‘Dementia doesn’t have to be a death sentence – we made the best of Dad’s final years’
Allen Palmer was so good at maths, he was affectionately called the ‘human calculator’ by his children Abi, Denise and Will.
So it was worrying when the loving father and business-owner forgot his pin while paying for drinks at a bar 13 years ago.
‘He’d become quiet and vague, struggling to make a simple decision,’ his daughter Denise Palmer-Davies tells Metro. ‘About what to have to drink for example, and when we’d ask Dad questions, he would veer off the subject. He became a little vacant behind the eyes.’
As Denise’s maternal grandmother had been diagnosed with dementia, the family were all too aware of potential signs of the disease and knew early treatment was vital for getting the right medication and support, so encouraged Allen to see his GP.
A few months later, in the autumn of 2013, their suspicions were confirmed; he had vascular dementia.
‘Dad brushed it off. He wouldn’t talk about it. Not in a bad way – just pragmatic,’ remembers Denise, 46. ‘He didn’t want us to be maudlin. He accepted it as part of life and knew we just had to get on with it.’
Meanwhile, the family sprang into action, making a support plan.
‘We organised Sunday lunches and trips out in the car. We had schedules, WhatsApp groups, plans to make sure people were always there to help my mum Jackie,’ PR Director Denise says.
Thinking back to her childhood, she remembered afternoons being dragged along to care homes, where Allen kept in touch with older friends and family.
‘I remember how he would talk to people with dementia. They would be away with the fairies but he would act like what they were saying was completely normal, so we did the same with him,’ she explains.
‘After the diagnosis, a friend said to me. “God, what are you going to do when your dad doesn’t know who you are anymore?” I was so upset and told her that was never going to happen.’
The close-knit family, who all lived within 10 minutes of each other in Esher, Surrey, knew how important routine is for dementia patients. So every day at 5pm, Denise’s sister Abi would take Allen around the village, first walking, later in a wheelchair, feeding the ducks and chatting to neighbours. In the summer he would have half a pint of Guinness in the sun.
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‘Even when he lost the ability to communicate, he was very well known for just always having a big grin on his face,’ mum-of-two Denise remembers.
Abi would bring their dad home, get him into his pyjamas and put him to bed – every day for the last nine years of his life. It helped with ‘sundowning’, a term in dementia care where patients get agitated at dusk.
Denise meanwhile, would also visit, helping Jackie, working from their home and spending time with Allen so her mum could go out and potter in the garden, meet a friend for coffee for some much-needed respite.
Brother Will would also visit in the afternoons providing vital support for their mother, who was up sometimes 18 times a night, cleaning Allen up and changing his sheets.
‘It is the worst disease imaginable,’ says Denise. ‘My dad ran a building company for 60 years. To see a man who had been so smart, effectively become a giant baby who had to be fed, washed, cleaned, lifted and pushed was heartbreaking.
‘And while it was a long journey, ours wasn’t a miserable one. There were the most horrendous bouts in hospital, and losing dad to dementia was a continual bereavement process for all of us, but we made it our life’s mission to take care of him.’
Determined ‘not to plonk him in front of the TV all day’ the family kept Allen moving. They didn’t want to infantilise him, so they would chat to him about the days they’d had or his beloved team Tottenham – regardless of whether there had been a match.
During the day, they took him to a dementia hub in a local community centre where a ‘fantastic group of women’ would serve him tea and biscuits and entertain him with art, quizzes and fitness. At home they tried to occupy Allen as best as they could, giving him bags of mixed up coins which he happily sorted through, believing he was helping out.
Like many with dementia, he was in and out of hospital with strokes and infections, and every time he was admitted, Allen would deteriorate.
‘He was incredibly anxious in hospital and couldn’t sleep. It was awful to see that happen. Too distressing for Dad and us’, Denise remembers.
In the final year of his life, the family made the decision to keep Allen out of hospital, maintaining his routine as much as possible.
They furnished him with his favourite treats; sticky toffee pudding and custard, Jackie’s homemade cakes and vegetable Korma from the local curry house. They even took him on a cruise around the Canary Islands. It was hard work, and there were ‘hairy moments’ getting him settled on the plane, but Allen loved it, Denise says.
‘I remember him watching my brother and sister, who are really good at singing, doing karaoke, proud as punch with tears in his eyes,’ she says.
Allen started to deteriorate further in 2025, but the family felt he was waiting to meet his final of four grandchildren, AJ – named after Allen James – who was born to Will last year.
‘We placed the baby in his arms when she was born, and even though he couldn’t communicate at this point, his face just lit up,’ Denise remembers.
By this point, her dad was sleeping most of the time, and knowing he was near the end of his life, the family installed a hospital bed in the kitchen, so he could be surrounded by family day and night.
In his final days, bedbound and no longer eating, they were all by his side, giving him foot massages and rubbing ice lollies around his lips.
‘After a long sleep, he would open his eyes and he’d see us round his bed, give us the biggest grin, and he would squeeze our hands, and we knew he knew we were there and that he was happy,’ remembers Denise.
‘We didn’t go to bed for 11 days. We stayed by him playing his favourite music, and telling stories. He held our hands when we were little and we wanted to hold his hand right til the very last moment.’
Allen died peacefully at home in August last year at the age of 86, with Jackie, Abi, Denise and Will at his side, 12 years after his diagnosis. 400 people came to his funeral.
Denise remains forever grateful to wider family who enabled the three of them to support Allen and Jackie despite the challenges of careers, childcare, homework and school runs. She believes their combined efforts prolonged his final years.
‘If you have had a diagnosis, or are supporting someone, I want you to know it’s not all doom and gloom. It’s not a death sentence. It can bring families closer – you laugh together, cry together,’ she says.
‘You can still make those incredible memories. Yes, it is hard, and there are difficult days. You lose little pieces of them each time you see them. But when they give you that smile, it makes it all worthwhile.’
Denise is also buoyed by the fact her friend was wrong – Allen never forgot his daughter. ‘Whenever I saw him, his face would light up and I would give him a kiss. He might not have known my name, but he always knew who I was.’
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