Nigel Kellett, the former Bulldog, sits in a comfy chair in his living room in Newport.

He looks normal. Short-haired, fit and healthy.

Then you notice the little things. Like, his face doesn’t move. He doesn’t smile. His eyes wander to the ceiling, to the walls and to the floorboards.

“He’s searching for words,’’ Kellett’s partner Sue Rudolph says.

“He’s lost his language.”

At 54, he has frontotemporal dementia (FTD), and CTE symptoms, depression and early Parkinson’s disease, a horror-show of symptoms that neurological experts say he has likely acquired from repeated collisions and subclinical concussions suffered during a 10-year career with the Western Bulldogs.

At home in Newport, Kellett struggles to recapture even fragments of what should be momentous and vivid memories.

Robinson: What’s happened Nigel?

Kellett: “(long pause) … I can’t remember 99 per cent of people and other stuff.”

Do you remember playing (1989-1997)?

Kellett: “Not really. Watching Foxtel (old games), I can’t remember 90 per cent of the players.”

Sue: “I tell him who they are. He has flashes. He’ll remember that he dropped a mark and Billy Brownless kicked the goal in a final in 1994.”

How do you feel about having memory loss?

Kellett: “(long pause) … will tell you this because I can’t remember where I played. I know where it is (on the ground), but I can’t remember what it is.”

On the wing?

Kellett: “Yes, that’s it.”

Can you remember your coaches?

Kellett: “Terry Wallace and Terry Wheeler. I can’t remember the other bloke, I think he came from Hawthorn.”

Can you remember Mick Malthouse?

Kellett: “No …. is that the Hawthorn bloke?

No, that was Alan Joyce.

Kellett: “Who’s the bloke you said?”

Mick Malthouse?

Kellett: “Who’s that?”

He coached you at Footscray, then coached West Coast, Collingwood and Carlton

Kellett: “Oh, yeah, that was my first one.”

Can you remember who your captains were?

Kellett: “(long pause) Is it Doug Hawkins? (long pause) there’s one who was a mate of mine, he won the Brownlow.”

Scott Wynd. There was another Bulldog who won a Brownlow Medal when you were there.

Kellett: (long pause)

Short fella?

Kellett: “I don’t know where someone else won it.”

Tony Liberatore?

Sue: You know, Libba.

Kellett: “Ohhh … Libba. Do you know the best player was Scotty West. His son is playing now, Rhylee.”

Do you remember Brad Johnson?

Kellett: “Brad Johnson (whispers) … Brad Johnson (whispers) …. Um, I think that was the one. When he started training, he was in Hoppers Crossing, because that’s where I was from. That’s right, he’s on Foxtel.”

Sue: There’s little sparks there, it’s really nice.

That is a snapshot of Kellett’s world. At one time he was an exuberant, happy and popular teammate, and before that a school prefect and captain of the first XVIII at Geelong College.

Now, he is a ghost of sorts.

Kellett also suffers depression, isolation and a low sense of worth. But it’s the words, the language, the people he once knew, that hide from him. Somewhere in his banged-up brain is another lifetime that he cannot find, and it can’t find him.

He’s good with numbers, though. He plays sudoku every day and enjoys a punt. He places multibets for $10 a throw. But like most punters, if Kellett loses he chases.

“It’s not just the memory loss, it’s impulsivity,’’ Sue says. “Impulsivity is a symptom of his FTD (dementia). I don’t mind Nige doing the multis because that’s research and brain work.

“Numbers are a different part of the brain to words. The brain is a mysterious organ and we know that different parts are responsible for different functionalities.

“The frontotemporal is responsible for emotion, memory, empathy, words, mood and behaviour. It is also contributes to his suicidal thoughts.”

THE PLAYER

Kellett played 154 games all-up in the seniors and reserves at the Whitten Oval. He wasn’t an in-and-under type, but he wasn’t timid either.

“Nigel was a flashy ball carrier, a good user of the footy,” Terry Wallace says, not knowing Kellett’s current state. “In today’s footy, he would be a high metres-gained (player).

“Him and his family were totally committed to the club. Probably one of my coaching regrets was to let him go (in 1997). His commitment to the club should have given him the right to fight for his position. It hurt the family.’’

Kellett was never completely knocked-out in his career, but he suffered multiple concussions. There are limited medical records from back then. But it was recorded in his 100th game that he took a heavy knock. “I got crunched and got a bit of blurred vision,” he told the media at the time. “There was not much point staying on (the ground).’’

Another time, he had an eye socket smashed in a game in 1994. He returned to the field that day and after the game was taken to emergency by his father, Doug.

Sue didn’t know Kellett, the footballer. They met at a Sunday session in 2016 at the Vineyard in St Kilda. Their first official date was at ex-Bulldogs teammate Paul Dimattina’s restaurant. “We had a lot of fun initially,’’ Sue said. “But we had a lot of challenges along the way because Nigel had these emotional outbursts. We didn’t know it was early dementia. He had no filter. He would say things that were offensive to people. It was like he had two personalities. You’ve got this beautiful man who is kind, funny, clever, really caring and generous. And then you had this impulsivity, like some sort of Tourette's with words, and a lack of empathy for example.’’

His outbursts cost him friendships. “He’s lost a lot of them (friends) and I don’t blame them because Nigel was sometimes out of control,’’ Sue said. “We knew something was wrong with Nige – we knew he had mental health problems – but he was misunderstood and misdiagnosed. On the other hand, he was still a kind, beautiful, gentle man.’’

One night, bouncers at the Young & Jackson hotel swooped on him because he was falling asleep at the bar. Kellett erupted. They kicked him out. The police came. Sue was overwrought as she tried to tell them Kellett had mental-health issues. Their night ended in the lockup.

“We got home and we both cried, hugging each other,’’ Sue said.

She cried again telling the story, while Kellett sat in his comfy chair and didn’t say a word.

Words are stuck all over the house to help Kellett remember things. There are stickers on the “fridge’’, the “water”, the “pantry”, “car keys”, “drawer’’, “table”, “chair” and “glass door’’.

“I label everything, so it’s not just a thing,’’ Sue says.

In the bathroom, there’s a cheat sheet to help Kellett know what is deodorant and what is moisturiser and what they are for — and there’s another cheatsheet on how to defrost frozen meals. It’s childlike with its simplicity.

LIVING IN FEAR

Kellett has attempted suicide – and continues to think about killing himself.

At different times, there’s been a rope, a belt and a knife. Once, he was found by a family member at the place he wanted to end his life. Also, he has sent money and emails to family members with his suicide plans and basic suicide notes have been found his car.

“This is graphic and hard to talk about,’’ Sue says. He was institutionalised after two attempts and hospitalised after other attempts or plans. And Sue has dealt with others attempts at home.

Sue describes caring for Kellett as being in a constant state of “hyper-vigilance’’. She herself was in hospital for five weeks last year after suffering an intense panic attack.

She stutters when she is anxious or fretful. She stutters now.

“I ended up in the clinic for five weeks in care. They told me it was a manifestation of trauma, carer burnout and ambiguous loss associated with Nigel’s dementia,’’ she says.

When she was in hospital, Kellett was cared for by family and friends, and National Disability Insurance Scheme workers checked on him regularly.

Kellett hasn’t worked for three years and Sue, at the time, held a senior role at a global software company. She now works two days a week.

“Hyper-vigilance is back … I’m too scared to go to the office now. I work from home mostly,’’ she says, crying.

“I’m mostly consumed with thinking about Nige. He talks about there being no purpose for him. I’m sad for his loneliness and dark thoughts. All you think about is killing yourself, you say that, don’t you darl?’’

Kellett: “What?”

Back to the question and answer.

Robinson: How often are you thinking about that, Nigel?

Kellett: “Consistently.’’

Why?

Kellett: “(long pause) … I was 100 per cent doing it a week before the Grand Final last year.”

Why do want to kill yourself?

Kellett: “Because there’s nothing to do … because (long pause) my memory is no good. I know everyone dies at some stage.”

WHERE’S THE AFL?

Eighteen months ago, Kellett and Sue met with Peter Gordon who, as well as being the Western Bulldogs president when Kellett was at the club, was also representing the AFL in his case. A legal document signed by Gordon in November 2022 declared that Kellett would receive a monthly allowance and be also “eligible for significant capital provisions’’, a figure believed to be more than $1 million.

Gordon wrote the arrangement would be “bedded down” in the first half of 2023 when the AFL was expected to complete its new hardship “scheme’’.

The monthly payments are being paid. The lump sum has not.

For the past 12 months, the situation has been lost in a quagmire of legal emails.

Also, impassioned letters and text messages from Sue to the AFL’s leadership – to Andrew Dillon, Richard Goyder, Stephen Meade and Brian Walsh – have been largely ignored.

Sue says the AFL is effectively demanding that Kellett jump through hoops that were never part of Gordon’s original deed.

The AFL was on Friday contacted for comment.

“It’s rolled on and on,’’ Sue said. “The financial situation is dire. I’m trying to have a semblance of a relationship with Nige before his lights go out, in so far as he can’t talk anymore.’’

Kellett has the same disease as Hollywood star Bruce Willis.

A recent meeting with a leading neurologist shared the gruesome prognosis that people with FTD of this variant typically live between seven and 12 years, sometimes longer, sometimes less. Sue has been told Kellett has likely lived with the disease for about nine years.

“We don’t have a long future together,’’ she says. “We don’t get to grow old together. We just have the now.’’

“In recent correspondence to AFL executives, I asked what they’d do if they were me and Nigel was their partner. I expect the AFL to uphold their word and deliver on what they promised.

“That they haven’t is shameful.

SUPPORT GROUPS

Sue knows she’s not the only wife or partner living with a former player who is dysfunctional because of repeated head-knocks suffered when they were playing.

She’s on the board of the Community Concussion Research Foundation and through that group is planning to start support groups.

For Kellett, she hopes his former mates can forgive him for his outbursts, which itself is muddling because he has forgotten why they dumped him in the first place.

“I’m looking for those people to have an understanding about why Nige acted like he did, and I’m hoping for compassion and forgiveness,’’ Sue says.

“He behaved like he did because his brain was impacted. He needs social engagement, and yes, I know it’s awkward.

“Men like Nigel need to come together,” she adds, “and we will build a support group for wives and partners who are also going through this hyper-vigilance, so we can share stories, build trust and hold hands.

“The AFL knows about Nigel’s brain damage. They’ve seen his medical file and reports. Gordon Legal has seen him in person.

“We spoke to Peter (Gordon) earlier in 2022. He knew Nige as a loveable, popular, happy, friendly person, and he knew Nige’s parents. When he saw Nige, he appeared blown away by Nigel’s decline.

“The AFL promised to help provide financial support and, yes they have with the allowance, and we are grateful, but we need more and we need it fast because time is running out.’’

For the 90 minutes of this interview, Nigel sat in his comfy chair and barely spoke 300 words.

When asked who the current Bulldogs coach was, he smiled slightly because, presumably, he found the words so easily.

“Luke Beveridge”, he said.

And who’s the captain?

Kellett: “(pause) Bont or something, what’s his name?”

His name is Marcus Bontempelli.

Kellett: “He wears No. 4 doesn’t he? Because that was me, I was No.4.”