Three Years at Meadow View: Watching My Dad Change

It will be three years in February since my dad moved into Meadow View Care Home. Three years sounds like a long time when you say it out loud, but in reality it has slipped past quietly, measured not in days or months, but in changes — some subtle, some heartbreaking, and some unexpectedly gentle.

The first two years that Dad was at Meadow View, his dementia was there, but more of Dad was present, but it hadn’t yet taken over the way it has now. Back then, I could still drive him home for visits. He could walk out of the care home beside me, wave to the staff, and confidently announce, “We are going this way now.” It was such a Dad thing to say — like he was still in charge, still leading the way, making sure everyone knew what was happening and that they were ok.

Those visits home feel very precious now.

I remember one time parking up outside the house, clipping the kerb slightly. Without missing a beat, Dad commented, exactly as any dad would: “If you have to hit it, it’s too close!” Dementia hadn’t touched that part of him yet — He always was a bad back seat driver.

When we got home, there was always a routine. The very first thing he liked to do was check the wood store, choose a log, bring it inside, and sit watching the fire. There was something grounding about that — the familiarity, the quiet satisfaction of it. Even if it was in the middle of a heat wave, we still had to have a fire. Food was always important to Dad too, especially custard. One visit we had a custard tart, and as we were cutting it up he said happily, “This is going to be good.” It was such a small moment, but it stays with me.

Over time, those visits changed.

We went from me driving Dad home, to him being brought to us in a wheelchair-adapted bus. From walking beside me, 

to sitting wrapped in blankets, movement now something to be managed rather than enjoyed. It can now take over 20 minutes to get him to stand up. Who knows if its because he doesn't want to move, can't work out how to move, or his knee is hurting him. mind you this is my Dad he could just be being obstinate. Dementia doesn’t announce these changes — they just arrive, one by one, until you realise how far things have shifted.

Now, Dad talks much less. When he does, it’s often hard to know what he means. He might point outside and say, “It’s going around,” which clearly makes perfect sense to him, but leaves the rest of us guessing. One day, completely out of nowhere, he announced, “Did you just go clink clonk?” I have no idea where that came from. Sometimes all you can do is smile and let the words land where they land.

We will continue to bring him home when we can. He doesn’t like to move much now — his knee hurts, and really, why would you move if you’re comfortable where you are? He seems content. That matters more than anything.

If Mum sings to him, he brightens instantly, chuntering away happily, joining in in his own way. Occasionally, he comes out with a sentence that feels like a gift — something clear and perfectly placed, like “That’s my wife,” or “We are all here,” when the family are gathered around him. He also giggles to himself sometimes, as if he’s sharing a private joke with the world.

Those moments remind me that even though so much has changed, not everything is gone.

At the moment, this stage feels especially hard. Mum and I can’t visit him right now — I’m recovering from a hip operation, and Mum has dislocated her hip. Knowing he’s there without us physically being able to see him adds another layer of worry and guilt, even though we know it’s out of our control. Dementia already creates distance; being unable to cross that physical gap makes it feel heavier.

Meadow View has become a strange kind of constant in all of this. The staff know Dad’s routines, his comfort, his quiet ways. Trusting others with your parent is never easy, but over time I’ve learned that care, patience, and kindness can take many forms.

Dad seems content enough with his lot. And I think that’s what matters most.

As for me, I’m not sure how I feel about three years of him being in a home. Some days I feel acceptance, some days sadness, and some days a quiet disbelief that this is where we are. Loving someone with dementia means learning to live with unanswered questions — including how much time has passed, and how much more change is still to come.

Who knows what this year will bring.

For now, we hold onto the memories — the waved goodbyes, the kerbside advice, the firelight, the custard, the laughter — and 

we keep showing up, in whatever ways we can.