Because of dementia, I found a new vocation in life

Life has a way of surprising us. One day everything feels ordinary - family dinners, chats with neighbours, laughter in the kitchen - and then something changes. For Sylvia, one of our Customers, that change was dementia. But instead of letting it close doors, she found new ways to open them. What’s followed isn’t just about living with a diagnosis, it’s about love, hope, and the power of Community.

From the start, Sylvia and her husband, George’s bungalow with Places for People gave her the security she needed. “It’s a diamond,” she says. “They trusted us to make it our home.” With that safe foundation, she could focus on what mattered most: facing dementia with honesty, humour, and creativity.

Sylvia remembers life before dementia as “very, very happy.” She fell for George the moment she saw him. 

“A white shirt, a tie, and God, he was gorgeous! I wanted someone honest, faithful, and kind – he’s been all of that all his life,” she says. “And now he’s busy looking after me, aren’t you love?” 

Together they raised two daughters, Loraine and Lisa, in a family full of laughter and resilience. Even when dementia touched her mum, Auntie Dorothy and later her sister Pauline, Sylvia held onto joy.

The signs for her came slowly. Driving routes she’d done for years suddenly felt confusing.

“My spatial awareness had gone - I was hesitating at roundabouts.” On Christmas Eve she found herself unable to work the cooker to make stuffing. “I thought, I can do this. But I couldn’t.” At her nurse’s encouragement, she agreed to tests. At home she sat her daughters on the bed and asked them honestly: “Do you think I’m starting with Alzheimer’s?” They laughed kindly. “Mum, definitely.” That mix of love and humour became the family’s way of coping.

From the start, Sylvia decided she wouldn’t retreat. She wasn’t keen on puzzles or crosswords, so she turned to what she enjoyed to keep her mind active - sewing, threading tiny beads, and then, at 75, painting for the very first time. “Since I started painting, I don’t think I’m deteriorating so fast. I feel like I’m on a plateau.” For her, painting isn’t just a hobby. “Every painting is a story, a message, or a memory. I harvest my memories in my paintings.”

Her first canvas was The First Day of the Rest of My Life - capturing the moment she left the memory clinic and chose joy instead of fear, heading to the beach with Lisa and her grandson Dillon, the wind and sand in her face. Another, Here Comes the Storm, shows a lighthouse braced against crashing waves. The biggest wave is for Pauline’s hardest moments, the smaller for Sylvia’s own journey. But always, a light shines. “I always put hope in. The hand catchers are shining the light to guide us home.” Even The Beast of Alzheimer’s, her boldest piece, ends on hope. “On the day of the cure, I’ll be able to be friends with the beast - he won’t want to eat the brain anymore.”

“I always put hope in. The hand catchers are shining the light to guide us home.”

Through it all, George has been her anchor. She calls him her mountain, not just her rock. “She’s still the same girl I married,” he says simply. Together they keep things light, with humour and little tricks that make daily life easier. If Sylvia repeats herself, Lorraine or Lisa just rub their nose - their quiet signal to move the conversation on. When things go missing, they blame “the fairies” and wait for them to return. And when disagreements flare, George’s answer is always the same: “If you say so, dear.”

“George isn’t my rock - he’s my mountain.”

Fridays have become their family tradition - Vodka Friday. It’s less about the vodka, more about gathering. The children and grandkids come round, they share stories, laugh, and Sylvia gets to stay in the loop. “Communication is everything,” she says.

But it’s not just about the beautiful home the couple have made for themselves, it’s also about the Community that surrounds them. “I feel safe here. George can go shopping and know I won’t wander. Our neighbours know me; our daughters are close by.” Life on their street is full of connection - plant swaps in spring, chats over the fence in summer, poppies in the windows for Remembrance, and Christmas decorations lighting up the row. When their neighbour Julie passed away, the Community marked it together, quietly and with care. “That’s what Community is,” George says. “Friends and good neighbours. You can knock on any door in an hour of need and someone will help.”

Sylvia is open about the harder parts too - about incontinence, about fear and frustration, about how the world can sometimes feel too loud. But her message is clear: “Don’t become a victim. You’re still you. Find another way around.” And to families she says: 

These days Sylvia is still chasing purpose. She wants to learn how to paint People, experiment with her “bead-it-on” art, and keep leaving behind what she calls “imprints of love.” She sums it all up in her mantra:

“I catch you before you fall and you catch me.
 We will inspire People.
 We will become hand catchers.
 In saving you, I am saving myself…
 let’s ride the journey of Alzheimer’s together.”

Because of dementia, Sylvia didn’t shrink. She found new purpose- in her art, in her voice, in her home, and in the Community that holds her. Sylvia said “I am committed, I go out and present art exhibitions, talks and 1-1 help and advice, inspiring family and carers to live alongside their diagnosis, for every negative, we try to find a positive”.  And with George - her mountain - by her side, she keeps choosing the bright side, hand in hand.