It’s hard to believe how much can change in just a year. Mum’s diagnosis has changed drastically since my last blog.

In 2023, we lost Dad. He’d been living with dementia, and we said goodbye on 27th March 2023, aged 82. Less than two years later, in January 2025, Mum was diagnosed with vascular dementia at 81.

What has followed has been nothing short of a whirlwind.

One of the hardest things to explain about dementia is that it’s not just memory loss, it’s a completely different version of reality. Mum’s world often doesn’t make sense to us, but to her, it is entirely real.

At first, it was the phone calls about Dad. He hadn’t come home. He’d been in an accident. He’d left her. Those early days were filled with confusion and tears. Now, Dad is still alive, but he’s “at work,” or “in bed,” or “in the pub.”

Somewhere along the way, our family quietly doubled in size. There are now two of me, and my Mum reminds us, “Don’t forget the other Jane!” My brother briefly thought this might work in his favour when it came to birthday cards… though sadly not when it came to money inside them!

Mum talks about my niece, now 15, as if she has only just arrived in the world. Despite helping care for her as a baby, she feels she has years of presents to catch up on. (My niece is still holding out hope.)

These moments are sometimes funny, but they’re also deeply sad. Because behind them is a brain trying its best to piece together a world that no longer fits together properly.

Memory loss is now part of everyday life. Mum often doesn’t know what day it is, or what she’s done just minutes earlier. She’ll tell people she hasn’t seen anyone for days, even though someone has been with her daily.

Home has become a moving target. Despite living in the same house for 56 years, there are many moments, even repeated times in a day, when it feels unfamiliar to her. She’ll call and ask, “Can you come and pick me up and take me home?” She might believe she’s in a caravan in Wales, or stuck at work, or in a random house nearby. Once, she thought she was left alone in a holiday cottage. Other times, she’s convinced she’s babysitting for someone.

The most difficult part is that you can’t correct it because in her reality, she is somewhere else and the fear and confusion are real.

We’ve tried to build routines to help mum, including regular support. Since January, we’ve had someone come in every day during what we call, half-jokingly, the “witching hour.” For a while, we thought we’d cracked it and we’d started noticing a calmer routine. But dementia, unfortunately, doesn’t stand still.

However, things have shifted again. Mum has started leaving the house late at night in her pyjamas, she tries to catch buses at 11pm, wandering locally, unsure where she lives. Once, a kind stranger spent an hour and a half walking with her because she couldn’t find her way home.

Since this increase in her dementia, we have installed cameras to track what we can. Often, a phone call can bring her back inside. But we can’t watch her every second. And that’s the reality we’re learning to live with.

One of the things I didn’t expect was how far dementia reaches. It doesn’t just affect the person diagnosed, it ripples outward into every part of family life. Between work, family, and daily life, we are constantly adjusting and stretching ourselves a little thinner each month. As difficult as it is, we keep going because she’s Mum, and through every difficult moment, there are still moments of laughter where she still lights up when we’re with her. Those moments matter more than ever.

We cannot be there 24 hours a day. And this level of care isn’t sustainable long term. As hard as it is to say, I believe that within the next year, Mum will need residential care. Not because we don’t want to care for her, but because she is no longer safe on her own, especially at night. And that doesn’t make the decision any easier but we know it may be necessary.

This past year has taught me more than I ever wanted to know about dementia, including:

• A dementia brain isn’t logical, but it is real to the person experiencing it.
• You’re constantly adapting.
• Support matters, whether it’s from charities, services, workplaces, or other people walking a similar path.
• Cameras and trackers can feel like both a lifeline and a constant responsibility.
• Most importantly, talk about it!

We recently hosted a WOW Flowers event, and nearly half the people there had someone close to them living with dementia. It was great to connect with people and exchange stories, but it was a reminder that, even when it feels isolating, we are not alone in this.

If this is your world too, whether you’re just starting the journey or somewhere deep within it, you’re doing better than you think. And you’re definitely not alone.