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My Grandma got dementia when I was 5, she passed away with it when I was 10. I never truly got to know her, when I was at school I would find myself worrying about her and my grandad. Whenever my mums phone rang and it was my grandad my heart skipped a beat, I will never forget the phone where my mum was told her mum died. A part of me will always be angry at dementia for taking my grandma away from me and for it taking away my mum’s mum, I can tell she misses her every day. Walking behind her coffin was the hardest thing I had to do, I wish that on no other person no matter how old they are. Something needs to change, my grandma had my grandad and family to help her, what about those who don’t have that. Dementia is more than just ‘memory lost’, dementia is why my grandma won’t see me graduate, marry, she won’t see her great grandchildren. There are so many things I want to ask her, but the biggest one I ask myself and my mum daily, is she proud of me?

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 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.

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.

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.