My wife has dementia, and every day feels like I’m losing her a little more.
It started slowly…a misplaced set of keys, a forgotten appointment.
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We laughed it off at first, chalking it up to getting older. But then she started asking me what day it was. Not once or twice, but over and over.
"What day is it today?"
"It’s Tuesday, love."
Her face would twist in confusion. "Really? It feels like Monday. Are you sure?"
"I’m sure," I’d say, offering a smile I hoped would reassure her.
Now, our days are woven with these small, repetitive questions. She asks when we were married, how old our children are, even if her parents are still alive.
"How long have we been married?" she asked just yesterday, staring at our wedding photo.
"Thirty-two years," I replied.
Her eyes widened. "Seriously?"
Every time, it’s like she’s hearing it for the first time. I’ve learned to hide the ache in my chest when her memories slip through her fingers. But behind every calm answer, there’s a quiet fear gnawing at me.
What happens when she forgets me? When my name becomes just another question on her lips?
She can’t drive anymore.
The last time she tried, she ended up three towns over, sitting in a parking lot, too afraid to get out of the car. She couldn’t remember our address, couldn’t even remember my phone number.
I’ve taken over all the driving now. I don’t mind, but the look on her face when I suggested taking the keys…it was like I’d stolen a part of her independence.
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"I’m not a child," she had said, her voice sharp.
"I know," I said gently. "But I want to keep you safe."
Her anger fizzled out quickly, confusion replacing it. "Where are we going again?"
"Just home, love."
She nodded, her hands twisting in her lap. "I’d like that."
Most days, I work from home so I can be with her. It’s not safe to leave her alone for too long.
I once came back from the grocery store to find every tap in the house running. She’d forgotten to turn them off, and water pooled across the kitchen floor. She stood in the doorway, tears streaming down her face.
"I’m sorry," she whispered. "I don’t know how this happened."
I held her, my own tears hidden against her hair. "It’s okay. It’s just water."
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But it wasn’t just water. It was a sign of all the things we were losing.
Every spill, every forgotten word, felt like a crack in the foundation of our lives. I lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering how much worse it would get.
What if she wandered off? What if I wasn’t there in time?
Sometimes, late at night, when the house is quiet and she’s finally asleep, I let myself break. I sit on the edge of our bed, my head in my hands, and I grieve for the woman she used to be.
The woman who could hold a conversation, who remembered our inside jokes, who whispered “I love you” with the weight of a thousand shared memories behind it.
"Are you okay?" she asked me once, waking up to find me staring into the darkness.
"Yeah," I said, wiping my eyes. "Just thinking."
She reached for my hand, her touch still so familiar. "I’m here."
But for how long?
I don’t say it out loud, but the question hovers between us.
I read stories online, from others who’ve walked this path, and I see glimpses of our future. A future where she might not know me at all. Where I might become a stranger to the love of my life.
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"Do you think you’ll ever forget me?" I asked her one afternoon, my voice betraying my fear.
She looked at me, her face blank. "Why would I forget you?"
I forced a smile. "No reason, love. No reason at all."
She drifted back to her crossword puzzle, her pencil moving aimlessly across the page. I stayed there, watching her, memorizing every line of her face.
How long before these quiet moments became impossible? Before she needed more help than I could give?
I try to find joy in the small things.
When she hums along to a song she recognizes, when she laughs at an old sitcom, when she calls me by name without hesitation. Each moment is a gift, a reminder that she’s still here, that I’m still hers.
"What would you like for dinner?" I asked her recently.
She blinked, her mind searching for an answer. "I don’t know. What do I like?"
"You love spaghetti," I said softly.
Her face brightened. "Yes! I do. Can we have that?"
"Of course."
We sat together at the table, and as she twirled the pasta around her fork, she looked at me with a rare clarity.
"Thank you for being here."
I swallowed the lump in my throat. "There’s nowhere else I’d rather be."
Every night, as I hold her close, I whisper the same promise.
"I’m here, Claire. I’m always here."
And for as long as I can, I will be.
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But the truth is, I’m scared. I’m scared of the day when my voice won’t comfort her. When my face won’t bring her peace.
I’m scared of waking up alone, even if she’s still right next to me. I fear the day I lose her completely, the day I become nothing but a stranger in our own home.
But until then, I’ll answer her questions as many times as she needs.
I’ll hold her hand, even when she doesn’t know why. I’ll love her, fiercely and fully, through every foggy moment.
Because as long as she’s here, so am I.
Suggested Resource For You: A carers guide to supporting Dementia and Alzheimer’s
This story reflects one perspective and is shared to spark discussion and connection. While inspired by real situations, some details may have been altered for privacy and clarity.
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