Dementia Love Quotes

To care for those who once cared for us is one of the highest honors.

Affirmations are our mental vitamins, providing the supplementary positive thoughts we need to balance the barrage of negative events and thoughts we experience daily.

Love is a kind of dementia with very precise and oft-repeated clinical symptoms. You blush in each other's presence, you both hover in places where you expect the other to pass, you are both a little tongue-tied, you both laugh inexplicably and too long, you become quite nauseatingly girlish, and he becomes quite ridiculously gallant. You have also grown a little stupid.

Caregiving often calls us to lean into love we didn't know possible.

In the heart or every caregiver is a knowing that we are all connected. As I do for you, I do for me.

I love you but I got to love me more.

By loving you more, you love the person you are caring for more.

Age isn't stealing from my grandmother; it's slowly unwinding her.

Many of us follow the commandment 'Love One Another.' When it relates to caregiving, we must love one another with boundaries. We must acknowledge that we are included in the 'Love One Another.

You make me sick. Because I adore you so..." ~Space Dementia

Love is a kind of dementia with very precise and oft-repeated clinical symptoms.

You shall suffer for ever the influence of my kiss. You shall be beautiful in my fashion. You shall love that which I love and that which loves me: water, clouds, silence and the night; the immense green sea; the formless and multiform streams; the place where you shall not be; the lover whom you shall not know; flowers of monstrous shape; perfumes that cause delirium; cats that shudder, swoon and curl up on pianos and groan like women, with a voice that is hoarse and gentle! And you shall be loved by my lovers, courted by my courtiers. You shall be the queen of all men that have green eyes, whose necks also I have clasped in my nocturnal caresses; of those who love the sea, the sea that is immense, tumultuous and green, the formless and multiform streams, the place where they are not, the woman whom they do not know, sinister flowers that resemble the censers of a strange religion, perfumes that confound the will; and the savage and voluptuous animals which are the emblems of their dementia.

I think about how the language I’ve mourned never learning has on some levels already been taught. A language I thought too difficult to warrant effort has already embedded itself into me.

Never give up hope. If you do, you'll be dead already.--Dementia Patient, Rose from The Inspired Caregiver

All of the things that were shown in early studies to be good for longevity—happy marriages, healthy bodies—are ours to have. We live long, good lives. We die on our eightieth birthdays, surrounded by our families, before dementia sets in. Cancer, heart disease, and most debilitating illnesses are almost entirely eradicated. This is as close to perfect as any society has ever managed to get.

I am a wife, mother, and friend, and soon to be grandmother, I still feel, understand, and am worthy of the love and joy in those relationships. I am still an active participant in society. My brain no longer works well, but I use my ears for unconditional listening, my shoulders for crying on, and my arms for hugging others with dementia. Through an early stage support group...by talking to you today, I am helping others with dementia live better with dementia. I am not someone dying. I am someone living with Alzheimer's. I want to do that as well as I possibly can.

Progress is not about hating or destroying America, it is about loving and building the world, which can only come from healing our national dementia.

When you truly love someone, it doesn't go away,

She’d forgotten to love, but she also forgot to hate. (about Clara’s mother, who had dementia)

Butterfly Kisses Aged imperfections stitched upon my face years and years of wisdom earned by His holy grace. Quiet solitude in a humble home all the family scattered now like nomads do they roam. Then a gift sent from above a memory pure and tangible wrapped in innocence and unquestioning love. A butterfly kiss lands gently upon my cheek from an unseen child a kiss most sweet. Heaven grants grace and tears follow as youth revisits this empty hollow.

She could have rambled with all the fervor of a woman who had loved one entity for longer than most races live, and with the inviolable, unquestioned certainty found in dementia. There were references dated and sealed with meticulous care which she would have enthusiastically opened with the mirth of one proclaiming a lifetime of honors and awards. But that singular event was freshly disturbed; its pores still drifted on the faint zephyr of remembrance.

Hi lover," he says to me, completely forgetting what happened before. He knows who I am. He knows that I am the one person who he loves, has always loved. No disease, no person can take that away. (p.205)

I believe that most caregivers find that they inherit a situation where they just kind of move into caregiving. It's not a conscious decision for most caregivers, and they are ultimately left with the responsibility of working while still trying to be the caregiver, the provider, and the nurturer.- Sharon Law Tucker

My #love stories have happy endings, because I stop the tales before dejection, dementia, and death occur.

It took great effort for Maureen to feel good about herself, and some people in her life took advantage of that.

When this time comes, please remember that letting go of a person with terminal dementia is not a sign of defeat: It is an act of love.

My #love stories have happy endings, because I stop the tales before dejection, dementia, and death occur.


The more stories about healthy aging that people read, about a life phase of rich emotional growth, the more they will expect the same for their loved ones and, one day, themselves.

As the dementia progresses and the person develops trouble with coordination and language, it is easy to forget his need to experience pleasant things and to enjoy himself. Never overlook the importance of hand holding, touching, hugging, and loving.

I have a tiny little secret hope that, after a decent period of silence and prose, I will find myself in some almost impossible life situation and will respond to this with outcries of rage, rage and love, such as the world has never heard before. Like Yeats's great outburst at the end of his life. This comes out of a feeling that endowment is a very small part of achievement. I would rate it about fifteen or twenty percent, Then you have historical luck, personal luck, health, things like that, then you have hard work, sweat. And you have ambition. The incredible difference between the achievement of A and the achievement of B is that B wanted it, so he made all kinds of sacrifices. A could have had it, but he didn’t give a damn.[...] But what I was going on to say is that I do strongly feel that among the greatest pieces of luck for high achievement is ordeal. Certain great artists can make out without it, Titian and others, but mostly you need ordeal. My idea is this: the artist is extremely lucky who is presented with the worst possible ordeal which will not actually kill him. At that point, he's in business. Beethoven's deafness, Goya's deafness, Milton's blindness, that kind of thing. And I think that what happens in my poetic work in the future will probably largely depend not on my sitting calmly on my ass as I think, "Hmm, hmm, a long poem again? Hmm," but on being knocked in the face, and thrown flat, and given cancer, and all kinds of other things short of senile dementia. At that point, I'm out, but short of that, I don't know. I hope to be nearly crucified,

Very few people in her life felt toxic enough to cut off completely. She did not hesitate to cut off people who were bad for her children. But to cut off people who were bad for herself, she had to first muster the self-confidence and realization that she deserved something better.

What made Olive the saddest about the Gardners was that everyone wanted to be enshrined in someone’s memory. It was the only way of living on after death, really: in the minds of loved ones. Memories were the only things that made aging bearable, a way of reverting to better, simpler days.

Diane Gonclaves DeLuna and her mother, Mary for whom my heroine is named for. Diane and I met on Facebook, but we soon learned we have one thing (besides romance novels) in common. Her mother suffers from Alzheimer’s and min suffered from Dementia. Both of us wish we only had the love of romances in common.   Jane

Among us, on the other hand, 'the righteous man lives by faith.' Now, if you take away positive affirmation, you take away faith, for without positive affirmation nothing is believed. And there are truths about things unseen, and unless they are believed, we cannot attain to the happy life, which is nothing less than life eternal. It is a question whether we ought to argue with those who profess themselves ignorant not only about the eternity yet to come but also about their present existence, for they [the Academics] even argue that they do not know what they cannot help knowing. For no one can 'not know' that he himself is alive. If he is not alive, he cannot 'not know' about it or anything else at all, because either to know or to 'not know' implies a living subject. But, in such a case, by not positively affirming that they are alive, the skeptics ward off the appearance of error in themselves, yet they do not make errors simply by showing themselves alive; one cannot err who is not alive. That we live is therefore not only true, but it is altogether certain as well. And there are many things that are thus true and certain concerning which, if we withhold positive assent, this ought not to be regarded as a higher wisdom but actually a sort of dementia.

In the early eighties, Maureen started to bargain with God to try and turn her marriage around. She went with a neighbor girlfriend to get baptized and then asked God to heal her marriage. Surprisingly, her husband came home early from a trip that night. They talked for hours, and she told herself that God had helped them turn a corner. It did not last a month.

For me, my wedding wasn’t for all those rich and famous people I barely knew. It wasn’t for my distant, dysfunctional family (though I do fondly remember my grandfather, by then in the grips of dementia, lovingly yelling my name like he was on the block: “Mariah! Mariah!”) To me, the wedding spectacle was mostly for the fans, and we gave them the fabulous moment they deserved.

I think the love I once had has run its course. What remains is just placebo love, easy to mistake for real love. Aging, sickness, maybe the start of dementia will do this. Taking care of him and worrying for him and calling him all the time when I’m away to make sure he lacks for nothing—all these have worn out everything I had in me to give. You wouldn’t call this love. No one would. He wouldn’t.

If I’d realised how much that pressure would build inside me, the slow descent into a dull existence, days blemished with concern for my dad and whether I’m looking after him properly — well, I would have stayed out late some nights, lost my virginity at sixteen instead of still having it, developed a fondness for alcohol, sat at bars, smoked weed, danced at clubs, and turned strangers into friends.

Fiona couldn't summon a smile. His grandfather sighed. 'If you insist on pity, then really you must pity yourself. Your head is still very empty.' Fionn frowned, indignation jostling the urge to cry fro a precious, fleeting second. His grandfather chuckled. 'Start filling it up, lad. That is your greatest responsibility. To live a life of breathless wonder, so that when it begins to fade from you, you will feel the shadow of its happiness still inside you and the blissful sense that you laughed the loudest, loved the deepest, and lived fearlessly, even as the specifics of it all melt away.

A daughter’s decree to Lewy body It was then that you carried me, throughout the whole of my life, keeping me safe and away from all strife. And now that you struggle with everyday things, I’ll make sure your safe from the pain that life brings. And now that your quality and love of life’s gone, I’ll get you the best from each day till you’re done. And as people wonder and as people stare, as you’re talking to things that just are not there. I will stand beside you and I’ll make them see, if it’s real to you, then it’s real to me. And the times that you stumble, the times that you fall, I’ll make sure there’s someone to answer your call. And when you are dizzy, scared and alone, I’ll make sure that kindness and compassion is shown. When I recently asked you what life had been? you looked at me sadly and said ordinary. But I will make sure though the best of you’s gone, that together we create a legacy that’s strong. So as comprehension is the last thing to go, I hope you can hear me, I pray that you know, It is now that I carry you.

I stepped somewhat apprehensively into 2020, unaware of what was to happen, of course, thinking little about the newly-emerged coronavirus, but knowing myself to be at a tipping point in my life. I had come so very far over the years, the decades, from my birthplace in the United Kingdom, to Thailand, Japan and then back to Thailand to arrive at an age—how had I clocked up so many turns under the sun?—at which most people ask for nothing more than comfort, security and love, or at least loving kindness. Instead, I was slowly extricating myself, physically and emotionally, from a marriage that had, over the course of more than a decade, slowly, almost imperceptibly, deteriorated from complacency to conflict, from apathy to antagonism, from diversity to divergence as our respective outlooks on life first shifted and then conflicted. Instrumental in exacerbating this had been my decision to travel as and where I could after witnessing my mother’s devastating and terminal descent into dementia. For reasons which even now I cannot recall with any accuracy, the first destination for this reborn, more daring me was Tibet, thus initiating a new love affair, this time with the culture and majesty of the Himalayan swathe, and the awakening within me of a quest for the spiritual. I had, over the years, been a teacher, a lecturer, a consultant and an advisor, but I now wanted to inspire and release my verbal and photographic creativity, to capture the places I visited and the experiences I had in words and images—and if possible to have the wherewithal of sharing them with like-minded people.

What is it that makes a person the very person that she is, herself alone and not another, an integrity of identity that persists over time, undergoing changes and yet still continuing to be—until she does not continue any longer, at least not unproblematically? I stare at the picture of a small child at a summer’s picnic, clutching her big sister’s hand with one tiny hand while in the other she has a precarious hold on a big slice of watermelon that she appears to be struggling to have intersect with the small o of her mouth. That child is me. But why is she me? I have no memory at all of that summer’s day, no privileged knowledge of whether that child succeeded in getting the watermelon into her mouth. It’s true that a smooth series of contiguous physical events can be traced from her body to mine, so that we would want to say that her body is mine; and perhaps bodily identity is all that our personal identity consists in. But bodily persistence over time, too, presents philosophical dilemmas. The series of contiguous physical events has rendered the child’s body so different from the one I glance down on at this moment; the very atoms that composed her body no longer compose mine. And if our bodies are dissimilar, our points of view are even more so. Mine would be as inaccessible to her—just let her try to figure out [Spinoza’s] Ethics—as hers is now to me. Her thought processes, prelinguistic, would largely elude me. Yet she is me, that tiny determined thing in the frilly white pinafore. She has continued to exist, survived her childhood illnesses, the near-drowning in a rip current on Rockaway Beach at the age of twelve, other dramas. There are presumably adventures that she—that is that I—can’t undergo and still continue to be herself. Would I then be someone else or would I just no longer be? Were I to lose all sense of myself—were schizophrenia or demonic possession, a coma or progressive dementia to remove me from myself—would it be I who would be undergoing those trials, or would I have quit the premises? Would there then be someone else, or would there be no one? Is death one of those adventures from which I can’t emerge as myself? The sister whose hand I am clutching in the picture is dead. I wonder every day whether she still exists. A person whom one has loved seems altogether too significant a thing to simply vanish altogether from the world. A person whom one loves is a world, just as one knows oneself to be a world. How can worlds like these simply cease altogether? But if my sister does exist, then what is she, and what makes that thing that she now is identical with the beautiful girl laughing at her little sister on that forgotten day? In this passage from Betraying Spinoza, the philosopher and novelist Rebecca Newberger Goldstein (to whom I am married) explains the philosophical puzzle of personal identity, one of the problems that engaged the Dutch-Jewish thinker who is the subject of her book.5 Like her fellow humanist Dawkins, Goldstein analyzes the vertiginous enigma of existence and death, but their styles could not be more different—a reminder of the diverse ways that the resources of language can be deployed to illuminate a topic.

ahead and do this. If you will reach a point at which you will need Medicaid to pay for your loved one’s nursing-home care, Medicaid will require you to take some of the last remaining funds and preplan the funeral, to be sure that your loved one’s estate provides the funds for this final act.

Her grandma Hilda was my grandma. I loved her dearly. After being married for 58 years, her husband died, and we all watched as she suffered. For ten years, Hilda cried herself to sleep at night. She was living on her own, proud and independent, but heart-achingly lonely, missing her life partner. We didn’t have the heart to put her in a home, yet with Hilda’s dementia worsening, Bonnie Pearl’s mom, Sharon, was determined to find her a home with the best possible care. We had heard that some retirement communities were pretty spectacular, and after weeks of looking, Sharon finally found a community that gave the Four Seasons a run for its money—this place is amazing. I always said I’d stay there, and I don’t say that about many places. So guess what happened to Grandmom after moving into her new digs? Forget that she traded up to a beautiful new apartment with modern amenities and 24-hour care. That was just the tip of the iceberg. More amazing than that, she began a second life! At 88 years old, she transformed into a new woman and fell in love again. A 92-year-old Italian captured her heart. (“I don’t let him under my shirt yet, but he tries all the time,” she said with a grin.) They had four beautiful years together before he passed away, and I kid you not, at his funeral, she met her next beau. Her last decade was filled with a quality of life she never could have envisioned. She found happiness, joy, love, and friendship again. It was an unexpected last chapter of her life and a reminder that love is the ultimate wealth. It can show up unexpected anytime, anywhere—and it is never too late.

WHO IS YOUR TEACHER? Everyone you come across is your Teacher, ..Family members, as they teach you sacrifice and unconditional love; ...Friends, as they teach you how to share joy and sorrow; ...Young kids, as they teach you patience, and “to live for the day”; ...Beggars, as they teach you generosity and compassion; ... L-learner drivers, as they teach you patience; ....Pick-pockets, as they teach you to manage emotions, letting go, forgive and forget; and .... Those who are with disability and those with dementia; as they teach you empathy and (lots of) patience. So you see, there is no lack of good Teachers, it’s just that we are bad Students, We learn but we never practise.

Tears water our eyes. "Remember," mom soothes, "like the beautiful blooms beneath the weeds, Nana is still Nana underneath.

a dementia sufferer effuses delight and notices very different things when taken out in her wheelchair. Such people can teach us to see again the little things that make a big difference. They can show us how to enjoy familiar environments with fresh new eyes.

It is often difficult to answer the same question repeatedly, but it is more difficult for them to realize they never seem to have answers to life's questions. Try to look at life from the perspective with which your loved one is living. It will help you see things differently.

Minimize the fear of caring for someone with dementia, and preserve the caregiver’s sanity with personal, functional tips to understand and cope with the disease.

Contents Beginnings 1. Facing Up 2. Getting Older 3. The Brain, the Mind and the Self 4. Memory and Forgetting 5. The Diagnosis 6. Shame 7. The Carers 8. Connecting through the Arts 9. Home 10. The Later Stages 11. Hospitals 12. At the End 13. Saying Goodbye 14. Death

Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go.

A Methodist clergywoman, Shamy declares in the introduction that she hopes the book will bring together those who work with and love people who have dementia. She describes this communion as a “fellowship of the foolish.” “For foolish we most certainly will appear,” she writes, “in a society obsessed by the quantifiable, by the immediate, by productivity and usefulness, by competition and profit, by individualism and loss of community, and where the bottom line really is the bottom line.

Memory loss, dementia and Alzheimer's disease are becoming quite pervasive in our society. BeeHive Assisted Living Homes of Rio Rancho #1 have all heard about it on the news, read about it in magazines and talked with friends that are dealing with it. But, what happens when it starts to affect you in a more personal way. Finally, remember that whatever the future holds, you've done the best you can for your loved one. Rest in the knowledge that your memory care in Rio Rancho during this process has made a positive impact on the quality of life that they have and enjoy the time that you have with them.

I believe that when a loved one has dementia, you experience many layers of grief. The first wave of grief comes with the diagnosis. The realisation that the person who has supported you all your life, will no longer be able to do so, no matter how hard they try. Grief the first time they struggle to remember your name or your relationship to each other. Grief when you have to accept that you can no longer keep them at home. Grief as they lose the ability to communicate, as another piece of the jigsaw is lost. Grief every time they are afraid, agitated or confused. So much grief you don't think you can cope with anymore. And then the overwhelming tidal wave of grief when they pass, when you would give anything to go back to the first wave of grief.

I have sucked into my lungs molecules from not only the last breath of animals and people I have loved, but also from their exhalations at any of the moments I choose from their biographies: Marissa’s and Newton’s first yells after gulping air for the first time; Peter’s wholehearted “Ja” on our wedding day; my mother’s pant-pant-blows as she labored to push me into the world;

Soon you'll forget you loved me, but to me your love will be a burning memory I fight to keep. In the end, dementia kills us all.

Soon you'll forget you loved me, but your love will be a burning memory I fight to keep. In the end, dementia kills us all

I don't know who you are, but I love you.

One of the things Mom’s journey with dementia has taught me is this: Life is in the small things, like the word “Amen”—a simple agreement, a yes to words prayed, and a statement claiming the promises of God. I’ve cried and begged for Mom not to have to go through this valley of loss, but it has come regardless. Now my one plea is that—in all that she has or will lose—she will never lose the love of God and her family. That is a truth worth saying “Amen” to.

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It is true that scientists and doctors use the word clinically, and it is also true that patients and their loved ones don’t always know what to make of it, especially when they first receive the diagnosis. It is too imprecise, for one thing. Dementia can be a spectrum, ranging from mild to severe, and some of the causes of dementia are entirely reversible. Alzheimer’s disease, which accounts for more than half the cases of dementia, gets nearly all the attention, and as a result, the terms dementia and Alzheimer’s are often used interchangeably. They shouldn’t be. The word dementia, however, is steeped in our common vernacular, and so is the association with Alzheimer’s disease. In this book, I use both terms with the hope that the conversation, and the words we use to describe the broad condition of cognitive decline, will shift in the future.

One of my favourite poems // All my friends are finding new beliefs. This one converts to Catholicism and this one to trees. In a highly literary and hitherto religiously-indifferent Jew God whomps on like a genetic generator. Paleo, Keto, Zone, South Beach, Bourbon. Exercise regimens so extreme she merges with machine. One man marries a woman twenty years younger and twice in one brunch uses the word verdant; another’s brick-fisted belligerence gentles into dementia, and one, after a decade of finical feints and teases like a sandpiper at the edge of the sea, decides to die. Priesthoods and beasthoods, sombers and glees, high-styled renunciations and avocations of dirt, sobrieties, satieties, pilgrimages to the very bowels of  being ... All my friends are finding new beliefs and I am finding it harder and harder to keep track of the new gods and the new loves, and the old gods and the old loves, and the days have daggers, and the mirrors motives, and the planet’s turning faster and faster in the blackness, and my nights, and my doubts, and my friends, my beautiful, credible friends.

I have seen a husband adapt honestly and courageously while his wife descended into terminal dementia. He made the necessary adjustments, step by step. He accepted help when he needed it. He refused to deny her sad deterioration and in that manner adapted gracefully to it. I saw the family of that same woman come together in a supporting and sustaining manner as she lay dying, and gain newfound connections with each other—brother, sisters, grandchildren and father—as partial but genuine compensation for their loss. I have seen my teenage daughter live through the destruction of her hip and her ankle and survive two years of continual, intense pain and emerge with her spirit intact. I watched her younger brother voluntarily and without resentment sacrifice many opportunities for friendship and social engagement to stand by her and us while she suffered. With love, encouragement, and character intact, a human being can be resilient beyond imagining. What cannot be borne, however, is the absolute ruin produced by tragedy and deception.

The fear brought on by a loved one’s dementia diagnosis is staggering. We’re on a bus ride down a congested street, and there’s no driver at the wheel. Here’s where we say that if you aren’t freaking out, you clearly don’t understand the situation. The future looms large. The most dire scenes play through our minds. We hardly know where to start. Much of our fear comes from feeling like we’re totally unprepared to take on the task ahead. Most of the time, we are totally unprepared. Have you ever watched someone else walk through dementia caregiving? Probably not.

I like to remind people that dementia caregiving is a voluntary job. As harsh as it sounds, we always have the right to walk away. Nobody has to do anything. We may feel like we have no choice in the matter. But feelings aren’t facts. The fact is we all have the right to say no. I just want you to remember that there are other options. If it ever becomes too much, you don’t have to sacrifice yourself in the process. What is the value of the rescuer going down with the one in danger? Not to mention that you deserve to survive with a shred of sanity still intact. We caregivers are notorious for ignoring our own needs until we’re forced to take care of them. We go without sleep. We eat too much junk food or forget to eat at all. We don’t have time to exercise. We isolate ourselves because no one understands us anyway. We foster these habits at our own peril—and that of our loved one. The reality is that none of us is superhuman.

Sorrow and grief become constant companions as we experience losses both big and small. Dementia has been called “the long goodbye” for a reason. Anticipatory grief is also a part of the caregiver’s journey. We know how the story ends from the day we hear a dementia diagnosis. We try not to dwell on our loved one’s demise, but that reality bubbles just below the surface of our everyday lives.

The losses caused by dementia aren’t as clear as a loss by death. When someone dies, we know when it happened. We know how it happened. We take part in certain rituals to mark the event. Our sorrow is understood by others who offer condolences and support. Those things don’t happen with the slow but inevitable losses of dementia. What we experience is called ambiguous loss. Ambiguous loss and the subsequent grief can come from two scenarios. Either someone is physically absent but emotionally present or they’re physically present but emotionally absent. They’re here, but they aren’t here.

There are two main approaches that help during this period of changing roles: (1) recognizing and acknowledging changes as they occur and (2) allowing yourself to grieve what was and is no longer. Few approaches to change cause more pain than clinging to old patterns. The more we insist on having what has been, the harder it becomes to see the joy in what remains. And the good news is that there is a great deal of joy yet to come your way.

While Alzheimer’s ranks as the most common form of dementia, FTD ranks as the most common form of dementia for people under sixty. That makes this a critical story.

What course are you on, then?" she asks. "History." "So you want to read about people who died before you can even remember," she teases, nudging me in the arm. I take a moment to think about what it means to me so that the words come out right. "History is who we are," I say finally. "The past shapes us. Even the parts you can't remember

I really don't think that's true at all. If you truly love someone, if they were ever important to you, it doesn't disappear. What it looks like might change, but that's only the surface.

Relationships change and the past isn't some static thing you could keep forever like a photograph. No one else seems to understand that. Just because something happened, it doesn't mean it will mean the same thing to you forever. It changes with you. The friendship you cherished, the wife you adored, the child you raised. It can all become meaningless so easily, which means it was always meaningless from the beginning and you just didn't realise it.

Dementia steals things—memories, speech, other abilities. But I don’t think it changes who you are, or who you love.

My father went into hospital with leg ulcers that were slow to heal. There were strict visiting hours and then, with an outbreak of norovirus, a virtual lockdown of the ward, which meant that for days on end he was alone: nobody to hold his hand, speak his name, tell him he was loved; nobody to keep him tethered to the world. His leg ulcers were healed, but away from the home he loved, stripped of familiar routines and surrounded by strangers and machines, he swiftly lost his bearings and his fragile hold upon his self. There is a great chasm between care and 'care', and my father fell into it.

We need to allow our loved ones to have ownership of the negative emotions regardless of our full understanding. This is not about whether they should or should not feel a particular way. All that matters is how they are feeling and what needs to be done to help them achieve a positive emotional state.

But it is His silence that also makes prayer universal. People who cannot speak, from infants in utero to elderly with dementia, from the severely disabled to the man drawing his dying breath, can all pray by being in relationship with God in silence. The one who is poor, hungry, lost, little, sick, or imprisoned can still be in silent union with Christ: “As you did it to one of the least of these my brethren, you did it to me” (Matt 25:40). And so each one of us ultimately experiences the deepest union with God not through words but in the silence of trust and surrender, like a baby in her mother’s arms.

Because there are people in our lives; rare unexpected people who don't just walk beside us through life; they witness our lives too. They hold our memories in their DNA. So that when one body forgets, the other is there to push rewind, to cue up the highlights reel on a love story that made it all worth it.

Here’s a routine you can try this week. Write down the five senses: sight, hearing, taste, smell, and touch. For each sense, name two things you love. You now have a list of 10 delights. At the end of each day, look at your list. How many delights did you give yourself that day? Make a goal of not letting a day pass without indulging a minimum of two senses with something you love.

the person’s memory is or how strange his behavior, he is still a unique and special human being. We can continue to love a person even after he has changed drastically and even when we are deeply troubled

I Understand Mom The fog wraps around her mind bit and pieces of tattered thought become blank within her eyes minutes ago is gone, the sadness inside. Reaching for a wonderful memory that was just an hour ago you fight so hard to bring it back until you finally let it go. I’m sorry, I don’t remember as the tears reach her face tears roll down a beautiful smile while your days are being erased. I understand Mom; I’m here for you there’s blessings at our door God is here; He will guide us through with His love and so much more.

Part 3 takes a look at the challenges of diagnosing and treating brain diseases. What should you do if you notice the early signs? Are they symptoms of another health condition that mimics dementia? Why have our research and clinical trials failed so miserably in coming up with cures and drugs to treat neurodegenerative ailments? What treatments are available at all levels of severity? How can a spouse remain healthy while caring for a partner with dementia (caregivers have a much higher risk of developing the disease)? Dementia is a moving target; caring for someone with the disease can be one of the most challenging jobs ever undertaken. No one learns in formal schooling how to deal with a loved one whose brain is in irreversible decline. For some, the brain changes are slow and subtle, taking years or even more than a decade for symptoms to become pronounced; for others, it’s sudden and rapid. Both circumstances can be difficult and unpredictable

His book For Whom the Bell Tolls was an instant success in the summer of 1940, and afforded him the means to live in style at his villa outside of Havana with his new wife Mary Welsh, whom he married in 1946. It was during this period that he started getting headaches and gaining weight, frequently becoming depressed. Being able to shake off his problems, he wrote a series of books on the Land, Air and Sea, and later wrote The Old Man and the Sea for which he won the Pulitzer Prize in May 1954. Hemingway on a trip to Africa where he barely survived two successive airplane crashes. Returning to Cuba, Ernest worked reshaping the recovered work and wrote his memoir, A Moveable Feast. He also finished True at First Light and The Garden of Eden. Being security conscious, he stored his works in a safe deposit box at a bank in Havana. His home Finca Vigía had become a hub for friends and even visiting tourists. It was reliably disclosed to me that he frequently enjoyed swinger’s parties and orgies at his Cuban home. In Spain after divorcing Frank Sinatra Hemingway introduced Ava Gardner to many of the bullfighters he knew and in a free for all, she seduced many of hotter ones. After Ava Gardner’s affair with the famous Spanish bullfighter Luis Miguel Dominguín crashed, she came to Cuba and stayed at Finca Vigía, where she had what was termed to be a poignant relationship with Ernest. Ava Gardner swam nude in the pool, located down the slope from the Hemingway house, after which he told his staff that the water was not to be emptied. An intimate friendship grew between Hemingway’s forth and second wife, Mary and Pauline. Pauline often came to Finca Vigia, in the early 1950s, and likewise Mary made the crossing of the Florida Straits, back to Key West several times. The ex-wife and the current wife enjoyed gossiping about their prior husbands and lovers and had choice words regarding Ernest. In 1959, Hemingway was in Cuba during the revolution, and was delighted that Batista, who owned the nearby property, that later became the location of the dismal Pan Americana Housing Development, was overthrown. He shared the love of fishing with Fidel Castro and remained on good terms with him. Reading the tea leaves, he decided to leave Cuba after hearing that Fidel wanted to nationalize the properties owned by Americans and other foreign nationals. In the summer of 1960, while working on a manuscript for Life magazine, Hemingway developed dementia becoming disorganized and confused. His eyesight had been failing and he became despondent and depressed. On July 25, 1960, he and his wife Mary left Cuba for the last time. He never retrieved his books or the manuscripts that he left in the bank vault. Following the Bay of Pigs Invasion, the Cuban government took ownership of his home and the works he left behind, including an estimated 5,000 books from his personal library. After years of neglect, his home, which was designed by the Spanish architect Miguel Pascual y Baguer in 1886, has now been largely restored as the Hemingway Museum. The museum, overlooking San Francisco de Paula, as well as the Straits of Florida in the distance, houses much of his work as well as his boat housed near his pool.

Losing a loved one from cancer, a heart attack, or even a bullet – it's not the same. With dementia, it's such a slow loss. Imagine what it must be like to watch a person you love disappear a little more each day. And then there's the strange and scary behavior. How can you . . .?” Uncertain of what else to say, her voice trailed off.

The war neuroses, according to psycho-analysis, belong to a group of neuroses in which not only is the genital sexuality affected, as in ordinary hysteria, but also its precursor, the so-called narcissism, self-love, just as in dementia praecox and paranoia. I grant that the sexual foundation of these so-called narcissistic neuroses is less easily apparent, particularly to those who equate sexuality and genitality and have neglected to use the word "sexual" in the sense of the old platonic Eros. Psychoanalysis, however, returns to this extremely ancient standpoint when it treats all tender and sensual relations of the man to his own or to the opposite sex, emotional feelings towards friends, relatives and fellow-creatures generally, even the affective behaviour towards one's own ego and body, partly under the rubric "erotism", otherwise "sexuality".

If we are going to honor God in and even through dementia, we first need to know God in an intimate way. We need to think the way he thinks, respond to life’s situations the way he responds, love the things he loves, and value the things he values. When we know God in this way, we are able to respond to dementia the way God himself would respond.

Read this mental healing and strengthening book to your beloved grandpa/grandma and strengthen your family bonding in Christ. Help them to find their way in this life. Help them from being lost in the mind and ways through dementia. If your grandparents can still read, bless them with this salvation from Alzheimers healing book as a gift from you. Tell grandma she is your best friend and anounce to grumpy grandpa that he is your good and inspiring friend whom you love so dearly. This Holy Spirit breathed book allows you to feel strongly that parenting does not stop at all. When you have old grandparents, you are a parent at any age through your love for them.

This longing for explanation is timeless and universal. The common thread in these stories is that suffering rarely "is what it is." More often than not, protagonists have to face challenges on their path before they can come out the other end and achieve peace, light, love, or another form of victory.

Issues of meaning and purpose are all about the road we have to travel. Stories help us to gain a better understanding of life. By putting ourselves in other people's shoes, we can safely experience what it means to be afraid yet show courage, to lose yet be triumphant. Identification with a story activates the same parts of the brain that the actual experience would have fired.