December and dementia

December is a strange month. It feels like so much all at once for me nowadays. There are the cosy moments with my kids – their joy and excitement, watching them sing carols in their school concerts and welling up as I realise how soon they’ll be too old for this. Then there are memories of Christmases past: remembering how my dad used to be, the family traditions from my childhood, the funny moments we shared together.

Alongside all that comes the overwhelm. Trying to get to school carol concerts around work, remembering Christmas Jumper Day, chaperoning Christmas discos, writing cards, buying presents, organising everything. It’s such a powerful mix of joy and exhaustion. Darker, shorter days set against twinkling lights in windows.

I’m visiting my dad at the weekend, and it will be my last visit until after Christmas. I’ve got him a card and a chocolate reindeer. I already know how heartbroken I’ll feel afterwards, knowing he won’t be home with us for Christmas – even though I understand that it’s better for him to stay where he is, with his familiar routines, a place that now feels safe to him, surrounded by faces he recognises.

Our faces just aren’t familiar to him anymore. Our homes would be strange places, full of hazards and dark corners. Our voices would be too loud as we celebrate; we’d overwhelm him. He wouldn’t be able to take himself off somewhere quiet, because he can’t really walk anymore, and he might not be able to tell us what he wants either. It’s all so sad. This will be his second Christmas in the care home.

Like last year, I’ve left a few days as a buffer between seeing him and Christmas Day, so that I can recover a little and face the day with a genuine smile for my children – who see Christmas simply as presents, food and unbridled joy.

And I know I’m not alone in this. This is December for the sandwich generation: holding joy in one hand and grief in the other. Parenting children while quietly mourning the slow loss of our parents. Showing up for school plays and care home visits and feeling stretched thin.

If this is you too, know that it’s ok to feel conflicted. It’s ok to create space to grieve, and it’s ok to lean into the joy where you can. Both can exist at once. This season doesn’t have to be perfect – it just has to be survived, with compassion for ourselves and for the people we love.