It started with just misplacing the occasional thing. Everybody does it. Maybe once a week he'd lose track of where exactly he put his wallet or forget if he went to the store or not. I'd laugh and call him old, help him hunt around for his phone, or pretend I was searching for the glasses he 'lost' even though they were so obviously on his head. But he started losing his keys a lot more, forgetting where he put that book he was reading, wondering just how on earth he'd managed to run out of tea when he was sure he'd just gone to the store yesterday. "Nargles" he would smile whenever he found them, and I'd smiled back at the dorky, harry potter fanboy side of him. I woke up late on a rainy day and he was just sat at the window looking outside like there was something so important it made him forget everything in his life so long as he just looked. I made a sound and he jumped slightly and turned to me. For the first time in over 10 years, he looked at me like I was a stranger like he had no idea who I was. A few minutes of staring slightly and he'd  shake his head and smile a little "good morning Luv" and all of a sudden things were back to normal. He started forgetting things more and more, for a brief moment I considered that it really might be something to do with his age. But he's only 35. Once I woke up to a shrill shriek in my bedroom and he was on the floor cowering from me, I tried to ask him what was wrong but he just screamed again, telling me to get out of 'his house'. All sense left me and I left the room, hoping whatever was causing him to act like this would resolve itself, not that I wouldn't be there if he needed it. I slept on the couch with nothing more than a thin pillow and my robe as a blanket. The next morning I woke up to the sound of the kettle and he was stood by the kitchen door with a smile, watching over me sleeping, I smiled back at him, "Are you okay? after last night?" a worried voice left me and he frowned. "what are you talking about?" It happened several times, once he even threatened to call the police if I didn't completely leave the house, and I stayed the night at my brothers. Sometimes he would acknowledge it, say he wasn't exactly sure what happened but he was probably just being 'silly', other times he acted like he had no idea of what I was talking about. I begged him to see a doctor but he just shrugged and said I was imagining things. It started happening more often, he forgot things more too. Some of our best friends came over, he said he had no idea who they were. They pretended not to be hurt. Once more I begged him to go to the doctor. "we can't afford it". nobody should ever have to hear that when they see the person they love suffering. But that was it. he wasn't always suffering. sometimes he had that usual scowl that hid that adorable smile, he'd sit back, make tea and we'd talk like nothing had changed. I woke up early one morning, it had been about 2 years since all of this had started, or since I'd noticed it at least, and I had to suffer through watching him go through something so much worse. There was nothing I could do but leave when he told me to. I made tea for him, at least if he kicked me out again I'd have done something useful. Something hit me hard and I woke up once more an hour or so late, leaning lazily against the kitchen draws. I saw him standing above me, bat in his hands, shaking so much. I wanted to hug him closely. "Th- This isn't London! Where are we? tell me!" My dear. I'm afraid you haven't been to London in over 5 years. I can't remember exactly how I managed to, but I calmed him down. Once more I begged him to see a doctor, but this time he had no choice, I was already half way dragging him out the door to take him there. I couldn't see him like this much more. "Early onset dementia." I have my pride, but I'll admit I cried. Arthur, you're the love of my life and if you should ever read this I'm sorry I couldn't have helped you sooner. They took away his driver's license, and like the stubborn brit I married, he objected and told them he was fine. But you weren't fine, were you? We got home and he sulked, I could only stand around and hope he'd cheer up enough for me to spend time with him while he was still himself. I made tea. We spent the afternoon talking about the future and I sighed and told him just how much it hurt to see him look at me like I was nothing more than a stranger passing in a street. He agreed to go to the hospital again, they spoke more. Arthur didn't want me to listen in, but the doctor gave me leaflets and pamphlets anyway. I looked at the people on the creased coloured paper, they were old and wrinkled, no younger than 60. Arthur didn't deserve this, he was a child compared to them. A small part of you expects things to get better like they do in the stories. A small fairy tale where the princess lives and there's a happy ending. It doesn't happen in real life. I started waking up more and more to find him wondering who I was and exactly why I was in his bed, it often ended in screaming from him. Sometimes, I'd wake up early and stand outside, waiting for him to wake up before knocking on the door. He'd invite me inside and I'd explain what was happening, I'd have to 'meet' him again. It got worse. He could barely hold himself up sometimes, he'd forget to eat or drink and he'd spend most of his time sat down staring at the same spot for hours on end. I wonder if there was a small part of him that called out and begged for the rest to remember. It had been 2 more years, and he was almost 40 now. He still looked as beautiful as the day we met. I didn't know what to do, I spoke to what seemed like hundred different doctors and they all suggested the same thing. But I couldn't put my love in a home. he didn't belong there. I watched him slowly deteriorate, I was lucky now if he even knew my name more than once a fortnight, sometimes I'd hug him and just cry, and he had no idea what was happening. There were people who could take care of him better than I could. So I went against myself and I put my love in a home. No matter what, I visited him every day. I missed work if I had to. my boss was understanding. Every time I walked into that room, I hoped he'd jump up and hug me close, telling me that he was okay, and we could go home. Most of the time he assumed I was in the wrong room and was looking for somebody else, sometimes he'd confuse me for a doctor. I cried for no less than an hour each day outside that room, hoping and wishing that he would be okay. you wouldn't guess it but the days he knew who I was, were the worst. He'd try to tell me that he was okay through thick tears, that he missed me, that he didn't know why he was here. I'd hold him and hide my own tears. I'd hold him to the day I die.