When Words Fade, Love Remains

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.

Still My Dad

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.

A Slower Kind of Sunday

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.

Caring for Mum

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.

Living Through Dementia, One Day at a Time

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.

A Journey Through Love, Change, and Quiet Courage

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.

Walking This Road Together

Biddy—real name Frances, but always Biddy to us—still has that beautiful smile and spark, even as dementia slowly changes things. The diagnosis didn’t come as a shock; the changes crept in so gradually they just became part of life. These days, we take things at a gentler pace—walks, bus rides, singing old classics at Singing for Memory. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s not to dwell. Keep it light, keep it moving, and hold onto the moments that still shine through.

A Husband’s Reflection

Barbara was my wife—still is, even though dementia has changed so much between us. Before the illness, she was always busy, always full of life. Gardening, swimming, knitting—you name it. The diagnosis came after years of uncertainty, and strangely, it was a relief to finally have a name for what we were facing. Caring for her has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Some days are full of small battles; other days, you just hold on to the moments of calm. Dementia taught me that patience and kindness matter more than anything—and that the real weight people carry isn’t always visible.

A Story of Realisation and Resilience

It’s been ten years of sensing changes without a proper diagnosis—ten years of living in a strange in-between. We all know it’s there. We feel it. But getting someone official to confirm it? That part still hasn’t happened. Life has shifted quietly around us. Some days, it feels like standing in the middle of a slow, unstoppable drift—watching someone you love change, bit by bit. No big moments, no loud alarms. Just a stillness growing where there used to be energy, laughter replaced by tired smiles. And through it all, we’re still here, doing the best we can.

The Man Who Walked Machu Picchu

Howard Hopkins was an incredible man—determined, clever, and full of life. Together, we built a life rich with adventure and simple joys. But dementia still found him. I noticed the signs before we had a diagnosis—small things you only piece together in hindsight. Caring for him became my life’s rhythm: finding creative ways to ease his confusion, holding onto the man I loved even as pieces of him slipped away. Dementia taught me that love isn’t just about memories; it’s about presence. You can’t fight it by saying no—you adapt, you find another way, and you never, ever do it alone.