When I signed up to this race in July, I knew I wanted to run for Alzheimer’s as my Grandma had been living with Alzheimer’s for 9 years and I wanted to raise money to help fund research into eventually finding a cure for this awful disease.

For the past 9 years, Alzheimer’s didn’t only take over my Grandmas life, it also took over my whole family’s. Watching someone I love slowly lose their memory, independence, and sense of self is heartbreaking. It wasn’t just the changes in my Grandma that were hard to deal with, but also the way it reshaped our daily lives and relationships with each other. I would have done anything for my Grandma to see me grow up, as my Grandmas last memory of me will be when I was only around 17 years old. I will continue to do everything I can to make her proud like I did when I was a child as she was always one of my biggest inspirations. My grandma used to take me to London to show me the land marks when I was younger, so I thought this would be the perfect event to do for her.

My Grandma sadly passed away on 22nd August, just 1 month after I signed up to do the half marathon, which has now made this event so much more important to me. I see this as a sign that she passed away after I had made a commitment to raising awareness for the disease that took her from us, almost as if she knew I had taken it into my own hands and started fighting in her name.

The Night Dad Forgot Me
I left the hospital just after eight, the fluorescent lights and beeping monitors still ringing in my ears. Mum was stable, they said—just being monitored overnight. I stopped at home long enough to goodbye to Rebecca and ruffle Johnny Jr’s hair. At nine years old, he was already old enough to sense when something was off.
“Tell Grampy I said hello,” he called as I headed for the door.
“I will, mate.”
Mum and Dad’s pensioner bungalow sat quiet under the streetlights. My older brother had stayed until I arrived; he gave me a tired nod on his way out. Dad had been diagnosed with dementia three or four years earlier. It wasn’t the worst case we’d seen—he still had that sharp, dry sense of humour, could hold a proper conversation, and remembered every detail of his younger days. Music was his constant companion. He’d sit in his favourite recliner, singing along to the radio in that rich ballad voice of his, knowing every word to the old songs.
I made him a cup of tea the way he liked it—hot, then cooled with a splash of cold water straight from the tap. They’d told me he’d eaten dinner half an hour earlier, but when I brought the mug over he looked up with mild surprise.
“I haven’t had a bite all day, son.”
I didn’t argue. “Fancy some beans on toast then? Best I can do.”
He grinned. “That’ll do nicely.”
While Dad ate at the little table in his recliner, I sat on the sofa and dealt out a game of solitaire on the coffee table. The cards clicked softly. For a while everything felt normal. Then I noticed he’d gone quiet. He was staring at me—not the usual fond, slightly vague look I’d grown used to, but something stranger. Searching.
“Where is everyone?” he asked suddenly.
“Mum’s in hospital overnight, Dad. I’m staying with you till morning. We’ll go pick her up together.”
He nodded slowly, but a few minutes later he said, “Helen will be home soon. You’ll have to leave then.”
“No, Dad. Mum’s staying in hospital tonight. I’m here to stay with you.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“It’s me, Dad. John.”
He studied me for a long moment, then gave a short laugh that didn’t reach his eyes.
“You’re not my John. You joker. Get your coat and fuck off before Helen gets in. You’re not using this house as a dosshouse.”
The words landed like a punch. I tried to keep my voice steady.
“Dad, it really is me. Look—” I pointed at the framed photo on the wall, the one of us together when I was a teenager. “That’s me, right there.”
“I know that’s my John,” he said, his tone hardening. “But that’s not you. Now get out of this house. Now.”
My stomach dropped. A cold, sick feeling spread through me. This was the first time—the very first time—he hadn’t recognised me. Not a brief confusion. Not a forgotten name. Me. His son. The boy he’d looked after during his spells out of work, the one he’d taken to school, to the park, into town, even to the pubs where he’d drink with his mates while I played pool and felt like one of the lads.
I felt my throat tighten. “Dad…”
He was getting agitated now, his voice rising, the aggression creeping in. I tried to calm him, but nothing worked. After ten or twenty long minutes I heard car doors outside. My sisters, Caroline and Wendy, had come straight from the hospital. The moment they walked in, Dad’s face changed.
“There’s my girls,” he said, relieved.
Caroline glanced at me, then back at him. “That’s John, Dad.”
Dad shook his head firmly. “That’s not John. He’s too big to be my son.”
Wendy moved quietly, making him another cup of tea, speaking softly. Between the two of them they eased him down. After a while he settled. They told me they’d stay the night.
I nodded, grabbed my coat, and stepped outside. The night air hit me cold. I made it to the car, closed the door, and sat there in the dark. The tears came hard—ten minutes, maybe more—until I could see well enough to drive. The pain moved between my stomach and my chest like something alive. On the way home I kept thinking: if anything happened to Mum, Dad would need proper 24-hour care. A care home. The very thing Mum had always sworn she’d never let happen.
The next morning I took Johnny Jr with me. As we approached the bungalow, Johnny ran ahead around the corner. I heard Dad’s voice, warm and familiar.
“There’s my John!”
He was looking straight at my son. Then his eyes found me. A flicker of confusion crossed his face.
“I chucked you out last night,” he said.
“It’s okay, Dad,” I replied gently. “You were a bit confused, that’s all.”
We sat together and had a cup of tea before heading off to collect Mum. Dad hummed along to an old song on the radio as we drove. For a little while, everything felt almost normal again.
But I knew the ground had shifted beneath us. Some doors, once opened, never quite close the same way.

Watching someone as close to me as my mum go through dementia is something I never could have imagined. The pain it brings is so deep that it’s hard to even put into words—I’m struggling to even do that now writing this

This year, I’m running a half marathon to raise awareness and to reach out to others who are going through the same thing. I want to connect with people, talk, and let them know they’re not alone. If I can help even one person feel understood or supported, it will mean everything.

Because the truth is… it’s incredibly hard.

My beautiful grandad pigeon (pigeon racer) was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and recently moved to a nursing home - I want to give something back and challenge myself as I have a healthy body and brain so have signed up to my first 5k - he is our family’s king 🫶

I’m running the London Marathon in the memory of my Grandad, Colin.

He was a piano teacher and honestly like a second parent to me growing up. Later in life he had Alzheimer’s, which was really tough for our family to see. Running this marathon feels like a small way to honour him and remember everything he meant to me. ❤️

I’m running for Pa, who had Alzheimer’s for the last 10 years of his life. Seeing him lose his memory and forget his wonderful gift of playing the piano was so hard, so fundraising for Alzheimer’s society is really important to me. We need to continue to support the care and research that goes into battling dementia.

Hi, I'm Mick. My mother passed away a few years ago with Alzheimers.

I recently attended a crafts fair, where I sold hand made resin art to raise money for Alzheimers.

For my granny, Mamie Alice,
My grandmother is one of the strongest women I have ever known, both in her character and in the choices she has made throughout her life. She has lived through so much: loss, war, love, sadness, joy, anger, and so much more. And through it all, she has always remained standing, dignified and unwavering.
But as the years pass and life inevitably catches up with us, we realise just how fragile each of us truly is, just like our memories and the stories we carry within us. My grandmother’s condition worsened very quickly. At first, we thought it was simply age taking its natural course. But it happened so suddenly. First, small fragments of memories began to fade, then the sense of time and events slowly disappeared. Until one day, I went to see her, and she no longer recognised me. I was the first person she forgot.
That day, someone dear to me told me a sentence that both warmed my heart and quietly broke it: “They often say that the first people someone forgets are the ones they love the most.”
From that moment on, I understood that I would no longer truly be her granddaughter, but someone new each time I visited. I also realised that this illness does not always hurt those who live with it, but rather those who watch from the outside, powerless to change anything.
And yet, my granny is still here. She still makes us laugh, and we have learnt to live around her, doing our best to accompany her gently through this illness.
I love you, Granny.
(Even if one time out of three you think I’m the nurse.) ❤️

I am doing the Great Manchester run 10k in memory of my beautiful, amazing Mum, who sadly passed away Novermber 2025. She suffered with Dementia for roughly 5 years and sadly was also fighting Lung Cancer. Nothing ever stopped her she was so strong. But sadly Dementia won, but not without a fight.

Dementia is a cruel disease that slowly takes away the people we love.
I’m taking on a 10-mile swimming challenge in memory of my beautiful nanna, who sadly lost her life to end-stage dementia. Watching someone you love slowly lose their memories, independence and parts of who they are is incredibly heartbreaking for families.
My nanna meant the world to me, and this challenge is my way of honouring her memory and doing something positive in her name.
I’ll be swimming the miles one length at a time, thinking about her and the memories we shared. Every length is for my nanna and for the many families who are also facing the devastating effects of dementia.
If you’re able to donate, no matter how small, it would mean so much and will help support the vital work being done for people living with dementia and their families.
Thank you for taking the time to read my story and for your support 💙