The signs you've been minimising

The first time I noticed, I un-noticed it. Mum had told me the same story about a neighbour's dog twice in twenty minutes, and I told myself she was tired. The second time was a week later: the kettle had been left on the gas hob, the plastic base half-melted onto the cast iron, and she said "oh, the kettle's gone funny" the way you'd talk about a sticky drawer. I cleaned it up. I bought her a different kettle. I went home.

That was the year I should have started writing things down. I didn't. I lost about nine months that way.

This module is about the signs. Not the dramatic ones. The small things you've been explaining away because the alternative is a conversation you don't want to have yet.

What you've probably already seen

Most men I've spoken to about ageing parents come to me with a list that sounds like this. Tick the ones that sound familiar:

• The same story, twice in one visit, told as if it's the first time.
• A weight loss they haven't mentioned and you only notice in a hug.
• Falls. One you heard about from a neighbour. One you only know about because of a bruise.
• The fridge: things in it past their date, things missing that should be there, the same four meals on rotation.
• The kitchen smell. Not bin smell. Something staler. Bread gone, milk turned, something in the oven you don't quite want to ask about.
• Post piling up on the hall table. Bills unopened. Bank statements stacked.
• The dog: not walked, fur matted, water bowl empty.
• The car: a new dent, a story about the supermarket carpark, a mirror folded in.
• The phone: missed calls from doctors, dentists, the pension office.
• The clothes: same jumper three visits running. Stains on the cuff.
• A name they used to know that they had to reach for. Then a name they didn't reach.

None of these alone is a diagnosis. The pattern is. If three or more of these are true and have been for a few months, you've crossed from "Mum's getting older" into "something has actually changed".

Why men minimise this

Three reasons, in roughly the order they hit:

1. The cost of admitting it is high. If she's not coping, someone has to do something. Most of the time, "someone" is a version of you. So your brain quietly makes the case that she's fine, because the alternative is your weekends gone for the next decade.

2. She's performing. When you visit, she's at her best. The hair is done, the kitchen is tidied, the same four stories are rehearsed. You're seeing the show, not the Tuesday afternoon. The neighbours are seeing the Tuesday afternoon.

3. You're frightened of the diagnosis. If you say "I think Dad's losing it" out loud, then either he is or you've slandered him. Easier not to say it. Easier to say "he's just tired".

All three are normal. None of them help her.

The decision to stop minimising

There's a moment in this where you stop being a son visiting his parents and start being something else. A coordinator. The local one, even if you live an hour away. The one who has to know what the medications are.

You don't announce this moment. You just decide it, usually on a drive home, usually after a visit that left you uneasy.

The decision is small. It's: from now on, I am writing things down.

What to track, in writing, for the GP visit

A GP appointment for an ageing parent goes one of two ways. Either you walk in with a vague "I'm a bit worried about Mum" and the GP, who has nine minutes, takes your mum's word for it that she's fine and you walk out with nothing. Or you walk in with a one-page document, dated, specific, and the GP has something to work with.

Bring the document. Open notes app, list. Six headings:

• Memory. Specific incidents. "Tuesday 4 March, told the same story about her sister three times in one hour." Date and detail. Not "a bit forgetful".
• Falls and near-falls. Each one. The bruise. The knocked-over chair. What she said and what the neighbour said.
• Eating and weight. What's in the fridge. What she made you when you visited. Any belt-notch difference. Any clothes hanging looser.
• Sleep. When she's going to bed. When she's getting up. Whether she's awake at 3am wandering the house.
• Mood. Has she stopped doing the things she used to do. The bowls club, the church coffee, the daily walk. Withdrawal is a symptom.
• Medications. Photograph the bottles in the bathroom cabinet. All of them. Including the supplements. The GP needs to know what she's actually on, not what the file says.

One page. Dated. Specific. Hand it over at the start of the appointment, not the end. Most GPs will take it gratefully; it makes their job easier.

The script for the GP, if you go alone

Sometimes you need to talk to her GP without her in the room. This is allowed if you're worried. The GP can't tell you specifics about her care without her consent. They can listen to you.

"I want to put something on her record. I'm not asking you to break confidence. I just want you to know what I've been seeing, because next time she's in for a routine appointment, you'll have context."

Keep it that simple. Hand over the page. Leave. The GP now has a written observation from a family member and will, in most cases, do a slightly more careful cognitive screen at her next visit. That's the win.

What this module is not

It's not a diagnosis. Not every man whose mum tells the same story twice has a parent with dementia. Some of these signs come from depression, grief (especially if a partner has died in the last two years), an overlooked thyroid issue, an unmanaged UTI in older women, alcohol, or simply the cumulative friction of getting older alone in a house that no longer fits.

The point of writing it down is not to confirm what you fear. The point is to give a clinician something concrete to work with, instead of the polished version your parent will present in the chair next to you.

What stops being acceptable from this point

Three things, after this module:

• "She seemed fine when I visited."
• "Dad's just being Dad."
• "I'm sure it's nothing."

You've stopped saying those. Not because you're being grim. Because they were doing work for you, and you don't need that work done anymore.

Notice. Write it down. Stop explaining it away.

Further watching

• Early Dementia Signs Caregivers Wish They Hadn't Ignored
• What are the early signs of dementia?