This was the morning the long lonely fight for my life has begun.

For several years the man I had known for over quarter of a century, has been changing. The change in him was slow but steadfast. It was not growing old change. It was unpredictable, frightening change. The odd kick,a painful pinch of my skin,raised hand ready to fall. The man I had loved for so long was in front of my eyes turning into a stranger. At night he would sit for hours on the edge of the bed with his head in both hands. There was very little I could do to help him sleep other than ensure the fridge was always stacked with the snacks he liked,ice-cream being the firm favourite. He was never a good sleeper, we had separate bedrooms throughout our life together. But this was more than just not sleeping well. This was his night life acquiring a new dimension,quite disturbing,quite unsettling. Something in him was very wrong. Several times I asked if I could go with him to his GP. No,he would reply vehemently. What on earth for. What could I tell him? That so often I was overwhelmed by uneasy feeling of doom,that I was afraid of him and was afraid for him. That I so wanted my old Olly back. He promised he would talk to his doctor about the violent outbursts,about the nights becoming a nightmare, at his next visit to the surgery. But the visit changed nothing. So I wrote the doctor a nice letter asking if I could come to see him. He agreed but I felt he was not happy about me taking up his valuable time. I explained my concerns and one after another he dismissed them saying this is what getting old is,we do become less patient,more aerated,and we do lash out in anger as we grow older. And that I should try and not irritate my husband and avoid him when he gets nasty. I listened in disbelief. Nothing made sense. But he was the doctor and I was not even his patient. I thanked him and left. The verbal and physical violence became more and more frequent. My body was black and blue. And when one day he threw a television at me and it fell on my foot breaking my toe, I asked myself - is this going to be my life until the day one of us dies? This is not old age. Something is desperately wrong with my husband and I must find out what it is. I went to the library and took out every possible book on ageing. And slowly,slowly I came to a conclusion that he was suffering from dementia. Armed with the knowledge I went to the doctor again. I showed him some of the books and explained what I had learnt and how my husband's behaviour was beginning to make sense. I said I was sure he had dementia. The doctor was furious,with every word his voice more and more shrilled - I went to medical school for five years and have been practicing medicine for fourteen,you go to the library,read books some quacks may have written and suddenly you are a doctor. There is nothing wrong with your husband. Are you here because you want him locked up in a mental hospital? Wishful thinking. Without a word I picked up the books and left. I was feeling like a prisoner standing with my back towards the wall waiting for the firing squad.. No,this cannot be. This is all wrong. There must be something I can do.