While the clouds lingered in the sky, Cortina remained acutely aware of her surroundings. She grew increasingly confused by events, struggling to weave her experiences into a coherent understanding or craft an appropriate response. Her mind was that of an adult, fully grasping the reality around her, but as a Cortina interpretation. An interpretation that dissolved within moments, leaving her to process it all over again.

Her forgetfulness was far more profound than simply not remembering, a state beyond what we might imagine. Every few minutes, she had to start anew, reorienting herself to her environment. The mental effort was not only exhausting but yielded results that were heartbreakingly inconsistent, a testament to the relentless challenge she faced all day every day. It is no surprise that people living with dementia sleep more and more.

It was during this time that ‘Him’ moved Cortina into a care home. They talked about it beforehand, and she even helped him pack her belongings. She went willingly, submitted to the Covid testing, and together they were shown to her room, a functional but soulless space; it didn’t remain soulless of course. They unpacked and tried to settle in, but soon Cortina announced that it was time to leave, saying they had better get back home for some dinner. His world fell apart at that moment. Cortina, still fully aware of her surroundings, had reset her sense of the here and now.

A carer stepped in to rescue the situation, distracting Cortina and allowing ‘Him’ to leave. Distraction became the cornerstone of Cortina’s existence, a force that dominated her happiness and her sanity. When Cortina interpreted her surroundings negatively, a carer would step in to distract her, giving her a chance to reprocess what her senses were telling her. She would try to match these sensory inputs with the fragmented experiences her brain could access. This cycle would be repeated until a more settled equilibrium was reached.

She was apart from ‘Him’ for 12 days in an effort to help her settle into her new environment and begin to trust her new guardians and to learn to function without “Him’ constantly by her side. It was a hard time, her innate stoicism and sociability helped, but not having anything or anyone she recognised close by was still challenging. Cortina was a survivor, so she adapted and started to get some comfort from her surroundings but I know it was not easy for her.

Eventually, Him began to visit, bringing with him moments that echoed Cortina’s old life. Together, they would go out to visit places and enjoy meals at restaurants, offering her brief glimpses of the world she used to know. When it came time to part, Cortina would often become very upset, but the faithful distraction strategy usually worked, easing her distress.

Him used these visits as an opportunity to personalise her room. He brought in pieces of furniture chosen just for her, pictures she would like on the walls, her own bedding, and treasured photos and ornaments that Cortina particularly loved. Slowly, her room became not just a space but her space, a reflection of the life she cherished.

Over time, the clouds of dementia drew closer. They sank lower, grew denser, and rose taller, darkening with every passing week until they loomed like an approaching storm. The menacing clouds did not affect Cortina’s awareness of the real world, nor, for the most part, the world she perceived in her mind; both remained bright, happy places. However, they gradually closed in on her ability to process what her senses told her.

There was an undeniable happiness within Cortina’s perceived world, a happiness perhaps misplaced, more dreamy than even our most fantastical imaginings. It was a world that was sometimes comical, sometimes confused, but always lived as the fully functioning Cortina would have acted. Dementia was taking over, but it hadn’t and, in fact, never did manage to change her. The intriguing, harmonious being we had glimpsed developing remained untouched by her disease, steadfast and true to her essence.

One of Cortina’s most common and endearing manifestations of her uniquely interpreted world was talking to the lady in the mirror—any mirror. She would have conversations with her that lasted a minute or two, starting from nowhere and ending nowhere. Neither end of the conversation seemed to belong to our reality, remaining hidden in the ether beyond our understanding. What was remarkable about these episodes was that Cortina spoke and acted as her true, unaffected-by-dementia self. The topics were those that Cortina might have discussed in the past, and her mannerisms were so authentic that it was both heartwarming and, at times, a tad heartbreaking to witness.

‘Him’ loved these moments and would quietly try not to disturb them, or, when needed, would participate. In the lift, there was a very large mirror, and Cortina would typically spot the lady, politely greet her, ask about her well-being, and then introduce her to her husband, ‘Him.’ It was always such a natural, real-world-like performance by Cortina, often with a little of her ‘Otter’ fun, teasing that she couldn’t afford to feed ‘Him’ because he never stopped eating, or some similar impish truism.

When she was alone Cortina would talk to her dolls, for quite a long time, but if she sensed that someone was present she would stop. Just as she was with the lady in the mirror Cortina was her authentic self, with such genuine mannerism, only now she was the maternal angel that she was in her proper life, a nurturing, protective, and loving mother or as the kids called her ‘the nice one’.

It was during this phase that ‘Him’ witnessed a moment that, to him, beautifully captured the challenges of Cortina’s cognitive impairments. They were in her room having lunch when Cortina’s son came in. She looked at him, recognised him immediately but paused before saying “you’re the one who was in my tummy for a long time”.

‘Him’ thought the moment was funny until he reflected on it later that day. Of all the connections in Tina’s brain that linked to memories of her son, billions maybe, that was the best available to her. Even then it could only be articulated in a roundabout imprecise way. Can you imagine how complicated, exhausting and frustrating life in Cortina’s head must have been for the past few years.

Cortina had visits from some of her friends and family but these often didn’t go well until ‘Him’ figured out the set reasons that usually led to Cortina rejecting the visit and started to brief people. An early symptom of her dementia was not being able to handle simple decisions yet a typical visitor would breeze in and start with ‘how are you, so lovely to see you, you are looking good, so & so sends their love as does someone else, do you remember them from…… all is this is delivered in quick succession. I could sense the instant overload and the instant shut down; the visit over. There would be a similar reaction if too many people were with her or too many activities going on around her.

Even as the fog thickened, the adult she had been remained present. If too many women spoke to Him or lingered in conversation, she would turn to him and quietly ask, “Are we still together?” or “Are we alright?” or even “Are we still married?” It wasn’t jealousy; she no longer possessed that emotion in her dwindling range of feelings. Instead, it was a need for clarity, for reassurance. Similarly, if she was unwell or received more personal attention than usual, she would pull ‘Him’ aside and, with the same quiet detachment, ask if she was dying. I could access her emotions, Love and occasionally fear, raw primal emotions, were the most prominent but all emotions were like dying embers in a fire, with only a faint glow from the occasional remnant.

Cortina’s disease is thought to attack the connections between memories, impairing recall and the ability to link them together. Yet it is clearly far more nuanced than that, as her recollections often lacked definition. While she could not identify specific details, she could sense whether a memory connection was associated with happiness or sadness and, to some degree, the intensity of the emotion. Unsurprisingly, this was the point where the clouds gave way to fog—not just any fog, but dense, rolling fog banks that swept in swiftly, appearing as an impenetrable wall.

Over time, the fog banks rolled in more frequently and lingered longer. With each episode, she lost a little more connection to the outside world. Bit by bit, the world was disappearing—not only the tangible, real world but also the world she constructed from her senses, processed through unreliable and random links to memories. Even her awareness of her surroundings began to fade. Her smiles became the last fragile signals of recognition, and even those grew scarce.

She was descending into the mist of oblivion, a space where time and identity blurred, and what remains of the familiar became unreachable. Within this haze, fragments of her world drifted further apart, slipping silently into the void. The mist enveloped her, stealing clarity and leaving only shadows of what once was. It was not simply a loss of memory or awareness; it was the slow erasure of a life once vividly lived, replaced by an all-encompassing emptiness.

The mist was now well established, encroaching not only on her cognitive abilities but also on the functions that sustained her body. She had reached the point where our story began: too debilitated to move, too weak to stand, and too confused not to try. Fragile and defenceless, she was caught in the final stages of the disease’s relentless progression.