It’s now September 2025, and I still wear the orange shirt – I still volunteer at three Alzheimer Cafés across the Island. My wife died six years ago, but the journey we began together hasn’t ended. It simply changed course.

On January 14, 2011, it was Ruth’s 65th birthday, and we were visiting our daughter in Crawley. We were living in France, renovating a farmhouse in the Charente. We’d moved from Gatcombe in 2006, where we’d lived for 27 years and raised our children, planning to spend a decade or more abroad before returning to the Island. Life was full of plans and projects. Ruth was making furnishings, tiling the kitchen, and I was knee-deep in barn repairs. We were busy, content, and looking forward.

But I began to notice small things. Ruth didn’t want to use the iPad I’d bought for her birthday to read the magazines she’d always enjoyed. She avoided her mobile phone, even though it was essential in rural France. When I went out for hours to help neighbours or collect wood, she never called me but usually greeted me with “Why didn’t you phone and say you would be so long?”

I didn’t think much of it at the time. I didn’t connect the mood swings or her growing need to stay close. I was focused on the renovation. She preferred the warmth of the wood burner, cat on lap, flicking through old magazines.

Then came the incident that changed everything. Ruth flew back to the Island for a dental appointment. I put her on an EasyJet flight from Bordeaux and expected a routine journey. But we lost contact for nearly twelve hours. She missed a pick-up at Ryde Pierhead, ended up in Niton, and was eventually helped by a pub landlord and some regulars. We were about to call the police. Her phone was charged, she had a notebook of contact numbers, but she couldn’t process what to do. That was the moment I realised something deeper was happening. Ruth was having difficulty processing information and employing conventional logic.

What relevance does this have? It shows the beginning of one couple’s journey. It reveals how plans can go wrong. The personal, financial and emotional stability that is established through many years of partnership becomes destabilised. At the time I didn’t know why this was happening and how I could best support the person I loved.

We were fortunate to find the Alzheimer Café. A friend who volunteered there encouraged us to come along. He promised we’d be welcomed, and, if Ruth felt anxious, we could leave at any time. That first visit was a turning point. I began to understand dementia – not just from a medical perspective, but from the viewpoint of a carer. I learned how to adapt, how to support her, and how to stay connected even as things changed.

Earon Davis once said, “It takes a community to maintain a human.” He was right. The Alzheimer Cafés gave us that community. They offered warmth, knowledge, and a place to share the rawness of emotion that comes with this journey. They filled the gaps left by a system that often stops at diagnosis and leaves families to figure out the rest.

I was seen as someone who could cope. Retired, articulate, with a decent pension. But that didn’t stop me from reaching crisis. I know what it’s like to feel bewildered, to watch someone you love change in ways you can’t explain. That’s why I became a volunteer. Nobody should have to face that alone.

I still meet couples at the start of their journey. I recognise the look in their eyes – the uncertainty, the fear, the hope. I may be a volunteer now, but I’m no different to them. After all, we’re all in the same boat.