My name’s John, and my wife, Biddy—well, that’s what everyone calls her—she’s the one with dementia. Her name’s actually Frances, but she’s always been Biddy to us. She’s still got that beautiful smile and spark in her eye, and, let me tell you, she’s still got a very nice car.
Before dementia, Biddy was sharp as a tack—energetic, clever, always doing something. I mean, I used to joke I was fairly sharp, but she made me look slow. I remember once, years ago, I was chatting to this young lady—she’d been on a basketball scholarship—and somehow, Biddy came up. She said she worked in the security services. I said, “Which one? MI5?” She just smiled. Even now, 55 years later, I still don’t know what she actually did. All I know is, she once ran operations in the middle of an army camp in Indonesia, surrounded by two and a half thousand troops. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?
It was about three and a half years ago when people started noticing changes in her. Not me so much—I was with her every day, so the differences crept in gradually. But friends who hadn’t seen her in a while—they picked up on it straightaway. She’d forget things, but to be fair, so do I. At first, it wasn’t clear what was happening. But then came the diagnosis. By that point, we’d already known for a while deep down.
How did I feel when we got the diagnosis? Oddly, it didn’t feel like a shock. It wasn’t like she’d changed overnight. It had been slow, gradual. When I look back now, I can see the changes, but in the moment, living day to day, it just became our new normal.
Day-to-day life hasn’t changed that much. She still gets up, gets dressed, does the shopping with me, and we go to the Memory Café together. She loves playing dominoes there. Communicating can be tricky, especially with others, but I’ve learned how to help steer things along—gently pointing her in the right direction, helping her fill in the blanks.
We moved back from Ireland a few years ago to be nearer the kids. Our daughter teaches biology at Merchant Taylors’, and our son had retired early at 43. They were worried about us, and, to be honest, it’s been good being closer. We’d lived in a lovely little village in Carlow—tight-knit, proper community—but being near family now makes all the difference.
I spent 34 and a half years teaching in Ireland—only missed the last four months before turning 66. I used to joke that I never had a Friday class in all those years. The education system there was very different, very influenced by agriculture. Schools would shut down when it was time to weed the broccoli. No joke!
There are things that are harder now, sure. I move more slowly, take my time, but I can’t really pinpoint anything I can’t do—I just do it at a gentler pace. It’s never been frustrating. If Biddy says something that doesn’t make sense, I just change the subject or bring up a happy memory. No need to force it—just keep it light, keep it moving.
Biddy doesn’t cook anymore, but thanks to Tesco and Marks & Spencer, we eat just fine. I always say we’re well-fed, largely thanks to them.
The biggest support? Singing for Memory. That’s been a revelation. It’s at a synagogue off Canfield Road every other Monday. Music uses a completely different part of the brain, and it’s like magic—she lights up, sings along to all the old classics. “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary,” “My Old Man”—you name it. That hour or so, it brings her back to herself in a way nothing else does.
We don’t really stick to a strict routine, but we do get out, go for walks, hop on the bus. We live near the Fighting Cocks pub—lovely area. Though I prefer the Six Bells, personally. The food’s better and the regulars are, well, regular.
If I had to give anyone advice, I’d say this: be patient. Don’t try to fix everything. If something doesn’t make sense, just let it go and move on. Play music, go for a walk, sing songs. Don’t dwell—life’s too short.
I’m realistic. Dementia will progress. I just hope it happens slowly. My biggest wish is that Biddy and I pass before it gets to a stage where we can’t cope. Until then, we’ll keep going. She’s still my Biddy. Always has been, always will be.
