The Hardest Part Is That He Doesn’t Know What He’s Losing

We’ve never told Dad he has dementia.

It’s not a secret, exactly. It’s a complex and hard choice, a way to protect him from the fear, the confusion, the spiral that might come with knowing something he can’t fully understand or control.
So he doesn’t know what’s slipping.
Doesn’t know why the world feels a bit foggier or why he can’t drive or go out bike riding.
Doesn’t realise that the stories are fading faster than they should.

And that makes it harder.
Because we’re grieving in a language he doesn’t speak.
He’s still here. Still laughing. Still showing his love of his family. Still showing flashes of the man we all used to orbit around.
But we’re carrying the truth alone.

I’m not especially close with my family.
That’s been by design. A quiet self-protection in case coming out as gay didn’t go well. (It did go well, for the record. But the distance stayed anyway, like muscle memory.)


So I don’t have a catalogue of big, warm, sentimental moments to pull from.
We’ve had birthdays, dinners, visits.
But nothing I can hold onto tightly, nothing that glows in the way you want memories to.

And now I worry. Not just that he’s losing pieces of his story…
But that I don’t have enough of a story with him to miss.

There’s guilt in that.
Not the loud, dramatic kind. Just a dull hum in the background. A wondering of whether I could’ve done more, shown up earlier, asked more questions, made more space. For him. For me. For us.

But here we are.
Making the most of the moments we have.
Even if they’re imperfect. Even if they don’t get remembered.

Sometimes, presence is all we can offer.
And sometimes, that has to be enough.


If you or someone you love is navigating dementia, whether as a carer, family member, or simply trying to make sense of it, you’re not alone.

These organisations offer support, information, and someone to talk to:

Take care of yourself too. This stuff is heavy, even when you don’t talk about it out loud.

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