It’s been at least ten years now—ten years of noticing things, sensing changes, but without an official diagnosis. That’s the strange thing. No one’s ever confirmed it, not properly. We’ve tried, really tried, to get someone out to assess him. It’s not that we don’t know—it’s more that we’re still waiting for someone else to make it official. It’s hard to explain. We all feel it, of course we do. But getting the doctor to actually send someone… that part just hasn’t happened yet.
It honestly surprises me how long it’s gone on without being diagnosed. That length of time—it’s unbelievable. You’d think someone would have stepped in by now.
Socially, we’re managing in small ways. Just little bits. But I’m going through it too—watching, managing, living it every day. It’s like living through seven layers of change, all at once.
Before all of this, before dementia began creeping in, life was different. My son was building something for himself—he was full of life and energy, running his own business. He loved what he did. I remember this old building on the corner… I’m pretty sure that’s where it all started. Two or three of the lads were working there back then. They said, “You don’t need that place—it’s ancient and right in the middle of houses.” You couldn’t sell it, really. But he made something of it. He proved the value in it, even when people thought it was worthless. That’s just the kind of person he was.
That must’ve been over thirty years ago now. He’s always been full of life, always entertaining—he could hold a room for ten years straight, I swear. It’s just… hard to remember all the details now. Some things slip through the cracks.
There’s still a shop nearby—just over there, in fact. The inside is shaded now, not quite what it was, but still there.
When did we first start to really notice something was wrong? There was no big moment, no lightning bolt. It was more of a slow drift. Gradual. One day you realise he’s sitting in the chair just a little too long. Then you see how he reacts when visitors come—especially the carers. They move the cushions, fuss around, and he just stares. Or sometimes he gets irritated.
He’s always been very particular, very tidy. People joke and say, “Oh, that’s just him being him,” but this is different. There’s a stillness now. Something quiet but heavy.
Some days are hard. Some days, I think, “This is the bad phase.” Other days, there’s laughter—like on his birthday, when someone asked if he was going to dance on the table. He didn’t, of course. He just said he was tired. That’s how it goes now. We’re in the next stage, I think.
Noise bothers him more than it used to. He doesn’t like loud music, even though we used to love sitting in the hall, just enjoying it all together. Now it’s different. He says he likes it, but then tells me later he doesn’t.
That’s where we are. It’s a mix of memories and changes, love and loss, all tangled together. And we’re still here—navigating it the best we can.
