And an extra mile to you, Dad!
This month, I’m walking for my wonderful dad, James.
The Dementia UK challenge is 65 miles across the month, and I’ve decided to try to double it to 130 miles.
65 miles for the challenge.
And another 65 for Dad!
My dad died on 19 May 2025, after living with Alzheimer’s for a number of years.
I remember my dad as a strong, funny, independent man, full of character, jokes and mischievous plans up his sleeve. But he was also the dad who would have been there the moment I called, and who would have moved the world for me.
Sadly, Alzheimer’s began to change the landscape of our relationship.
One of the cruellest things about dementia is that there isn’t one single moment of loss. There are many.
You adjust to one change, and then another comes. Things that were once completely ordinary become difficult. Roles begin to reverse. The person who once looked after you increasingly needs you to look after them.
You find yourself navigating a world you never expected to enter.
There were exhausting days. Frightening days. Heartbreaking days. But there were funny days too, because somehow, even in the middle of dementia, life still finds room for laughter.
And most importantly, Dad was still Dad.
He still created peace. He was still my safe place to land. And he continued to be my biggest cheerleader and advocate.
Alzheimer’s affected his memory, his independence and eventually so much of his ability to communicate, but it never reduced him to a diagnosis.
There were still glimpses of the man we knew so well. His smile. His humour. His warmth. Those precious moments when something seemed to reach a part of him that dementia couldn’t.
For us, one of those things was music.
When words became harder, music could still connect us. Reggae and the Rat Pack were particularly special, and I don’t think I will ever hear either without being transported right back to the love and care Dad and I shared.
That experience taught me something I wish more people understood about dementia:
The person is still there.
Sometimes we just have to find a different or creative way of reaching them.
Grief after dementia can be complicated too. In some ways, you begin grieving long before the person you love dies. You grieve changes. Independence. Conversations. Familiar parts of your relationship.
And yet nothing prepares you for the finality of them actually no longer being here.
Since losing Dad, I think much more about the thousands of families living their own version of our story right now.
Because dementia rarely affects just one person.
Behind every diagnosis there may be a husband or wife, son or daughter, grandchild, friend or carer quietly adapting their own life around it.
They are learning as they go. Making difficult decisions. Navigating an obstacle course of new challenges. Trying to stay patient when they are beyond exhausted. Trying to preserve dignity and independence while also keeping someone safe.
Sometimes they are grieving and caring at the same time.
And sometimes they simply need somebody who understands.
That is why I’m raising money for Dementia UK this month.
Their specialist Admiral Nurses support families through the realities of dementia by providing clinical, practical and emotional support when families need it most.
So throughout this month, I’ll keep walking.
Not because 130 miles could ever represent what Dad, or any family affected by dementia, goes through.
But because every mile gives me an opportunity to remember.
65 miles for the challenge.
Another 65 for Dad.
For the strong, caring, funny, amazing man he was.
For the vulnerable man I had the privilege of loving and caring for.
For the laughter and the difficult days.
For the music.
For every glimpse of Dad that Alzheimer’s couldn’t take away.
And for all the families who are still walking this road.
Dad was always so much more than his diagnosis. He is, and always will be, my hero. 💙🫶🏽✝️🙏🏾❤️🕊️
That’s the man I’ll be walking for.
Love always x Terry x
