Journeys with Terri

04/04/2026

Journeys with Terri – There’s Always a Smile

Thank God Terri went to James and Debs’s today to see the grandchildren. It gave me a precious bit of time to pop over and see my daughter Penny.

She’d warned me there were “paint chips all over the pavement,” so I arrived like a one-man emergency response unit — boot packed with jet washer, extension cable, 50-foot hose, wire brush, and paint cleaner.

Ready for battle.

As it turned out, she didn’t mean paint drips at all.

Just a few old flakes.

Thirty seconds later, a quick scrape with the wire brush and the crisis was over.

Jet wash untouched. Hose untouched. Hero status slightly dented.

Still, I’ve now got a first-class family story ready for the next gathering.

Later I went to see my granddaughter Ari and Jef. I told her the old tale of how, fifty years ago, the office girls took advantage of my slightly merry state at the Christmas party and shaved off half of my magnificent black beard.

And then she smiled.

A real smile.

More than I expected, because she’s been rather poorly.

Those moments matter more than words can say.

Then Terri came home with James.

She introduced me to her son James.

James and I just looked at each other and smiled.

He was the best man at our wedding 31 years ago.

That’s dementia for you — cruel, absurd, heartbreaking, and yet somehow life still finds a way to leave a little light in the room.

A smile.
A laugh.
A shared moment.

Sometimes that’s enough to keep going.

There’s always a smile hidden somewhere in life. Sometimes you just have to look a little harder.

NEVER GIVE UP ❤️

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21/03/2026

**Journeys with Terri – Mr & Mrs Bear 🐻❤️🐻**

Mrs Bear was feeling a bit rough today.

Yesterday’s infusion — the one for her brittle bones — had clearly taken a toll. Slower moving, a bit washed out… one of those days where you quietly wonder how much to push and how much to just *be*.

But she still managed a walk.
Not far. Not fast. But enough.

Back home, I thought we’d try something simple.

“Let’s do some sounds,” I said.

“Dog… dog…”
She looked at me.

“Wuff wuff,” I added, trying to get a grin.

Nothing.

Then suddenly—
“Cat… cat… cat,” she said, firmly, like she was back in charge of the lesson.

Progress.

“Duck,” I said.

She paused… then delivered it perfectly:

**“The duck we ate yesterday didn’t say anything.”**

And there it was.

That flash. That wit.
That unmistakable *Mrs Bear* humour breaking through everything else.

You can have the infusions, the bad days, the confusion…
…but every now and then, you get a moment like that.

And it’s pure gold.

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Left without ASC support, we still created joy, strength and a better life with dementia

20/03/2026

Mrs 🐻 got her Zolendronic Acid infusion today 🐨❤️🐻

19/03/2026

Journeys with Terri – The Show Must Go On

Today we did something brave.

We went to the theatre.

A Tina Turner tribute at The Grand, Leeds.
Two hours.
Over 1,000 people.

And my first thought?

“How on earth is Terri going to sit through this?”

We got there.
Met our lovely friend Susan in the bar — steadying influence, as always.

The place was packed.
Yes… plenty of “our vintage”… but not all.

Then reality hit.

I’d booked balcony seats — Row AA, side view.
On paper: great.
In reality: lean-forward-or-see-nothing.

For Terri — with abdominal pain — that’s not just uncomfortable.
It’s impossible.

But here’s the thing about my Mrs Bear.

She doesn’t give up easily.

She sat there.
Brave. Quiet. Trying.

Half an hour in, she whispered:

“I can’t do this.”

A stranger noticed.

One of those quiet, decent human beings who don’t make a fuss — just step in.

She stayed with Terri while I grabbed the drinks.
Then said, “Wait — I’ll get help.”

A member of staff appeared — calm, kind, no drama.

Within minutes we were moved to accessible seats in the stalls.

Perfect view.
Near the toilets.
No fuss. No embarrassment. Just… care.

I could have hugged them both.

We didn’t last the full show.

But we stayed long enough.

Long enough for the music.
Long enough for the atmosphere.
Long enough to feel… normal.

And as we left, the best Tina songs were just kicking in.

Typical.
Perfect.
Us.

“Fancy a nosh?” I said.

“Yes,” she said.

So we went to Zaap Thai Street Food — just across the road.

Duck for dinner.

“I’ll have a pint of Singha,” I told the waiter.
“And water for my wife.”

He looked at Terri:

“Ahh… are you driving?”

“No,” she said,
“we’re on the bus.”

I nearly choked.

Back home.

Safe.

Calm.

“Better brush our teeth,” she said.
“Yakky and Ozzie will smell it.”

And that’s the thing.

You plan for fear.
You brace for failure.

But what you get… sometimes…

Is kindness.
Laughter.
Moments you didn’t think were possible anymore.

We didn’t get the full show.

But we got our show.

And honestly?

That was better.

18/03/2026

Journeys with Terri – The Great Greenhouse Gamble 🌱

Last year… I bought a greenhouse.

Result?
A tomato and cucumber harvest roughly equal to the cost of the labels.

Proper gardening… apparently not my thing.

But here’s what this journey with Terri has taught me—
you don’t stop when things go wrong.

You reset.
You go again.
And sometimes… you go a bit overboard.

This year:
🌱 Tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers (2 varieties each)
🌱 10 courgettes (don’t ask…)
🌱 12 rosemary + 12 thyme cuttings
🌱 12 lettuce seeds tucked in like VIP guests

At this rate we’ll either:
1. Become self-sufficient
2. Open a farm shop
3. Or I’ll be knocking on your door in a flat cap offering free veg

But truth is… it’s not about the vegetables.

It’s about purpose.
Getting outside.
Small wins.
Moments of normality when life with dementia gets tough.

And those little wins?
They matter more than ever 💛

If you’re on a similar journey—caring, coping, or just trying to keep going—come and join us:

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14/03/2026

Journeys with Terri – Mr & Mrs Bear 🐻❤️🐨

They say life is a lottery.

Sometimes it feels like we drew the hell ticket.

Dementia can turn the world upside down. The ordinary things you once took for granted suddenly become mountains to climb.

But something strange happens when you reach those low points.

The smallest victories suddenly feel enormous.

A smile.
A shared joke.
Finding the missing red satin pyjama bottoms.

Moments that once passed unnoticed now shine a million times brighter.

And dare I say it… sometimes it feels a bit like falling in love all over again. 💓

If you’d like to follow our journey — the laughter, the battles, and the little victories — please click Follow on the page.

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Thank you 🙏
Mr & Mrs Bear

13/03/2026

Today I crept upstairs wearing red satin pyjama bottoms with lacy cuffs to surprise my wife.
She looked at me calmly and said,
“Very nice… now we both have red satin pyjamas.”
“Yes,” I said. “And mine have nice lacy cuffs.”
She looked again.
“Yes,” she said. “They’re women’s.”
“Yes,” said I.
And we both burst out laughing.
Even after dementia, sometimes you still glimpse the incredible funny woman you married.
The reason I was wearing them is that yesterday Terri lost the red satin pyjama bottoms she’s attached to day and night. After searching everywhere I did the modern thing and ordered another pair from Amazon.
Two hours before they arrived she appeared proudly holding the missing pair.
“Look what I’ve found.”
Of course.
Then the doorbell rang.
Now we had two pairs.
It made me think of another Friday the 13th from when I was a boy. My mates and I tried smoking our first Hamlets in the “Loonie Woods” near the old asylum across the road. After a few heroic coughs I rode home… and woke up slung over the shoulder of a Stafford rubbish collector who’d found me after I’d fallen off my bike.
My mum opened the door in horror.
“The lad fell off his bike and knocked ’imself out,” he told her.
You’d think that would have cured me of smoking forever. Sadly not. I still find myself battling the habit now and then, especially during the dementia helter-skelter that caring can become.
But today, on Friday the 13th, standing there in red satin pyjamas with lacy cuffs making Terri laugh, I was reminded of something important.
Dementia takes many things.
But sometimes, if you’re lucky,
it forgets to take the laughter.
And when that happens,
for a moment,
you find each other again.

11/03/2026

Today was a good day 🐨❤️🐻

10/03/2026

Journeys with Terri – Small Wins Matter

This morning Terri was up, fully dressed, make-up done, hair finished… before the carer even arrived.

In our world that’s a small miracle.

After everything she’s been through — and the trauma around Sabourn Court — mornings have often been the hardest part of the day. So seeing her quietly take control like that made me stop and think.

Is this just a good morning… or is Terri slowly finding her way back again?

Only time will tell.

Meanwhile I’ve brought forward her GP appointment as we investigate the possible early signs of a prolapse and try to finally speed up her long-overdue gynaecology referral. The NHS wheels turn slowly, but we keep pushing.

Outside, the sun is shining in Leeds and the greenhouse campaign has begun again.

Tomatoes.
Cucumbers.
Peppers.
Courgettes.
Lettuce.

Last year was a complete gardening disaster. If a miracle happens this year, friends and family should prepare to be force-fed vegetables.

I’m also managing to get to David Lloyd on Mondays and Fridays. Considering it costs over £100 a month, twice a week counts as progress.

Leeds Adult Social Care have also come up trumps recently — helping fund my fall-guard and contributing towards the gardening and gym as part of my carer support.

Which is hugely appreciated.

But the truth is I didn’t realise how many fronts I’d be fighting at once.

At one point the strain had me smoking up to 20 ci******es a day, quietly wrecking my own health and my ability to care.

So that battle has started too.

Early days, but today I’m down to three so far.

It’s hard. Very hard.

Sometimes I feel a bit like Montgomery in the desert — shifting sands everywhere and battles appearing on every horizon.

Which is why the small victories matter.

Terri getting ready on her own.
Seeds going into the greenhouse.
Three ci******es instead of twenty.

Little triumphs.

Because if you enjoy the small wins, you can win the bigger battle.

And that’s exactly what we’re going to do.

— Mr Bear 🐻

05/03/2026

While clearing a shelf today I found an old magazine.

CIM Catalyst.

July 2019.

The headline on the cover?

“Embrace Uncertainty.”

At the time I probably read that as classic marketing speak — the sort of phrase consultants use when they want to sound wise while admitting they haven’t the faintest idea what’s going to happen next.

Turns out they were accidentally describing life with dementia.

Back in July 2019 Terri and I were still travelling, meeting friends and arguing cheerfully about whether my sense of direction could be trusted outside Yorkshire.

Dementia was there, yes — but quietly waiting in the wings.

Then life did what life always does.

It embraced uncertainty for us.

These days mornings start with a small mystery:
Which version of the day will arrive?

Some days the fog lifts and the Old Bear appears — sharp, funny and very ready to tell me exactly what I’ve done wrong.

Other days the map has changed again and we’re navigating by instinct and cups of tea.

But here’s the strange thing about uncertainty.

Sometimes it gives you unexpected gifts.

A sudden smile.
A shared joke.
A memory that pops up out of nowhere like a postcard from another time.

So perhaps that old marketing magazine got it right after all.

Not about advertising.

About life.

Because loving someone with dementia teaches you a simple rule:

You can’t control the road ahead.

But you can still walk it together.

And if the Old Bear happens to reappear for a while…

you stop worrying about the map and just enjoy the view.

03/02/2026

🌈 The Rainbow That Keeps Moving (and Why That’s Not a Bad Thing)

Caring for dementia teaches you this: the pot of gold isn’t at the end of the rainbow — it’s in the moments when the storm pauses and the old life peeks through.

Every carer, at some point, is told about the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

Usually by someone who doesn’t live in the house.

It’s offered kindly, over a cup of tea they didn’t make, wrapped in phrases like:
“You’ll find your rhythm.”
“There are good days and bad days.”
“You must look after yourself too.”

All true.
All entirely unhelpful when someone you love is feeling so much better — so in charge of her own life — that by the time the evening carer turns up there’s nothing left to do. You're loved one is bathed, changed and ready for bed.

The carer's hoovered.
She’s ironed.
She’s washed up — despite there being a dishwasher.
Both the bathroom and cloakroom are sparkling.
What else is there to do?

The carer stands there, coat still on, holding purpose like a clipboard, while your person looks up and says, quite reasonably:
“Not her again. Go away.”

And you think — maybe the dementia is resting a bit.
And it’s so bloody nice to see the Old Bear back in life again.

Anyway. The pot of gold.

In theory, it’s where everything balances out.
The cared-for is calm.
The carer is rested.
The professionals arrive on time, well-briefed, smiling, with the right paperwork.

Somewhere, a kettle boils itself.

So off you go, following the rainbow.

You buy folders.
You label drawers.
You learn phrases like “executive function” and “anticipatory grief” and “this appointment should only take ten minutes” (it never does).

You meet carers — good people with coats, bags and lives of their own.
Some stay. Some vanish. Some arrive unannounced like a magic trick nobody asked for.

The rainbow shifts.
You adjust your course.

Then — a breakthrough. A good week.

Your person laughs. Properly laughs.
She eats lunch.
She doesn’t mention pain once.

A professional looks at you and says, genuinely surprised,

“Goodness… she seems very well today.”

You nod calmly, while thinking:
Don’t spook it. Don’t mention it. Don’t write it down.

You feel close to the gold now.

Then — bang.

Evening comes.
Transitions. Fatigue. Personal space.
Even familiar carers can suddenly feel like an intrusion — not because they’re wrong, but because the moment is wrong.

You soothe.
You explain.
You quietly es**rt a decent human back into the night and apologise to the entire caring profession in your head.

And you wonder whether the pot of gold is a myth invented by people who sell laminated care plans.

But here’s the thing nobody tells you.

The pot of gold isn’t there.

It’s everywhere else.

In the day when pain isn’t mentioned.
In the laugh that comes out of nowhere.
In choosing calm over compliance.

The rainbow isn’t a destination.
It’s a weather pattern.

Some days it appears.
Some days it doesn’t.
Some days you’re standing in the rain thinking, I swear it was right here half an hour ago.

And here’s the thing nobody dares say out loud:

Every now and then — no matter how unlikely — dementia pauses.
Not cured.
Not reversed.
Just… quiet.

Long enough for a proper laugh.
Long enough for a whole day when pain isn’t mentioned once.
Long enough to recognise the woman you married, not the diagnosis she carries.

When that happens, don’t analyse it.
Don’t medicalise it.
Don’t ask how long it will last.

Live it.
Because it’s real.

And if the rainbow packs up and moves again tomorrow, so be it.
You were there when it shone — and that, my friends, is the pot of gold 🌈🐻