Through the Fog with Love

We Know Each Other By Heart

Tag: life

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • When He Wants To Go Home

    Tonight was one of those nights—those increasingly frequent nights—when he said he wanted to go home.

    No matter how many times I told him he was already home, it didn’t stick. I tried to sound calm, gentle, reassuring — but nothing I said reached him. He just kept repeating it. Like my words vanished before they ever reached him.

    Eventually, I tucked him into bed, exhausted from the cycle. I knew he’d get up again. So I turned off the lights and I went back to the lounge. I couldn’t take hearing it again. Sure enough, he came out twice, looking for me. I watched him from the home cameras I had installed to keep an eye on him.

    Each time he wandered out, I stayed hidden—quiet, angry at myself for needing to hide. For not having enough patience. I sat there in the dark, steeped in guilt. Frustrated with myself more than with him. He didn’t ask for this. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. And here I was—too worn down to meet him with compassion in that moment.

    And then I remembered something he once told me:When he was a young boy, his mum was very ill and had to be in the hospital. He was left with his grandparents and spent many nights alone in a back room, listening to the rain on the roof, longing for his mother.

    And I thought—maybe that’s how he feels now. Alone. Confused. Longing for a sense of safety he can’t quite name.

    I couldn’t let him go to sleep like that. I couldn’t let him carry that confusion by himself. So I crept back into bed and held him. At first, he didn’t know I was his wife. But he knew I was someone who cared.That was enough to settle him. His breathing softened, His body relaxed.

    Then I turned on the light—and he recognised me. The relief on his face undid me.

    Moments like these wash away a whole day’s worth of frustration.

    Because no matter how tired I am, no matter how many times I lose my temper—I will not let him feel alone in the dark.

    As long as I’m here,even if he forgets who I am,he will never forget how it feels to be loved.

  • Gently Aching

    I was watching a movie the other night. Nothing grand—just a quiet scene in a café. A warm glow, that soft murmur of people at ease. It was the kind of place we used to visit. The kind of place we both loved, even though I always did the ordering. He’d look at the menu, maybe point at something, but in the end, he’d smile and say, “You choose. You know what I like.”

    It wasn’t about the food. It never really was. It was about the comfort of knowing each other so well. The shared looks across the table, the quiet conversations, the way he’d watch me when I wasn’t watching. Little things—things you never think will become memories. Until they are.

    As I watched that scene unfold, it hit me: We won’t have that again. Not like before. Dementia has stolen that simple, beautiful part of our life. It crept in slowly, then suddenly—changing everything while we weren’t looking. The one who used to make me laugh with a well-timed joke, who knew how to show up for me in quiet, constant ways… He’s still here. But not always.

    And I ache for what we’ve lost.This disease—it’s cruel. It doesn’t just steal memory. It steals shared routines. The ease. The unspoken. It takes the little things and makes them unreachable.

    And every now and then—like in that movie—it all rushes back. The beauty of what we had. And the sorrow of knowing it’s gone.

    Grief like this doesn’t end. It comes in waves. Sometimes gentle, sometimes overwhelming.

    




    You find yourself smiling at a memory, and then you’re in tears because you know you’ll never live that moment again.
    




    I cried that night—not for what we had, but for what we’ll never have again. For all the café scenes that won’t happen. For the conversations that will never come. For the one who still sits beside me, trusting me to order— but no longer able to meet me in that same familiar way.