Admiral Nurses

A few months ago, we were put in touch with a wonderful Admiral Nurse. Today, I want to share how much her support has meant, and why this kind of help can feel like a lifeline.

Admiral Nurses are specialist dementia nurses who provide free support to families thanks to Dementia UK. They offer both practical advice and emotional care exactly when it’s most needed.

My mum spoke to our Admiral Nurse first, and she offered to speak to me and my siblings too if we wanted. I took her up on the offer, and she gave me a phone call. I could feel her kindness through the phone.

She has visited my dad in the care home, and hearing her say that he seems content was such a relief. I’ve felt the same, but when you’re dealing with dementia, it’s so hard to know what’s really going on in their mind, and I don’t have much experience to guide me.

She listens to my worries and shares advice in a way that feels kind, grounded and reassuring. Because her own father had dementia, she knows what it’s like, and it’s special for me to be able to talk to someone who has gone through this, to really feel heard and understood.

When I told her how my dad sometimes reverts to his old self – asking familiar questions like “How’s work going?” – she said her father used to ask her about the route she’d driven to see him. These fatherly questions, which no longer need or expect real answers, still carry love: I want to know about your life. I want to know you’re safe and happy.

It reminded me of how, every Sunday when I was at university, I’d phone home and my dad would always ask: “Are you ok for money?” Back then I found it frustrating, wishing he’d ask about my studies or friends. But later I understood that it was his way of making sure I had what I needed, and if I didn’t, he would step in. Now the tables have turned – his care is expensive, and we’re the ones worrying about finances.

I told the Admiral Nurse how hard it sometimes feels to visit my dad, and she said that’s very common. How could I have known that? It’s not something people speak about.

She reminded me that even if my dad doesn’t remember a visit, he’ll remember the feeling it gave him – and that stays with him. When I feel the futility of these late stages, where he may not recognise me and conversation is almost gone, it helps to remember that a hug, a quiet sit together, or just leaving him with a warm sense of connection is enough.

She also reminded me that the care home staff can help me when visits are difficult – like when my dad wants to follow me out. I sometimes hesitate, worried about adding to their workload, tied up with guilt about him being there at all. But she helped me realise that it’s ok to ask for help.

What amazed me most was hearing she has supported more than 500 families in our London borough over the past three years. That number floored me. I so often feel alone in this experience, yet right here, in this one corner of London, hundreds of families are going through the same thing.

It made me realise how much silence still surrounds dementia. Families close in, shielding the reality from others – partly because it’s painful, partly because of the stigma that still lingers. You worry about judgment. You hide the decline.

And yet, Admiral Nurses remind me we’re not alone. Far from it. They are proof that support, understanding, and connection are out there, if only we reach for them.