'Dad says mum is "just as gorgeous as ever." We all know she's slipping away.'

You'd expect a spouse or one of the children to be the first to notice when a mother starts to change. But in our case, it wasn't me — it was my husband, Trevor.

He was the first to quietly point out Mum seemed to be forgetting things more often, and she'd started snapping over the smallest of issues.

Once he said it out loud, I couldn't unsee it. Suddenly the little moments stood out — the confusion, the frustration, the sharp edge in her voice that hadn't been there before.

Trev and I sat down with Dad to share our worries. He brushed it off, smiling in that stubborn, loving way of his. "Your mother's fine," he said. "She's just as gorgeous as ever."

Despite Dad's resistance, Trev and I knew we couldn't just stand by and hope things would sort themselves out. We decided to pull everyone together — a family intervention of sorts — to form a care team for Mum.

Watch: Research from Tokyo showing dog owners are 40% less likely to develop dementia. Post continues after video.

One Sunday afternoon, we gathered around our kitchen table, cups of tea growing cold as we spoke quietly but honestly about what we'd each noticed. It wasn't an easy conversation, but it felt necessary — a way to face what we'd all been feeling but hadn't dared to name.

To my relief, Dad eventually came around. He admitted he'd noticed changes too — how Mum had begun to distance herself from her closest friends, judging them harshly or growing jealous when they spent time with others. It broke my heart to realise that, because of this, most of her friends had slowly stopped visiting.

Sandra's dad and mum in 1962. Image: Supplied.

The hardest part for me, though, was seeing Mum push away my little sister, Donna. It started after Donna took Mum to see the specialist — the appointment that led to her dementia diagnosis.

Somehow, in Mum's mind, Donna became the enemy. She began calling her "too bossy," refusing to see her. It was as if the truth Donna helped uncover had broken something between them.

That rejection lasted for years. Watching it unfold was agonising. Yet through all the anger and accusations, Donna never stopped showing up. She stayed patient and loving, even when Mum's words were at their sharpest. Only recently has their relationship begun to soften again, turning back to the love that was there before.

Sandra with her sister, Donna and their mum. Image: Supplied.

After the diagnosis, we all rallied in our own ways. Trev threw himself into research, learning everything he could about dementia and navigating the maze of supports through My Aged Care.

Together, we took over some of Dad's chores to lighten his load. My younger brother visits Mum whenever he can — especially on his Fridays off. And Donna, ever selfless, left her job so she could spend more time with Mum.

She's since returned to part-time work, balancing her caring role with raising her young son, supported every step of the way by her wonderful husband.

As for Dad — I have no doubt he's doing everything he possibly can. But it's tough. Mum no longer cooks or cleans, yet she's quick to criticise every attempt he makes. He often says it feels like he just can't win.

The other day, Dad told me there was a "stink" in the kitchen. He opened the dishwasher and found a whole raw roasting chicken sitting inside, long past its use-by date. Mum had put it there instead of the fridge some days ago.

He chuckled and said, "life's full of surprises now. I don't know what I'll find next," but behind that laugh was something else — the quiet ache of a man watching the woman he loves slip further away with each passing day.

Of all of us, Dad cops it the hardest. I won't go into the details — they're too painful — but it's degrading how Mum sometimes speaks about him. Dad always says he doesn't mind, that the people who truly know him understand what's really going on.

"It's fine," he says. But it's not fine. You can see it in his eyes — the quiet hurt that never really leaves. His mental health has taken a beating. For a proud man like him, admitting he needs help was no small thing. We check in with him often, making sure he knows he's not alone in this.

These days, Mum isn't fully with us anymore. She spends her hours lost in a fog of confusion. Her skin is covered in sores from constantly picking, and she'll stare at the television for hours, not really watching — except when Carlton's playing footy.

That's when a flicker of her old self returns. But the hardest part, by far, Is when she starts to forget who we are.

Just the other day, she looked straight at me and there was no recognition in her eyes. My heart sank. For a moment, I was just another "pesky support worker" — someone to be tolerated, not loved. Then something clicked. Her face softened, and she threw her arms around me, holding me tight.

I smiled through tears, finding comfort in the fact that, even through the confusion, she still reaches for connection — even if it comes tangled in misunderstanding.

Through it all, Dad insists on caring for mum at home. He says it's where she feels safest, and he's probably right. So we've all agreed to stand by him, to do whatever it takes to make that possible for as long as we can. We know it won't get easier — dementia never gives you that mercy — but we're in it together.

These are the quiet heartbreaks and small mercies of loving someone with dementia. It's a road none of us chose, but one we walk together, one day at a time.

What I've learned about caring for someone with dementia.

Live in the moment.

Dwelling on what lies ahead can lead to anticipatory grief and depression. Try not to look too far down the road. Instead, focus on what brings your loved one joy right now. My mum has always loved the beach — it's where she comes alive — so we go there often.

A family trip to the beach. Image: Supplied.

Keep the peace.

Listen with patience and respect. Sympathise, hug often, and agree — no matter what they say. If they point at a blue car and call it red, don't argue. Just go along for the ride.

Support the carers.

Remember the ones carrying the heaviest load. I often look after my nephew so my sister and her husband can have a date night. It's a small gesture, but it tells them I see their effort — and I absolutely love spending time with my nephew, so it's a win-win.

Create positive emotional memories.

Someone with dementia might forget an outing, but they'll remember how you made them feel. Fill their days with warmth and small joys — play their favourite music, sing along, or look through old photo albums.

Mum taken on a trip to Byron Bay. Image: Supplied.

Childhood memories often linger the longest.

As mentioned, Mum has always loved watching Carlton play, so we recorded all the games where Carlton wins, and she watches those over and over with glee. They are all old games, because her two favourite players (Curnow and Silvagni) recently left Carlton and I reckon she would still remember and miss them.

Despite her situation, I don't think Mum will ever forget Carlton!

Before joining the Children's Hospital as a Family Support Worker, Sandraspent over 20 years as a Communication Specialist. When she's not writing, she's usually behind a camera, lost in a good book, or trying to catch up with family and friends.

Want to learn more about dementia? Read these stories next:

• 'My husband is still alive but he doesn't remember me. I'm dating someone new.'

• 'My twin boys are inseparable, but I'm watching one of them deteriorate before my eyes.'

• 'Things we wish we knew when our dads were diagnosed with dementia in our early 20s.'

Feature image: Supplied.