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Stranger on the Street
My eyes close for a brief second and my head tilts up towards the sky as I savour the feeling of the sun’s warmth on my skin before it’s...
My husband David is 76, he has just been diagnosed with very early onset Alzheimer's last week. He has been put on tablets 5mg to start with for 4 weeks and if no...
My Father’s Alzheimer’s
It started quietly, almost imperceptibly—little slips, brief absences. We thought it was just fatigue, nothing serious. But soon, he...
Dad, I wish I could live in your world, see life through your eyes, so I wouldn’t have to see how much this illness has transformed the father I love so much.
Dad,...
My husband has been diagnosed with frontal temporal...
Early October I lost my Grandad to dementia, he had...
Within two years of developing a rare and severe...
Dementia is a cruel disease that desperately needs to...
I was finally told in January this year that yes I...
When I hear in the media about the lack of funding for carers of all sorts, no one ever mentions the fact that when you start to receive your State Pension (even at...
My husband developed dementia after having a...
My husband was misdiagnosed several years ago with...
Stranger on the Street
My eyes close for a brief second and my head tilts up towards the sky as I savour the feeling of the sun’s warmth on my skin before it’s taken away from me by the row of houses on my right. The shadows cast by the large semi-detached homes, with chimney topped slanted roofs, cause a brief chill to run up my spine and my shoulders to tense, my hands retreat into the sleeves of my cornflower blue hoodie. The homes are a mixture of red and brown brick, with a couple of multi-hued beige pebbledash, and some grey and white painted. Each house showcases its individuality, subconsciously highlighting the generational differences between the occupiers of the homes, but each house would never be able to escape the traditional British architecture it represents.
“Hiya.” I greet, smiling at the older woman walking towards me, a small white Westie plodding along beside her.
“Alright?” She replies, smiling back at me.
Cars continue to whizz passed me, their loud roaring engines sounding only like a low hum to my ears, the pop music playing in my earphones helping to cancel out the traffic. Silver, red, white, and black cars drive passed at varying speeds – no one seems to enjoy the 20mph speed limit out in the countryside. Their music filters out of cracked windows and through the cheap material of their car’s exterior, badly installed exhausts obnoxiously thunder down the road and every dog they pass jumps in fright and barks.
“The club’s closed on a Thursday.” An elderly man states, but it comes through muffled and I double tap my right earbud to pause the music.
The man is traditional in stature, the typical short, stocky build of a Welshman. The type that played rugby in his youth and made it his entire personality, because he was just that good. The type that was sent underground to mine coal before he was even 16, because he was the eldest son and had to help his parents out with the bills. He wears a light green shirt with dainty white stripes running through it, chocolate brown corduroy trousers, and a dark muted green fleece – his hands stuffed in the pockets.
“Pardon?”
“Club’s closed on a Thursday.” He repeats, straight smile planted on his old face as though he’s annoyed at himself for not realising the ‘WH’ (Seven Sisters Miner’s Welfare Hall) is closed. I notice the multiple minute wrinkles at the corners of his bright eyes and his mouth, looking like the imprint of a thousand little sparrow’s feet in sand. So many years lived on this earth, so many memories had and shared.
“Oh, is it? Well, it is a Thursday to be fair.”
“Is it? I don’t know where I am most days.” He chuckles deeply, his small eyes crinkling at the edges until it looks as though his eyelids have completely closed.
“Ah that’s okay, I think we all get like that sometimes.” I smile, laughing lightly, feeling this unfamiliar delicate prickling in the pit of my stomach as I continue to stare at this man. I can’t discern exactly what the feeling is, I just know the uncomfortableness of it, the unease it sets in my bones, the need to rid my body of it.
I want to leave this moment.
“Where are you off to then?” He asks politely, that older generational need to make passing conversation with the people on the street, coming through.
I scratch my eyebrow lightly and point straight in front of me, “Just to the top of the houses and back, up Pantyffordd way.”
“Pantyffordd girl, are you?”
The corners of my smile slip, and I reign it in, closing my lips over my teeth, masking the sadness enveloping me like a tight hug from someone you haven’t seen in a while, compressing you so intensely that you’re left feeling breathless. I shake my head and lean all of my weight onto my right hip, tucking my hands into the large pocket of my hoodie, hiding my fidgety digits. They nervously pick at each other, pulling on the bits of skin running down beside my nails and fiddle with the rings adorning each finger.
I really want to go.
“No, no, I’m a Seven girl. I live on Heol-y-waun. I have all my life.” I reply, hoping my tone sounds cheerful enough to his ears – although I may be in luck because he’s wearing hearing aids.
He raises his eyebrows in surprise, as though he can’t understand how this is the first time he is ever seeing me, wondering how he hasn’t bumped into me before now, in a village as small as ours. “Oh right, well I’m an old Seven boy, I just live down on Mary Street with my wife, but I’ve lived in different parts of Seven my whole life.”
“Aw lovely mun.” I reply.
“Yes, well, I’ll leave you get back to your walk. It was nice speaking to you.” His voice is genuine, I can tell he means it.
“Thank you, it was lovely speaking to you too. Get home safe now.”
“Oh, don’t worry love, I will, ta-da now.” He waves me off, slowly moving off back down the way I had just came.
“Buh-bye.” I turn away and start walking, tears instantly fall freely down my cheeks, and I try to subdue the bouldering blubbery sob that comes barrelling up my throat and out my wet mouth.
Some days my grandfather, my dad, remembers me. He remembers the times he held me when I was born, just a small thing in his large arms. He remembers the time he calmed me down when I fell off my scooter outside his house, gently placing a bag of frozen peas onto my sprained arm. He remembers the times we’d go out for dinner every week, ordering the exact same thing off the menu and talking about the times of his youth, when he spent six weeks motorcycling around Europe.
Today was not one of those days.
Today I was a stranger in his bright, kind eyes.
My eyes close for a brief second and my head tilts up towards the sky as I savour the feeling of the sun’s warmth on my skin before it’s taken away from me by the row of houses on my right. The shadows cast by the large semi-detached homes, with chimney topped slanted roofs, cause a brief chill to run up my spine and my shoulders to tense, my hands retreat into the sleeves of my cornflower blue hoodie. The homes are a mixture of red and brown brick, with a couple of multi-hued beige pebbledash, and some grey and white painted. Each house showcases its individuality, subconsciously highlighting the generational differences between the occupiers of the homes, but each house would never be able to escape the traditional British architecture it represents.
“Hiya.” I greet, smiling at the older woman walking towards me, a small white Westie plodding along beside her.
“Alright?” She replies, smiling back at me.
Cars continue to whizz passed me, their loud roaring engines sounding only like a low hum to my ears, the pop music playing in my earphones helping to cancel out the traffic. Silver, red, white, and black cars drive passed at varying speeds – no one seems to enjoy the 20mph speed limit out in the countryside. Their music filters out of cracked windows and through the cheap material of their car’s exterior, badly installed exhausts obnoxiously thunder down the road and every dog they pass jumps in fright and barks.
“The club’s closed on a Thursday.” An elderly man states, but it comes through muffled and I double tap my right earbud to pause the music.
The man is traditional in stature, the typical short, stocky build of a Welshman. The type that played rugby in his youth and made it his entire personality, because he was just that good. The type that was sent underground to mine coal before he was even 16, because he was the eldest son and had to help his parents out with the bills. He wears a light green shirt with dainty white stripes running through it, chocolate brown corduroy trousers, and a dark muted green fleece – his hands stuffed in the pockets.
“Pardon?”
“Club’s closed on a Thursday.” He repeats, straight smile planted on his old face as though he’s annoyed at himself for not realising the ‘WH’ (Seven Sisters Miner’s Welfare Hall) is closed. I notice the multiple minute wrinkles at the corners of his bright eyes and his mouth, looking like the imprint of a thousand little sparrow’s feet in sand. So many years lived on this earth, so many memories had and shared.
“Oh, is it? Well, it is a Thursday to be fair.”
“Is it? I don’t know where I am most days.” He chuckles deeply, his small eyes crinkling at the edges until it looks as though his eyelids have completely closed.
“Ah that’s okay, I think we all get like that sometimes.” I smile, laughing lightly, feeling this unfamiliar delicate prickling in the pit of my stomach as I continue to stare at this man. I can’t discern exactly what the feeling is, I just know the uncomfortableness of it, the unease it sets in my bones, the need to rid my body of it.
I want to leave this moment.
“Where are you off to then?” He asks politely, that older generational need to make passing conversation with the people on the street, coming through.
I scratch my eyebrow lightly and point straight in front of me, “Just to the top of the houses and back, up Pantyffordd way.”
“Pantyffordd girl, are you?”
The corners of my smile slip, and I reign it in, closing my lips over my teeth, masking the sadness enveloping me like a tight hug from someone you haven’t seen in a while, compressing you so intensely that you’re left feeling breathless. I shake my head and lean all of my weight onto my right hip, tucking my hands into the large pocket of my hoodie, hiding my fidgety digits. They nervously pick at each other, pulling on the bits of skin running down beside my nails and fiddle with the rings adorning each finger.
I really want to go.
“No, no, I’m a Seven girl. I live on Heol-y-waun. I have all my life.” I reply, hoping my tone sounds cheerful enough to his ears – although I may be in luck because he’s wearing hearing aids.
He raises his eyebrows in surprise, as though he can’t understand how this is the first time he is ever seeing me, wondering how he hasn’t bumped into me before now, in a village as small as ours. “Oh right, well I’m an old Seven boy, I just live down on Mary Street with my wife, but I’ve lived in different parts of Seven my whole life.”
“Aw lovely mun.” I reply.
“Yes, well, I’ll leave you get back to your walk. It was nice speaking to you.” His voice is genuine, I can tell he means it.
“Thank you, it was lovely speaking to you too. Get home safe now.”
“Oh, don’t worry love, I will, ta-da now.” He waves me off, slowly moving off back down the way I had just came.
“Buh-bye.” I turn away and start walking, tears instantly fall freely down my cheeks, and I try to subdue the bouldering blubbery sob that comes barrelling up my throat and out my wet mouth.
Some days my grandfather, my dad, remembers me. He remembers the times he held me when I was born, just a small thing in his large arms. He remembers the time he calmed me down when I fell off my scooter outside his house, gently placing a bag of frozen peas onto my sprained arm. He remembers the times we’d go out for dinner every week, ordering the exact same thing off the menu and talking about the times of his youth, when he spent six weeks motorcycling around Europe.
Today was not one of those days.
Today I was a stranger in his bright, kind eyes.
Bethan
My husband David is 76, he has just been diagnosed with very early onset Alzheimer's last week. He has been put on tablets 5mg to start with for 4 weeks and if no reaction these will be up to 10mg. Our doctor has had the letter for nearly a week and we are still awaiting the prescription. We have seem to have been left to our own devices.
Gwendolen
My Father’s Alzheimer’s
It started quietly, almost imperceptibly—little slips, brief absences. We thought it was just fatigue, nothing serious. But soon, he began to lose his way, even on routes he knew by heart. We begged him to see a doctor, but he refused. “I’m not sick, what’s the point?” he said, with the stubborn confidence we knew so well.
Then the diagnosis came: Alzheimer’s. One word, and our world shattered. He was so young, too young for something like this. Yet the disease marched forward, relentless, stealing his memories and unraveling his sense of self. He started forgetting faces, words, simple routines. It was as though parts of him were disappearing, piece by piece, right in front of us.
We tried to learn, to adapt, to make sense of this new reality. We read medical guides, sought advice, and clung to hope. But no book, no preparation could ease the heartbreak of watching someone you love fade away a little more each day.
We are trapped in a storm of emotions: anger at the unfairness, sorrow at what we’ve already lost, and fear of what’s still to come. Every smile he gives us feels like a small triumph, but every empty gaze tears us apart.
It’s been nearly six years. Acceptance? It feels unreachable. The man who was our strength and light is slipping away, and we’re powerless to stop it.
It started quietly, almost imperceptibly—little slips, brief absences. We thought it was just fatigue, nothing serious. But soon, he began to lose his way, even on routes he knew by heart. We begged him to see a doctor, but he refused. “I’m not sick, what’s the point?” he said, with the stubborn confidence we knew so well.
Then the diagnosis came: Alzheimer’s. One word, and our world shattered. He was so young, too young for something like this. Yet the disease marched forward, relentless, stealing his memories and unraveling his sense of self. He started forgetting faces, words, simple routines. It was as though parts of him were disappearing, piece by piece, right in front of us.
We tried to learn, to adapt, to make sense of this new reality. We read medical guides, sought advice, and clung to hope. But no book, no preparation could ease the heartbreak of watching someone you love fade away a little more each day.
We are trapped in a storm of emotions: anger at the unfairness, sorrow at what we’ve already lost, and fear of what’s still to come. Every smile he gives us feels like a small triumph, but every empty gaze tears us apart.
It’s been nearly six years. Acceptance? It feels unreachable. The man who was our strength and light is slipping away, and we’re powerless to stop it.
Fath
Dad, I wish I could live in your world, see life through your eyes, so I wouldn’t have to see how much this illness has transformed the father I love so much.
Dad, in my memories, I trusted yours. Today, I’m 24, and the father I knew as a child no longer exists… When I started opening my eyes to the world, you began closing yours.
I can still hold you tightly in my arms and spend time with you, yet I cry every time I think about you.
I wish, Dad, that I had more time to love you, to tell you how much you mean to me… But life steals our moments, our laughter, our togetherness, leaving behind an immense void that nothing can fill.
Dad, I’m scared of the day when your gaze no longer recognizes me, when my name will no longer echo in your memory. Scared of no longer being the daughter you cherish so much. But my love for you will remain etched, intact, in my heart, even when yours forgets.
Dad, you know, I’ve lost count of the days I’ve emptied myself of tears, realizing that nothing will ever be the same again. Nothing matters anymore—you’re not invincible…
Are you really leaving us, Dad? Is this reality true? I realize, with regret, that life will never be the same.
You are so fragile now, so vulnerable in the face of this overwhelming reality.
But don’t worry, don’t be afraid—I will stay by your side until the end of this journey, the one trying to take you far from us, far from everything.
Dad, in my memories, I trusted yours. Today, I’m 24, and the father I knew as a child no longer exists… When I started opening my eyes to the world, you began closing yours.
I can still hold you tightly in my arms and spend time with you, yet I cry every time I think about you.
I wish, Dad, that I had more time to love you, to tell you how much you mean to me… But life steals our moments, our laughter, our togetherness, leaving behind an immense void that nothing can fill.
Dad, I’m scared of the day when your gaze no longer recognizes me, when my name will no longer echo in your memory. Scared of no longer being the daughter you cherish so much. But my love for you will remain etched, intact, in my heart, even when yours forgets.
Dad, you know, I’ve lost count of the days I’ve emptied myself of tears, realizing that nothing will ever be the same again. Nothing matters anymore—you’re not invincible…
Are you really leaving us, Dad? Is this reality true? I realize, with regret, that life will never be the same.
You are so fragile now, so vulnerable in the face of this overwhelming reality.
But don’t worry, don’t be afraid—I will stay by your side until the end of this journey, the one trying to take you far from us, far from everything.
My husband has been diagnosed with frontal temporal dementia it shows in his movements and lack of ability to speak. He is highly intelligent and all the knowledge of his horticultural career is inside his head he has not forgotten it but cannot express it in words. His frustration must be unbearable.
Dementia needs to be talked about, it feels like when you do you get a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and a I know someone too. Every Dementia is different how do I tell whats normal and if it’s normal today, it may not be tomorrow. It’s isolating even though friends want to help. How do I know what help we need.
I never thought it possible to feel so much love and helplessness at the same time.
Government needs to help bring this out into the open, assist those caring to find support and change systems so they can access financial help, advertise whats available and make it easier to access things like attendance allowance, blue badge … its not that he cannot walk he cannot be left or allowed to safely walk through a car park.
Family is everything to him his face lights when he sees his grandchildren. There is life with dementia but we can’t expend energy fighting for it.
Dementia needs to be talked about, it feels like when you do you get a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and a I know someone too. Every Dementia is different how do I tell whats normal and if it’s normal today, it may not be tomorrow. It’s isolating even though friends want to help. How do I know what help we need.
I never thought it possible to feel so much love and helplessness at the same time.
Government needs to help bring this out into the open, assist those caring to find support and change systems so they can access financial help, advertise whats available and make it easier to access things like attendance allowance, blue badge … its not that he cannot walk he cannot be left or allowed to safely walk through a car park.
Family is everything to him his face lights when he sees his grandchildren. There is life with dementia but we can’t expend energy fighting for it.
Early October I lost my Grandad to dementia, he had been battling this disease for the past 4 years, Grandpee was always a bundle of joy and sarcasm, you would never have a conversation with him without him cracking a joke, that was simply just the kind of person he was. He had so much love and affection towards everyone he loved, you would always know how much you meant to him with the amount of enthusiasm he would greet you with. Watching Grandpee deteriorate over the past couple of years hurt massively, but occasionally you would notice that glisten of life in his eyes which told you he was still there. Even though he is no longer with us I am determined to still make him proud, this is why, in September 2025 I am taking part in the memory walk in Bournemouth. September is Alzheimer’s Awareness month and Bournemouth was one Grandpees favourite places (and his favourite football team!!) I will forever miss you Grandpee, I hope I’m making you proud. All my Love Twinkle Toes xx
Maddison
Within two years of developing a rare and severe neurological condition my darling Dougie developed dementia like symptoms and by the age of 40 had forgotten where he studied his UG studies, details of our wedding, including the date, and many othet aspects of his life , his brilliant mind was reduced to finding simplistic ways of replacing words like milk, cup sheet etc, he repeated the same things over and over for hours on end. Watching a love one experience dementia is tragic, painful and isolating , the individual is so vulnerable and totally relies on carers paid and unpaid, the individual and their carers and family deserve so much more support than is currently given. Gail
Gail
Dementia is a cruel disease that desperately needs to be stopped so other family's don't go through this pain..
It's stole my nans light noone should go through what she did..please always show a person with dementia love they are still there they need you.
Love my nan always and forever rest in piece xx
It's stole my nans light noone should go through what she did..please always show a person with dementia love they are still there they need you.
Love my nan always and forever rest in piece xx
Steph
I was finally told in January this year that yes I had dementia, twelve years ago I had some test Sandi was told that there was p possibility that vascular debenture and they would call me back in twelve months, well that didn’t happen , and so the years rolled on, back to the doctors many times with my memory loss and headaches finally , perhaps they just got fed up with me ,but I was taken for a scan , the result as I said in January finally told it was there, even shown the slides or whatever they are called, I thought that I was prepared for the results , but how wrong I was . Two add one thing both my mother and two aunts had died with it how am I copying ,my family and friends think I am getting on wonderfully well,but, I am not,I have blank sessions. , this Saturday at the shops I couldn’t work out how to get home, all I wanted was to get home to my dogs, that I admit has been the worst so far, but I know that my mind is ina fuzz and a turmoils a lot of the time and I am not copying with some day to day things, and yes it does frighten me my stable things are my cats and my dogs. The government I think does lip service to it all it does not affect them so, I have no faith in the government, I have told some people that I have dementia and watched the go away very quickly some not all My family most of them are helpful one daughter particularly , but I carnt describe what is inside my head. Finally I am frightened and dont know what to do, but tomorrow I will get up and indever ( carnt spell) to got through the day without making two many mistakes. I know there are a lot of people who are a lot worse than I am in many ways BUT it’s like a perminite death sentence with no idea of the end death does not frighten me but the ma nor of death does
Mags
When I hear in the media about the lack of funding for carers of all sorts, no one ever mentions the fact that when you start to receive your State Pension (even at the delayed start age of 66/67) as if that isn't bad enough, you are then denied Carers Allowance once State Pension kicks in. The reason? Because you are not entitled to both benefits. When did your State Pension become a benefit? I have also just been advised that I can no longer pay a family member or friend from the pathetic Carers break allowance, it has to be paid to a professional. Dementia sufferers like continuity and a familiar face, not a stranger looking after them. Is a Carers life not hard enough without another grenade being thrown at us?
My husband developed dementia after having a stroke.in December 2004. I cared for him for 11 years till he became to much for me and he went into the wonderful Clifton House Dementia Home where he had the best care. He died in June 2019 and his ashes are now in Stirling Castle where he served in Boy Service before joining the Argylls and serving 11 years with them.
Margaret Dorothy
My husband was misdiagnosed several years ago with anxiety and depression, now it turns out he has early onset Alzheimer’s, the memory was not the first simptoms , so after the memory started to get really bad after his knee surgery last year our new doctor referred him to a memory clinic where the diagnosis was made. So now we are trying to get as much help as possible, but there is not a lot unless you pay.
Georgina
Share your story
Help bring dementia out from behind closed doors and tell us, what is your reality of dementia?