Out of bed

My dad wasn’t in bed when I visited.

That might sound like a small thing, but in the context of where things have been, it felt significant. They’ve got him in this new chair now – one of those big, supportive ones with wheels and straps. It means he can be out of bed safely for about four hours a day without discomfort or risk. And there he was, sitting up, watching TV, settled in a way I haven’t seen him in a while.

It should have felt like a moment to hold onto. And in some ways it was. But he wasn’t particularly interested in seeing me, or my son. Not in a way that felt familiar. Not in a way that reached out. It’s strange how you can be relieved and unsettled at the same time – relieved to see him upright and out of bed, unsettled by how far away he still feels even when he’s right there in front of you.

A few days later, I went to the hairdresser. When I arrived, she was finishing off with an older woman and her husband. The older woman was hovering a little – not quite sitting down, not really joining in, moving around the edges of everything. There was something about it that felt instantly familiar. That kind of restlessness, the inability to settle, the way someone can seem both present and not quite anchored in the moment.

When they left, I asked my hairdresser about her. She told me it was her mother-in-law. I asked her gently whether she had dementia. It felt like it could have been a rude question in any other context – too direct, too assuming. But it didn’t feel like that in the moment. It felt like noticing something that was already there and simply naming it. And once I did, it opened everything up.

We talked properly after that.

She told me that that her father-in-law refuses help, insists on doing everything himself, even though it’s clearly getting harder. He’s up all night with her mother-in-law, trying to manage on his own, and she’s constantly worried about him. There’s a strain there that feels almost heavier because it isn’t being shared. Because he won’t let it be.

She said something that stayed with me – that when it’s the woman with dementia, the dynamic can sometimes look like that. The husband trying to hold everything together, refusing outside help, as if accepting it would mean something bigger about loss or failure.

I hadn’t thought about it like that before.

It made me realise again how different dementia looks in different homes, depending not just on the illness, but on the roles people already hold. Who is used to caring. Who is used to being cared for. And how hard it can be to shift that, even when everything is changing.

I also couldn’t stop thinking about what that actually looks like day to day. The up and down in the night. The broken sleep. The constant alertness. The way carers quietly exhaust themselves trying to keep everything going.

It disturbs me, sometimes, how many people must be living like that without anyone really seeing it. Often older people themselves, already tired, already stretched, still carrying the weight of someone else’s decline because there doesn’t seem to be another option – or because they can’t bring themselves to accept one.

Despite the weight of the conversation, I left feeling grateful for it – not because it changed anything, but because it reminded me I’m not the only one noticing.