Freedom in Forgetting
Are our memories really the measure of a good life? Milly is showing me that it’s the soft, settled, mellow moments that hold real value.
Theme: The Beauty
Key Takes:
We fear dementia because we believe memory defines the value of a life, but I wonder if we place too much emphasis on standout occasions and building special memories.
Milly is showing me that even without strong memory, we can feel warm and peaceful through love, presence, safety, and connection.
It’s the steady, mellow rhythm of everyday care and small joys - rather than life’s dramatic highs - that gives my life its deepest meaning.
The Memorable isn’t Always the Meaningful
Over Christmas and the New Year, I was reminded of an early and unexpected discovery since caring for Milly - that forgetting can sometimes bring a quiet kind of freedom.
Once Milly felt safe with me - when I stopped challenging her all the time - her memory loss gradually eased the weight of so much guilt and worry. The endless pressure to keep up appearances, the old concerns that once preoccupied her became easier to let go of and she became lighter, more often fun, bright, and loving, and less likely to raise subjects that so easily led to tricky situations or upset.
Last and Found exists because dementia is frequently spoken about only in terms of fear and loss. We assume memory defines our value, and that when it slips away, meaning goes with it. Caring for Milly is gently challenging that belief as she finds a freedom in forgetting.
I wonder if we place too much emphasis on what we remember, and not enough on what we feel in the everyday moment.
I’m learning life’s deepest happiness rarely comes from dramatic highs or photo-rich occasions, but in softer, steadier spaces - in the reassurance of safety, the quiet comfort of love, and the simple pleasure of being present with the people I care about. In these times, even when memory fades, life still feels rich and human for Milly.
Beyond the Diary Dates
The happiness that settles me right down into my tummy doesn’t come from diary occasions. It comes when a few simple things are in place.
Feeling Loved
When love and respect surround me, I feel able to stand and stare and really see what’s around me. I’m at ease with myself, and I notice the sound of the birds or the tiny flower growing in the hedge when I’m walking.
Anticipation
Looking forward to a family roast or meeting a good friend brings a sense of snug and happy. Sometimes I think I enjoy anticipating a holiday more than the holiday itself - the travel, exhaustion, and unmet expectations can take their toll.
Little Magic Moments
A shared giggle, an inside joke, a favourite treat - alone or with my husband, daughters, or friends. It’s the familiar, safe rhythm of life that I truly relish.
There’s a daily routine that means a lot to me. Each morning around 6.30am, before I need to help Milly, I snuggle up on the couch by myself with a hot milky coffee and watch TV. I love this time. When I go to bed feeling tired or stressed, I often think about that quiet morning pause - and it settles me.
The Hard Truths
None of this is to dismiss the tragedy and pain dementia brings. The loss of independence is immense. The loss of shared history is hugely sad, as is the erosion of identity. Dementia is hard for Milly and for everyone who loves her. Without good care, the later stages - confusion, fear, distress - can bring real suffering.
And yet…
A Day That Could Have Been So Different
Recently, we had a family gathering that could have become a major emotional event. After years of disconnection, my brother came back into Milly’s life - and into his son’s life - meeting his grandson for the first time.
In the past, this would have been built up for weeks: fear, worry, and family stress. Milly, in particular, would have panicked about expectations and old memories of hurt - and it might not even have happened. This time, it was different.
I didn’t tell her he was coming until about an hour before his arrival. Context still matters to her, even if time doesn’t. I said:
“Guess what? I didn’t think he’d come, so I’ve not really thought about it - just in case - but he’s coming today for lunch.”
She had a brief flicker of worry about being ready and what might be expected of her. I reassured her that she could follow her usual routine, that he wouldn’t want any fuss, and that he’d be happy to see her in her little home. I was relaxed so she relaxed. She sat in her chair and read the paper calmly until he arrived.
The Mellow Times
When she saw him, it was very special. She was in her safe place - her room, her chair - and she felt calm. She didn’t join us for lunch, but everyone visited her in turn. She even asked whether she should join us, and was visibly relieved when I told her it was far too busy and not ideal for a ninety-year-old who’d recently broken her leg and wasn’t as strong as she used to be.
The fact that she’d broken her leg nearly a year ago didn’t matter. It felt real to her. Timing is irrelevant now.
She hugged my brother as if she’d seen him the day before. She spoke a lot about her mother and her love of him. She told a simple, heartfelt story about grabbing and hugging him when he fell down some steps as a little boy. “Oh, your grandmother! She adored you!”
As Milly’s dementia has progressed, she talks more about her earliest memories - her parents, her childhood. This makes me think of that great bookcase analogy: memory is like books on a shelf. The oldest books at the bottom are solid and stable. The newest sit on top and fall off easily. You can put them back, but they rarely stay.
She called my brother by her nephew’s name, which was entirely understandable after so many years apart. What mattered wasn’t the name itself, but the feeling behind it. She thought of her nephew as someone she loved dearly, so the fact that she used that name showed that my brother clearly evoked the same warmth and affection in her. I reassured him not to worry - out of sight can mean out of mind in dementia - and the visit soon proved that this positive emotion had quietly laid the foundations for a beautiful connection for them both.
When Feeling Lasts Longer Than Memory
Seeing him again a week later, she called him by his correct name. Even without remembering the first visit in detail, the positive experience had already done its work. By the time she saw him again, her brain had learned that being with him felt good - that’s the dopamine connection! - and she repeatedly said his name and held his hand.
When she saw him with his son, she forgot the years of separation entirely. She focused only on the happiness of that meeting. The one thing that stayed with her was that my father wasn’t there to see his son, grandson, and great-grandson together.
She looked tearful when we talked about it later.
“Argggh, I’m sorry. I think you feel a little sad,” I said.
“Oh no. I don’t feel sad!”
“You don’t? You look… emotional maybe? But happy emotional?”
“Yes,” she smiled. “That’s it. It feels nice.”
The next morning, she didn’t mention the visit - but when I did, she replied with a loving smile:
“What a lovely day we all had.”
“Didn’t we?” she said.
And that was it. No anxiety. No distress. No lingering worry. The past family chaos didn’t matter. What mattered was the now - the being together, the shared sense of love, presence, and safety.
A reminder of the freedom in forgetting.
What Lasts
Caring for Milly continues to show me that life’s deepest moments of happiness don’t live in dramatic highs or camera highlights - not the fabulous beach holiday or the surprise birthday party. They live in the everyday comforts that give us strength: the reassurance of love and safety and the pleasure of being with the people we care about.
In these times, even when memory fades, life feels rich, warm and snuggly.
This reflection builds on more than a few earlier pieces, but particularly Beauty & the Best (01.09.2025) and Dope It Out Joyfully (04.09.2025), where I first explored the freedom Milly and I began to find in forgetting and where I chatted about the dopamine effect.