It all started so innocently, or so it seemed at the time. The darkness was coming, taking its time, creeping forward ever so slowly, hidden behind a shroud of apparently normal symptoms for someone worn out by effort and eroded by age.

Cortina was approaching 60, the age when she once expected to retire, only for the government to move her pensionable age to 66. She was beginning to struggle at work; tasks she had performed effortlessly for years were now becoming a challenge. She found herself more tired than usual, her memory a bit less reliable. There were other symptoms, subtle hints of something different, but nothing conclusive. Cortina was treated for stress, and initially there was a noticeable improvement. However, that is typical of the looming shadow. It consumes so patiently, so subtly, that neither the person living with it nor those close to them can ever quite tell if something has truly changed.

For now, this uncertainty became irrelevant. ‘Him’ sat Cortina down and explained that she could still retire at 60. He had calculated the value of her small workplace pension, and they could manage without her full salary. For her, in that moment, it was the best news she could imagine. Perhaps her joy was an overreaction, but maybe not, given the clandestine decay that had been occurring in her brain over the past couple of years and the unknown toll it might have already taken.

Cortina retired a couple of weeks before her 60th birthday. ‘Him’ followed four months later, finally having had enough of corporate life. He used a more colourful phrase, but it was clear his frustration had reached its limit. “I just don’t need this anymore,” was his reason for acting now, which in hindsight proved to be a very fortuitous decision.

Cortina was so happy in her retirement, relishing the freedom of days without responsibilities or worries. She embraced the simplicity of life, delighted by the constancy of their time together. But ‘Him’ was beginning to notice things, small at first but enough to plant a seed of concern. There was something in her forgetfulness, in the occasional hesitation, and in the way she began avoiding even the simplest of decisions. He could not quite name it, but a dreadful realisation was slowly taking shape, a shadow that seemed to grow stronger with each passing day. Her happiness was so complete, that he could not bring himself to suggest there might be an issue. He agonised over the possible impact of his silence and inaction but always chose to preserve her happiness.

Roll forward 12 months, and Cortina began to accept that perhaps there was something wrong. After much hesitation, they finally sought medical advice. The diagnosis of early-onset Alzheimer’s was a revelation that changed everything. It was not just a label but a reality that would, at some point and in some way, seal Cortina’s fate.

Each of them carried a different understanding of the situation. The consultant had briefed ‘Him’ separately, ensuring he knew the path that lay ahead would be challenging, unpredictable, and at times random. Cortina, however, was given a gentler picture as her comprehension was already beginning to slip. Her response was immediate. With an expression that clearly showed pain, an awareness of the gravity, but confusion about the detail, Cortina simply asked if she could volunteer for research work.

I do not remember either of them ever discussing the diagnosis directly; they didn’t need to. Along with the truth came an unspoken understanding that acknowledging it, while painful, was the first step toward confronting what lay ahead. They both knew that the way forward would be to do what they had always done. They would stand together, hand in hand, face the tide of inevitability as it washed over them, and deal with whatever happened—each prepared to do whatever it took to support and protect the other.

The cloud of dementia hung over them, for it enveloped both of them. For one, it was a terminal condition, eased by a waning sense of awareness; for the other, it brought challenges that would grow bigger and more complicated. For both, there was the sheer unknown of what would happen next.

In the early years, the cloud of dementia hung like high-level clouds, like the cirrostratus stretching across the sky in a thin milky veil, or the cirrocumulus forming white patches arranged in gentle rows. These clouds did not obscure the sky entirely but softened its perfect blue, adding a wistful mystique that brought contrast and complexity to the day. And so it was for Cortina, her days were bright but marked by wispy moments of forgetfulness and confusion.

Her days continued almost as if nothing were happening. The dementia, of course, continued to take hold, but they simply adjusted. If she struggled, he did more to compensate. It was a spontaneous yet nuanced, delicate, and measured shift in the balance of their relationship. Subtlety was always essential, as the adjustments needed varied unpredictably from day to day and moment to moment. Too much intervention risked reminding Cortina of her plight. ‘Him’ didn’t always get it right, but overall they managed to live a few wonderful years together like this.

A typical example of Cortina’s essential yet variable need was her difficulty returning from the toilet in unfamiliar places. She could find her way there by herself, without issue, but she always struggled to get back. This could happen anywhere—a restaurant, an outdoor event, or an airport. The return leg would require someone loitering nearby, watching and prepared to intervene if necessary. On one occasion, she left the toilet in an apartment and accidentally exited through the front door into an unfamiliar multi-storey building in a foreign city. What followed was a terrifying 30 minutes for both Cortina and him as they frantically searched for one another.

During this period, Cortina’s main source of stress and, at times, despondency was performing in front of others. She only wanted those who saw her frequently to know about her condition, as they were the ones likely to notice changes in her. Cortina worked extremely hard to mask her condition, afraid that others would think she was stupid or something similar. After all, it was a condition typically associated with very old people. The strain was clearly taking its toll, and the mental effort required to maintain the illusion drained her. However, she remained resolute until one day someone described dementia as a disability. Building on this, ‘Him’ eventually convinced Cortina to share her dementia openly. This shift was invaluable for many reasons and undoubtedly extended the time when the effects of dementia were no more than cirrus clouds, gently softening the edges of reality.

It was never going to last, and Cortina’s days started to include more challenges, instances where the shift within their relationship was no longer enough of a solution. The clouds of her dementia lowered to the Alto level, resembling those blue-grey or white-grey mid-level clouds typical of overcast weather, sometimes bringing light rain or snow. At first, these were no more than fleeting moments on some days, but, of course, they became more frequent and widespread.

Cortina started to experience increased confusion and difficulty with daily tasks that were once routine, but her awareness of her environment was reasonable, so she could be painfully aware of some of her own limitations. In these moments she would understand what should be happening or needed doing but couldn’t quite grasp how to achieve it. The internal conflict this created did get to her. Throughout her the entire journey with dementia Cortina never expressed any complaints out loud but during this phase she did utter the same phrase four of five times “I have never been horrible to anyone ever in my whole life….. why is this happening to me”

For some insight into how Cortina could look, behave and talk normally but was unable to function task wise; imagine a simple wooden jigsaw of five by four pieces, that are laid over a picture of the solution. Nineteen of the twenty pieces are in place and the last is placed beside the remaining gap, orientated correctly to fit. Cortina’s brain could not complete the puzzle! On the plus side she would happily sit in front of the TV, with ‘Him’ and watch anything.

As any day progressed, Cortina would start to get disorientated, not sure of who she was or where she was. A ride in the car usually allowed her to get grounded again. Not because they went anywhere specific but something about the car ride worked for her. Don’t going telling the Covid police as they bent a few pandemic rules along the way.

In nature alto clouds can precede storms and so inevitably Cortina’s days increasingly represented the low clouds and the storm clouds, those massive cumulonimbus clouds, towering clouds of violent internal activity associated with heavy rain and thunderstorms

Life was also getting risky, on one occasion she was about to get into a bath of only hot water when ‘Him’ intervened just in time, she fell down the stairs, fortunately not breaking anything, but unable to wear a shoe on one foot for three weeks. It was not just the fall but the complications that surround it that made life difficult for her. She became more unsettled because she was unable to complete the simplest of activities. Cortina would get annoyed if ‘Him’ did household chores as she somehow knew it was something she would have done in another world or at another time. She even got angry with ‘Him’ during a visit to a supermarket “how could he leave all those people in there starving. What sort of person was he!”

The episodes increased where Cortina’s confusion would trigger a different and inappropriate part of her character for a given circumstance. Although the responses were always compassionate, they were more intense than Cortina would normally display. ‘Him’ was beginning to realise that he could no longer manage as her sole carer, and Mother Nature ensured he learned this lesson in good time by striking him with a couple of anxiety attacks.