled-back version. Still contributing. Still in control.

    But gradually, the letting-go began. One job at a time. Quiet resignations. Little decisions that felt necessary, not dramatic. And then his memory loss worsened. The confusion deepened. The anger surfaced, not at me, really, but at what was being lost.

    At the same time, I started losing confidence in myself. I wasn’t performing at the level I once did. I missed things. I got reminders for tasks I forgot or did late. And I felt it: the sting of shame, the sense that I was failing—not just him, but everything. The multitasker in me, the professional, the woman who once thrived on structure and sharpness… she felt like she was slipping away too.

    Eventually, I stepped back further. Not because I stopped caring—but because I couldn’t keep pretending I could do it all. The roles needed more than what I had left to give.

    And with that came fear.
    Fear of the future.
    Fear of not having enough —financially, emotionally, mentally — when this chapter ends and I’m left to begin again. Fear of facing that future alone.

    This isn’t the life I imagined.

    But it’s the life I’ve quietly stitched together, threaded with duty, love, exhaustion, and grief. I gave up those jobs one by one, not because I was weak but because I was holding someone else’s life together.

    And somewhere in the middle of all that letting go… I forgot to hold onto myself.

  • 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.