Louise Bryant opens up on partner Craig Moore’s dementia battle
Their love story began at a beach swimming club, but now Louise Bryant shares what happened when dementia stole her 56-year-old partner's brilliant mind.
My partner, Moose, is now in the late stages of dementia. This is what I know and, on reflection, what I may have done differently.
Around 10 years ago, Moose was diagnosed with early-onset dementia following surgery, but clinical specialists have since confirmed Alzheimer’s dementia.
This explains his behavioural changes and memory decline, which has progressively deteriorated over time.
He is now 56 years old, with a neurodegenerative condition that is irreversible and beyond his control and for which there is currently no cure.
Not that long ago, our world looked very different. Before everything changed, we were living our best lives. We met in a typical Aussie beach setting, the local swimming club, and were introduced by mutual friends.
He made me laugh almost instantly, and we fell in love.
At the time, Moose’s career had already taken him to the US, Europe and the UK, where he worked as a much sought-after creative advertising executive. Moose had a sharp intellect and a clever wit. He was described as a genius, a polymath. He was charismatic, mischievous, a bon vivant, and a keen ocean swimmer.
Because Moose didn’t fit the “aged care for over-65s” bracket, we weren’t handed a glossy brochure outlining the next steps or a roadmap forward after his diagnosis.
Our health system, after all, views dementia as a geriatric disease, so we had no choice but to just get on with it.
Life somehow returned to normal. Well, a new normal.
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Moose plateaued, which meant that for many years he retained some independence. With the intervention of the National Disability Insurance Agency (NDIS), we were able to access support that would normally be out of our reach. This allowed Moose to stay at home receiving the help he needed, while I was able to maintain my career.
Given the stigma surrounding dementia, Moose’s condition was left unspoken.
It was rarely discussed, and most people assumed what was happening to him would never happen to them. I don’t blame them. Although outwardly things appeared normal, the truth was we were barely holding it together.
In the late summer of 2020, we planned to visit his high school hometown, Plainfield (Chicago), Illinois, but he was becoming increasingly erratic with shifts in his personality starting to appear. I convinced myself this was just a phase he would recover from.
Surely it’s not all downhill from here, I thought. Nevertheless, I weighed up the risks and decided to postpone the trip.
It was around the same time I started compiling a list of our favourite local restaurants, people and places. This would serve as a trip down memory lane in the hope it might bring back a glimmer of the old Moose. Clever, right? But the following month, in a cruel twist, a global pandemic denied us the next two years of what could have been a life well spent.
Time can be a healer, but it can also rob you like a thief in the night.
After we emerged from Covid, we bolted out of the cage and travelled to Hawaii, Adelaide, Byron Bay and Noosa, also visiting family in Port Macquarie and friends in Avalon, New South Wales. It was a race against the clock, because what were once regular outings were becoming less so.
We crossed the Bondi promenade and walked 10 minutes to Icebergs Winter Swimming Club. As our world shrank, we could still venture across the street to the local RSL. Eventually, he was too scared to leave our apartment except in the middle of the night when he wandered, so I had to barricade our front door.
Trapped inside and feeling quite alone, we were safe but a long way from where we wanted to be, knowing there was no way out of this living nightmare.
Occasionally, in moments of clarity, Moose’s quick wit and bright humour would flicker like a star. Our friends would encourage him and his cheeky mannerisms, playfully teasing him. “Ha ha, there’s nothing wrong with you, Moose! You’re perfectly fine!” we’d say, before we’d raise a toast: “To Moose!”
Our non-alcoholic glasses and hearts full, we’d remember the good old days in those bittersweet moments. Sometimes his face would light up, and he would laugh along too. We’d always hope those golden moments would return.
They never do.
People living with dementia often unconsciously attempt to fill in memory gaps. It’s called confabulation, and for someone with dementia, it is not about deliberately deceiving anyone; instead, the brain tries to create a narrative that invents facts.
Very early on, there were signs Moose was confabulating - masking his condition to cover up the fear and shame. At his lowest ebb, he didn’t show up to his daughter’s parent-teacher interview, left me abandoned without explanation at our long-planned dinner date, and avoided an ocean swim that ordinarily he would have loved.
He struggled with sequencing, got lost going in the wrong direction, and, without admitting it, became terrified of open water. His stuttering embarrassed him, fearing judgment. When he was cross-examined his defence convincingly was “I don’t know what you’re talking about? I don’t understand.” It felt like the worst form of gaslighting, but even a leading barrister, hearing that from their own client, would struggle to defend it.
Dementia is Godless. It steals memories, erodes personalities, and indiscriminately diminishes life. Yet, within the shadow of this insidious disease, a capacity for compassion and enduring love emerges. Though it can be relationship-destroying, it forces constant self-examination: Was I kind enough? Patient? Did he forgive me for not being there in his moments of distress? I was here, but his memory surely paints a different story. I will never truly know the truth of his experience or the fear of him knowing what was happening to his diminishing brain, if he even knows at all. I am certain, though, that he knew that our love for each other is eternal - a truth echoed in Corinthians - a testament to the power of the heart, even in the face of this unimaginable gradual loss.
In the end, dementia takes away everything.
Moose is now bedridden, and there is no way of knowing how long we have. In a short time, what was left of his quality of life has diminished to almost nothing. The dilemma often faced is that dementia is viewed as an “old person’s disease”; therefore, gifted medical personnel respectfully offer their opinion that “decisions are easier if he were 95 years old”.
You start to become desensitised after a while, caught in a tangle of the Hippocratic call to preserve life and advocating for the wishes of your loved one.
Once you surrender to it, grief remarkably has a way to carry you forward. Moose’s journey has taught me a lot about recognising someone’s worth in their most vulnerable moments. It’s an enormous privilege to care for someone you love. It illuminates precious moments that you savour forever, bringing you closer to humanity and all that is good.
Before his brain got sick, Moose would often say we had won the lottery of life. He always viewed himself as “lucky”. Lucky to be born in Australia and to live in Bondi. Lucky to swim at the beach and eat fresh watermelon every day. Lucky to have met me, he would tell me all the time. Lucky that we had access to the best medical support.
Yes - lucky. I appreciate the irony here, but I’m comforted knowing that his short life before his diagnosis was full and well-lived.
We talk about memory a lot with dementia. For those of us walking alongside a loved one with dementia, this journey will serve as a forever memory: one to learn from, one to appreciate, and one that serves as an enduring lesson in love.
Originally published as Louise Bryant opens up on partner Craig Moore’s dementia battle
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