Collaborating with the Memory Café in St Albans

I’m Marco, and I’ve been living with dementia for nearly ten years. It started gradually—forgotten names, missed appointments—but slowly, it became impossible to ignore. Since then, life’s changed, but I’m still here. I still garden, play word games, go to the memory café, and spend time with my family—who mean everything to me. Some days are tough, especially when I can’t support my wife like I used to or find the right words. But I try to hold on to who I am. Dementia takes a lot, but it hasn’t taken my love for life. Not yet.

Some days I still forget he’s gone. I’ll catch myself thinking, I should tell Dad that, like he’s just on the other end of the phone. Dementia took him last year, but in truth, we lost parts of him long before. Watching someone you love slowly disappear—it messes with your head. He was funny, kind, hopeless at socks, and a DIY legend who made Sunday roasts like no one else. Even when his memory faded—when he forgot my name—our love stayed. That’s what I hold on to. He’s still my dad. Always will be.

My mum, Linda, was diagnosed with vascular dementia three years ago, and since then I’ve become her carer. Our roles have changed, but the love is still there—quieter, slower, but just as strong. Some days are tough, others tender, and I’m learning to hold on to the small moments that still shine through.

This is my story of caring for my mum, who has dementia. It’s not neat or easy—it’s messy, relentless, and often invisible. Our relationship was never simple, even before her diagnosis, and now I find myself juggling care, work, grief, and guilt, all while trying to hold on to parts of myself that feel like they’re slipping away. I gave up my career plans, lost my dad, and spend most days managing things others don’t see—medication, hygiene battles, emotional crashes. Support has been hard to find, and most of it fell to me. I don’t share much with others; it feels more like a job than family now. But I’ve kept going. This is what it’s really like to survive as a carer—raw, exhausting, and full of moments no one prepares you for.

Dementia has taken much from us — conversation, spontaneity, the easy rhythms of daily life. Yet through it all, Gerald’s kindness remains. In the smallest routines, in the quiet moments we share, I find the shape of our love still holding strong.

John was always a gentle, dependable man. Dementia crept into our lives slowly, stealing little pieces of him at a time. Where conversation once flowed, now there is silence; where independence once stood, now there is quiet reliance. Yet even as the disease has taken so much, it has not touched the deeper parts of him — the part that, for a time, could still pray with clarity even when everyday words escaped him. Love remains between us, reshaped but enduring, carried in small routines, shared glances, and simple acts of care. This journey has taught me patience, resilience, and a tenderness I never knew I would need.