Together UNTIL THE END

Kevin D'Cruze felt his wife slipping away from him every day for nearly 15 years

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To the joggers, dog walkers and pram pushers, we must have been a familiar sight. Even the seagulls who cruised the sky scanning for any discarded sandwich crusts and fish and chip wrappers seemed to know us. My wife Tressa and I, a middle-aged couple whiling away the afternoon in Royal Victoria Country Park in Southampton, our favourite place.

Sometimes we'd stop to watch a cruise liner ease itself down the shipping lane. 'I wonder where it's going,' I'd say. 'The Canaries or the Caribbean? What do you reckon, Tressa?' Her eyes would leave the skyline and meet mine, briefly, before sliding away silently.

I still saw love in those eyes; to me, they were like the portholes of that boat gliding past, gateways into Tressa's faraway mind, which seemed to be slipping further away from me every day. How much could she see and understand? I'd no idea. While I treasured our walks in the park, they were some of the loneliest times of my life.

Cruel diagnosis

Tressa was just 51 when she was diagnosed with posterior cortical atrophy - a rare form of dementia and a cruel one, ultimately robbing people of their ability to walk, talk and see. It felt especially cruel to be facing this terrible diagnosis at such a young age. Our daughters were just 15 and 13, and we were at that stage in life where we were finally beginning to relax, with the exhausting baby years long behind us. We were starting to find each other as a couple again and I was falling in love anew with that vibrant blonde who'd stolen my heart all those years ago.

Yet here I was, aged 59, pushing my still-beautiful wife - as I had done for the last four years - through the park in her wheelchair. Chatting to her and very rarely getting a reply. Zipping up her coat, wiping the raindrops from her face and silently heading for home.