Which you am I missing today

When my husband was at home, I simply couldn’t bear to think about the him that used to be. I had to push the memories away because it hurt too much. In any case, I was too tired dealing with the person there now, and that was upsetting enough.

Now that he is in residential care, I have more space and time to think. I live in the flat we bought and furnished together, filled with memories of our life. It’s still viscerally painful to think about the occasions when it became clear he wasn’t himself anymore. But I am more able to think about the good times.

Remembering them is bittersweet. It’s life-affirming to think about the person he was before Alzheimer’s took him away. But impossible not to think of how terrible a loss it is. Selfishly, I also mourn what we could have had, and that I only had him for such a short time. We got together at the end of 2009. I first noticed odd things in 2014 and things became impossible to ignore in 2017.

I must also admit that the memories are also in some ways validating for me. The history of ‘us’ has been overtaken by Alzheimer’s (to such an extent that I am indelibly associated with it by some of his friends and family). It helps to remind myself that we were once a couple in love and also … just an ordinary couple negotiating a relationship.

So I miss what we had and who he was. But quite unexpectedly, I also miss him terribly as he is now. Chronic illness and the need to earn a living means I don’t usually see him more than once a week. When I do he is usually lovely, funny and affectionate. Occasionally a facial expression or a comprehensible sentence will be just like the old him.

Of course this pleasure is only possible because of the care professionals who deal with all the hard stuff. And it’s interleaved with guilt about how I felt when he was at home. I am not a saint, and he was scary and upsetting. But I wish I had been able to overcome the fear and hurt and appreciate him when I saw him every day.

All of this is against the background that he is in the late stages of Alzheimer’s. Five years from diagnosis is often quoted as the average lifespan for Young Onset Dementia. 2024 is five years, and his diagnosis was late. I have some idea what to expect from those ahead of me in their journey, but I am not ready. I have been grieving the loss of the person who was once there for some years. But I know there is much more grief to come.

On not being enough

Quite early in my dementia journey, I was in a Facebook group where people often posted ‘we never give up, we never lose our patience, we never complain’. They infuriated me because I believed, and continue to believe, that the burden of caring is too much for one person. Being elevated to sainthood for bearing it isn’t a fair exchange.

And yet I do feel that I failed as a carer against some external measure. My husband is too big and scary, too prone to wandering, our house too full of objects and I am too ill, for him to stay at home. But I feel bad that I couldn’t do it and feel that a better person could have. Sometimes those who care about him, and are grieving, make hurtful comments. I know they aren’t fair, but they score a bullseye on my self-doubt.

I have written elsewhere of the grief of losing my husband as he was, the life we might have had together and how I am left uncertain as to my reason for being. But it also speaks to my feelings about whether or not I am fit for purpose. Other people seem to manage quite well at having life partners. How typical of me to mess this one up!

I know this is irrational. I know my husband loved me and appreciated what I brought to his life. But I think it speaks to an idea of what a wife, a woman should be. I should have been a ministering angel and never lost my temper. I don’t believe in that idea, and yet I still feel guilt at having failed to achieve it.

I’m not alone in this. I see other chronic illness sufferers using their energy envelope for domestic tasks that someone else could do. There are lots of possible reasons they do that, but the need to feel that sense of achievement is strong. Other spouses of people with dementia mourn their inability to stay on top of things as much as the loss of the person they used to know. Far too much, we take on the burden of domesticity and make it our identity.

Loving someone with dementia is hard enough, and this extra sense of failure is unfair and illogical. But knowing this doesn’t make the guilt go away.

On living grief

My husband has now been in a care home for more than seven months.

I will never romanticise the last few years. Watching the person you love and had planned to build your life with disappear and become hostile, angry and scary is unbearably hard. Constantly fighting for support, when you are chronically ill yourself is exhausting. In the first lockdown when I was also unable to walk for more than five minutes, and saw no other people, it was actually terrifying.

But I miss him. I miss the person he was so much. To the extent that if he hadn’t been so angry and unmanageable, and had slept enough to allow me to sleep, I don’t think I would have minded all the other things – isolating the gas, hiding the plugs, never putting anything down, locking the front door. The pacing! There’s no doubt that he couldn’t stay at home. But it doesn’t stop me feeling that my grief and loneliness is a righteous punishment for my failure to manage him.

My husband was the only person from who I ever received unconditional love. My parents are both gone and I don’t think my sisters would dispute the fact that our upbringing was far from ideal. My husband was my new family, and our life was a new positive future for me. I now can’t quite remember why I am here. I go through the motions but it often feels pointless.

The person my husband used to be more or less completely disappeared in 2021. For years before that, long before diagnosis, I found observing his decline unbearably painful. As a result, I don’t think I have really started to grieve this loss properly. I am surrounded by books and musical instruments that he gradually stopped being able to engage with over the last decade. It’s a terrible tragedy and a loss of a clever, funny, creative and often anarchic force of nature. But I find it too much to contemplate.

So, for now I just concentrate on the person he is today. Now I no longer see the hostility (other people have to deal with that) I see a loving and affectionate person. He doesn’t have much language, he suffers a range of neurological problems which come and go (tics, limps, unexplained pain, walking problems). But holding his hand reminds me that I was once loved. Is he still there? I don’t know, but I will do what I can to help him live well in the time he has left.

On how often is enough

Since my husband moved into residential care, I have tried to establish a routine, of sorts, for visiting. This has been a challenge, for a number of reasons. As a sufferer of Long Covid, I have to pace myself. The days when I would do as much as I could in every hour available are long gone. I work four days a week, I am trying slowly to increase exercise. And I have social invitations I can accept now that my evenings are my own.

But I do get asked how often I visit, and note the surprise when I don’t visit every day. I feel the judgement because I judge myself. Part of me knows that the only person who can decide the right thing to do is me, as I am the only person who has been on the journey. But it’s hard to shake off the invisible voice or to avoid the feeling that I am failing in an ideal of womanhood. Even writing that sometimes I can’t visit because I am enjoying myself with friends feels like a dirty secret

My actual visits (as opposed to the continuing negotiation and organisation with the care home and social services) are enjoyable. I only see the good bits of my husband now. I don’t have to deal with the challenging, scary behaviour and the unpleasant practical aspects of dealing with someone with late-stage dementia. After years of hostility when we lived together, he is affectionate and loving and always pleased to see me.

But I usually don’t go more than twice a week. I am finding that, at 50, I am building my life from scratch again. I need time and energy to work out who I am and what I should be directing my (very depleted) energies towards. It is such a relief that my husband is under 24 hour care and, while it’s far from perfect, I ensure he is visited and taken out regularly, even if not by me. There are still lots of things to worry about, but it is not constant. After all these years of unending stress, having a life of my own is a luxury I want to enjoy.

As it happens, I think the number of visits I make are enough for him. But even if they weren’t, even if he sobbed when I left (which I know many carers experience) I have to make the decision on the basis of how much is enough for me. I know he is safe now – far safer than he was at home. Enough for me would the right amount even if it were only once a month. And I must learn to ignore the judging voices especially when they are my own

On the void

It is seven weeks since my husband moved into a care home. I was very worried about how it would feel without him but I didn’t have a clear picture. In the last post, I described the immediate aftermath. Now the novelty of not constantly being on edge has worn off, more feelings have appeared.

The first feeling was one of pure fear. For the last few years, my life has been directed toward my husband’s deteriorating condition, both before and after diagnosis. I probably have far more external infrastructure than most carers, but it was the centre of my life and latterly anything but caring took a lot of organisation. I suddenly have no idea what I am here for. I can’t backtrack to before we got together. I was 37, now I am 50. Everything has changed. It feels scary.

The second is loneliness. This is not because of lack of support from friends. Having Long Covid means I have limited energy. Of course my husband no longer wakes me several times a night and I am not constantly exhausted from keeping him safe and deflecting his anger. But I don’t have the energy for a busy social life. And actually I like staying in and reading. My husband was pretty much the first partner I could do this with, until of course I couldn’t. I miss the quiet companionship.

The rest of the feelings are associated with sadness. For years I could not dwell on our memories together. Even just thinking about the loss of the person he was would give me such a stab of pain I had to suppress it. And the actual organisation, caring, and management took up so much of my brain space and energy, it was easier just to plough on without reflection. But now I have time and space. I have barely scratched the surface but I know I have to grieve these losses. As I have said before, you can’t cheat grief.

As it happens the author of the wonderful Memory for Two blog is in a similar position. She recently posted about clearing out her husband’s wardrobe and the memories it evoked. I haven’t started doing this yet. But like her, I want to start remembering, and celebrating, the man who was there, remembering everything he could do and how much he was loved.

If I am honest, I am not just grieving for him. I am also grieving for the two of us together and all our hopes. It was our wedding anniversary last week. Eleven years ago I thought I was entering a new life and a new family. It is sadder because the family in question have made it clear I am now not welcome. I do accept that some of these hopes were fantasies, but I still grieve for them.

I think I have many months or even years of reflection and grieving ahead of me. But I also need to recognise my own strengths and not just dismiss compliments. I wouldn’t wish Young Onset Dementia on anyone but it has tested my strengths. Whoever I might be in the future, I am stronger for it.

On transition

My husband moved into a care home three and a half weeks ago.

Despite having fought for it to happen (and it was a struggle to the last minute) I absolutely dreaded the move. My husband was terrified of being sectioned, which had happened to his father, who had Young Onset Alzheimer’s at the same age. Would he think that was what was happening? I felt guilty, apprehensive, scared of the change, of my future alone.

But it was fine. I was lucky enough to have his day carer for support. She did all his packing and unpacking, and came with me, although the move has taken away most of her livelihood. My husband joked with the staff, clowned around a bit, was calm and playful when we left.

And he seems happy. For years there has been constant friction between us, as he resisted care and tried to assert his status. Now that is all gone. He seems calm and happy, always joking, always pleased to see me. A few incidents aside, he is reported as behaving well, ironically as his previous challenging behaviour caused several homes to reject him. The care home manager says he is the most popular resident.

For the first week after he left, I couldn’t believe how much less I had to do. Having been constantly planning, worrying and watching for three years, I could finally relax and just be. I could sleep through the night and make plans or even do things spontaneously (in as far as someone with chronic illness and a job can).

But of course it hasn’t been as simple as that. Where there used to be this huge burden of worry, there is now a void. I can’t remember what I am here for anymore. I am still constantly tense and wake up at the slightest noise. Although he hasn’t been any kind of companion for over a year now, and I never enjoyed my caring role, it monopolised my concentration and energy. It’s going to take time to adjust.

It’s still very early days. I am hugely relieved he has settled in, but he may not always be calm. If he follows a typical Young Onset trajectory, the next year will bring further decline and a lot of unpleasantness for him. But for now, he is fine. As for me, that’s a work in progress and I don’t expect things to happen quickly. There are still voices telling me I am a bad person. I now finally have the mental space to start grieving for the person who no longer exists and that’s very painful. But the future starts here.

On one step behind

I recently attended a webinar run by Rare Dementia Support, in which carers were thanked for sharing ‘what would have helped’. The use of past conditional is all too appropriate. Every stage of support has been one step behind what my husband needed. The following post is more of an account of ‘just too late’ than anything constructive. Experiences vary even within the UK, but I think this is an accurate reflection of what dementia sufferers and their carers experience.

As mentioned before, a diagnostic memory clinic failed to diagnose my husband in 2018. As a result, when he was finally diagnosed 18 months later (by a clinic in a major research hospital), he had missed out on medication that only works in the early stages, and it was only months away from the Covid lockdown. I expressed interest in his taking part in a clinical trial but by the time recruitment restarted in late 2020, he had declined too far (there is no testing of drugs for later stages).

To be completely fair, Covid disrupted everything – all community activities ceased and my husband could not engage with zoom sessions. Remote support from the NHS community dementia service for most of 2020 consisted mostly of my dementia navigator (sub-contracted from the Alzheimer’s Society) and Carers UK referring to each other, or to services not currently running. When I contacted the navigator to say that I was getting scared by my husband’s aggression and paranoia, I was given a number for Refuge. By the time community activities restarted most were no longer appropriate for him.

During this time I had most help from the nurse practitioners at the hospital where he was diagnosed. Although they are not designed as an ongoing support service, and the prescribing set-up was not ideal, I was able to discuss medication and alter prescriptions. They also put us in touch with services like RDS. It was only after my husband went missing and it was reported to the police, that the NHS community service made contact again. Ironically they asked us to cease treatment with the hospital to avoid confusion.

(There is another potential paragraph in here about Continuing Health Care, which we have twice failed to qualify for, but I’ll save that for another day).

So where was social care in this? In 2020 and 2021, I had assessments from access support officers who did not consider me or my husband to have any caring needs (although when my own Long Covid was at its worst they offered to place him in a nursing home, which I refused because under pandemic conditions he would have been totally isolated). By the time I spoke to a social worker in November 2021, I was already paying for 40 hours a week of care, that I had found and was funding myself. I was awarded a direct payment of 8.75 hours a week (which was then delayed by three months because they forgot to put the referral through).

It’s fair to say that there is a crisis in UK social care. Following a corporate complaint to the local authority, I finally saw a social worker in person in May 2022. By this time I felt I had reached the end of the support we could give my husband at home and I was regularly paying for 60 hours of care a week, plus respite weekends. The social worker increased the direct payment award (although this will be removed because he holds a private pension which counts as an asset). This social worker was convinced that he was too young for residential care. She did not listen when I explained that Young Onset dementia has a fast downward trajectory and short life expectancy. She recommended against a council referral, saying he had ‘no placement needs’. I didn’t find this out until I called the emergency number in November 2022. I appealed and raised another corporate complaint with a request to accelerate the appeal process. This is now underway.

I had meanwhile started to explore private referral to residential care and had a lengthy assessment with somewhere that seemed right. They unfortunately decided that he had high-dependency needs that they couldn’t support. I have since spoken to two more homes who have said the same. While Adult Social Care have said he has ‘no placement needs’, residential care homes say he has declined too far for them to accept him and I need to look at nursing care facilities.

So where are we now? Seven months after I said that I could not look after him at home anymore, we are just starting the process of referral. I have been told we are likely to need a Court of Protection capability assessment. We will be self-funding because of his assets, from his pension pot and then from a deferred payment arrangement on his half of our flat. I start a new job in January which I cannot do with the current level of disruption I experience at night. My only option now is to seek respite care while we wait for the referral process.

I wish I had something constructive to offer out of this. None of these delays happened because I failed to anticipate my husband’s decline. Despite the fact that Early Onset Alzheimer’s is a fast-moving degenerative brain disease, practitioners have continually dismissed his level of need. Let’s hope we reach the next stage soon.

On my husband – the hero

It is a feature of Young Onset Dementia that the sufferer displays hostility and anger. I have written elsewhere of my regret that so much of my time with my husband while still ‘well’ was punctuated by rows and his endless grumpiness. But I have started to recognise another part of the story

Put simply, for a decade or longer my husband struggled with cognition while acting ‘normal’. He hid the fact that he could no longer do his favourite things. His life was full of evidence of a flourishing creative and intellectual life, but I rarely saw him exercise it. I couldn’t understand how a man who had disciplined himself to write a full-length musical in his spare time, could now not finish reading a book. It must have been infuriating to him when I commented on it. No wonder he was angry.

I don’t know to what extent he articulated it to himself. Even after diagnosis, he was massively in denial about what he was capable of (and that he had to get over his sexism and trust me). But I believe a whole spectrum of acknowledgement, fear, acceptance and denial can co-exist. Twelve years ago he must have felt his concentration and fine motor skills deteriorating. But he could have been partially ignoring it and hoping it wasn’t, well, the thing his father had had at the same age.

I won’t pretend the circular arguments and failed attempts at pacification were anything but upsetting. But I realise I myself must have been a provocation – finishing a PhD, writing books, taking musical solos in our choir, all while he was in decline. It reached the point that I looked to celebrate these things with other people, which can’t have helped. Even my solving his problems – finding lost things, getting us places when we had missed a train – will only have made him hate himself more.

But I also realise how hard he must have worked to cover things up. He hated his job for the last years before he was made redundant. How difficult it must have been to stay on top of things and how upsetting to be called out by his boss for mistakes. As I have said before, I believe these things were harder for him because, as a middle class white male, all his life he was treated as competent and trustworthy. It’s a lot to lose.

I still get upset when he puts me down or is angry with me. But it is helpful to recognise what he has lost. And maybe I secretly admire his determination that, even now, he’d rather swear and throw things than accept what has happened to him.

On being normal

As my husband and I progress along our Alzheimer’s journey I find it quite heartbreaking to see carers at earlier stages trying and failing to live a ‘normal’ life. I don’t reply because I was them once and nobody wants to hear ‘you are lucky he can still do X, it gets much worse’. Over time, dementia carers accept there is no normal. Everything changes all the time and, with Young Onset Alzheimer’s, the downward trajectory is constant.

Like a lot of carers close to burnout, these changes have left me alternating between punch-drunk numbness and panicky anxiety. In response, I have taken quite a lot of respite. But this has been surprisingly difficult emotionally. Every day I spend on my own, doing stuff for me, I end up overwhelmed with grief. Partly it is simply having the space to let the feelings in. But partly it is because I have started to look over the fence at what the future might hold. The respite is almost a rehearsal for when my husband is in residential care and beyond this too.

This should be positive. The excellent Memory for Two blog has shared the small fantasies dementia carers comfort themselves with when everything seems impossible. But we know it’s not as simple as ‘getting back to normal’. The experience of losing a partner to dementia is life-changing and leaves none of us the same person. I have also had to adjust to chronic illness and losing control of my body. I don’t know what kind of person I will be or life I will lead in the ‘After’ or ‘After After’ times. My respite glimpses remind me of how much I have lost, and have yet to lose, before my future ‘normal’.

It comes with guilt, as well. Here I am sitting with a book having a cup of tea and a toastie, anticipating walking in my favourite place. And I feel like my heart is going to burst. How can I do normal stuff, as if the last ten years hadn’t happened? How can I picture my future life when my poor husband has lost the ability to do all the things he used to love, along with his independence and his memory?

Having this time to think is important. And I physically and mentally desperately need these breaks, although I receive more help than most. But there are no easy answers when your partner has dementia, and no fast tracks to recovery.

On cognitive dissonance

I have spent my adult life looking for a way of living that makes sense of the world. Having a partner with dementia makes this impossible. Nothing about our relationship, as it is now, makes sense according to everything I have learned up until now.

Some days I feel I have made up my mind to my future without my husband. The person I fell in love with isn’t there. I am reaching the point that I can no longer safely keep him at home, even with lots of caring hours. Okay, this is awful, but it is grief. I know how this works, sort of, and the sooner it starts the better prepared I am for it.

But on other days I ache with love for the person sitting next to me. I don’t really know how much of ‘him’ is there but I see him and I love him. I can’t believe I am going to voluntarily separate myself from him. As he falls asleep I cuddle up to him and briefly live as we used to.

But then I try and get him to brush his teeth, put socks on, change his pants and it’s not just that I fail, I am emotionally and physically exhausted by the end of it. I wonder who this person is who says hurtful things. It’s not that I don’t understand why, of course he is angry with the person in front of him, when he has lost control over his life and they are ordering him around. That’s not him. Or if it were, that’s not someone I should spend too long with, for my own mental health.

I have no answers to this. I am grieving in some ways but in others haven’t really begun.