One psychiatric nurse describes how her husband would ‘forget who she was and run away from her, afraid’ as he suffered with early onset dementia
"LOOKING out to sea while on holiday in Turkey, I squeezed my husband Glenn’s hand. Flashing his usual cheeky grin, he asked what was for dinner.
From the outside we looked like any other normal couple – until he blurted out: ‘Scotland is so green, isn’t it?’
Just like that our moment of normality was gone, with dementia once again claiming the man I loved.
That holiday in June 2011 was the last Glenn, then 50, and I ever had together.
We’d met in 1983 at the Northumberland, Tyne & Wear hospital while training to be nurses.
He was so charismatic, and we hit it off straight away.
In 1994, after a decade of dating, we moved in together, and a year later our first child Joe was born, followed by our daughters Lucy in 1997 and Emma two years later.
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Then, in February 2000, we married at Morpeth Register Office.
Life was good until November 2001, when Glenn’s sister passed away from early onset dementia, aged just 47.
We didn’t even know she had the disease, though we were aware their mum had died from it in her 40s.
I couldn’t help but fear that it ran in the family.
Glenn did, too, but he didn’t like to talk about it, so it became an unspoken worry we shared.
Instead, I’d watch to see if he was changing.
I didn’t know what to look for, but would test him by seeing if he’d remember where we went for lunch the week before.
He didn’t suspect a thing and I hated doing it, but I needed reassurance Glenn was still OK.
And for a while I thought he was, but that’s the horrible thing about dementia – it can start so gradually.
It’s certainly not like in the movies, where someone suddenly puts butter in the washing machine.
Instead, Glenn slowly began to retreat into himself.
I first thought something was wrong when he was 46.
He’d always been proud of his work as a nurse team leader but was becoming absent-minded, missing meetings and not remembering to supervise junior staff.
As a result, Glenn received warnings and was later demoted.
It was so stressful for him, but still he refused to talk to me about it.
A few months later in autumn 2007, I arranged for Glenn to see our GP.
When I told him we were going, for once he didn’t argue, which rang more alarm bells.
The doctor did a series of mini memory tests, asking him who the prime minister was and what year we were in.
But as Glenn answered them correctly, the GP put his symptoms down to work stress and depression and signed him off for six months.
At home, Glenn still looked like my husband, but instead of his funny, laid-back demeanour, he’d get agitated, often accusing the children of misplacing things.
It was awful to watch – the kids couldn’t understand why he was suddenly yelling all the time.
I kept badgering our GP, and Glenn was finally referred to a neurologist.
Three brain scans confirmed it – my husband had Alzheimer’s and would likely only live a few more years.
I was devastated, and he was sobbing, but we had to pull ourselves together for the children.
I vividly remember leaving the hospital and taking them to see Fantastic Mr Fox.
We ordered pizza and everything seemed normal, but inside I was reeling.
I desperately wanted to discuss Glenn’s diagnosis with him the next day, but by then he’d forgotten.
I decided not to remind him and asked the doctors to do the same – I couldn’t put him through that heartbreak again.
Instead, I sat the children down and explained Daddy wasn’t well.
But they were only young and barely understood.
Over the next few weeks, Glenn became more volatile.
He’d accuse the kids of stealing from him and pace the hallway yelling: ‘Where are you?’ and frighten them.
Sometimes he’d completely forget who I was and would run away from me, afraid himself.
But at other moments, he’d be so lovely.
I remember one evening having a bath and he came in asking if we could get married.
I simply smiled and told him that we already were, and he seemed relieved.
I tried my best to stay positive while raising three kids and working full-time as a psychiatric nurse, but it wasn’t easy.
There were moments when I wanted to scream at Glenn or break down and cry.
As the dementia took hold, he’d frequently weep and accuse me of hurting him.
I knew he could no longer be left at home alone, so in 2010 he started going to a centre during the day six days a week.
It felt so cruel, especially as it was attached to the building where he used to work.
One evening almost a year later, he ran out of our house into the middle of the road.
I realised I couldn’t look after him any more, so I made the heartbreaking decision to move him into a care home full-time.
It was devastating, especially for the children.
But six months later, in June 2012, Glenn became even more volatile.
Staff couldn’t cope with his strength and had to call the police to restrain him when he threw a TV at one of them, so he was detained under the Mental Health Act and moved to a specialist unit at nearby St George’s Park.
It didn’t take long for the disease to accelerate, and soon he couldn’t walk or even lift a cup.
It was awful watching the man I loved become a shadow of his former self.
Once, I brought Emma and Lucy to see him, but he just slouched in his chair, barely able to talk.
The girls burst into tears, and I made the difficult decision not to let them visit any more.
I knew Glenn wouldn’t want them to see him like that.
In July 2013, when he could no longer speak or swallow, I brought Glenn home.
Even though he’d come home to die, it wasn’t morbid.
We set up a bed in the dining room, I’d play the radio and sit with him, his friends would visit and the kids watched TV with him.
Every so often we’d get a little smile, as if to remind us he was still with us.
I was at his side when he passed away on September 9, 2013.
Afterwards, all my feelings came to the surface, and I’d spend hours tearfully poring over photos.
It was a year before I could return to work.
Now we’ve got pictures of Glenn all over the house, and the kids and I always speak about him.
Joe is living in New Zealand, Lucy is at Glasgow University and Emma’s studying for her A levels.
Although the disease is genetic and there’s a possibility they may develop it, I’m not ready to discuss that with them yet.
I’m not looking for a relationship right now. But these days, I can talk about Glenn without getting upset and tell the world what a wonderful man he was.”
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