The Silent Weight of Compounded Loss in Loving Someone Who Fades Away

'Grief accumulates,' a lesson I learnt about loss. Read the Grief Story, 'The Long Goodbye: A Journey Through Alzheimer's,' by Kathy Dye about processing layered living losses...

Aug 21, 2025

Welcome to the Grief Stories community! I hope you find this to be a welcoming place where you’ll be able to share experiences, get things off your chest, support one another, ask questions, and chat to people who truly ‘get it’. I invite you to read and share stories of hope and healing; giving a voice to loss and grief. This is a safe place helping us to feel less alone on our journey and providing comfort in hard times.

We rarely recognise grief for what it is - especially when it’s not tied to death. Often, we push our pain aside, unaware that unprocessed grief only deepens when life throws us another storm.

After my accident - a moment that split my life into ‘before’ and ‘after’ - I didn’t realise I was grieving. I only realised that what I was going through was grief at the time of losing my mother-in-law. A year later, I also lost my job.

One loss after another, I felt like I was drowning, reaching desperately for solid ground, hoping the waves would finally stop.

But grief doesn’t work that way. When it arrives - this uninvited guest - settles in. And no matter how much we wish it away, we have to learn to live with it.

No matter how much we wish grief to go away, we have to learn to live with it.

That learning process is hard. It’s even harder when grief is layered - when one loss is followed by another, especially if the first hasn't been processed yet. And sometimes, the kind of grief we carry doesn’t even come from death at all. This kind of grief is invisible to many - but that doesn’t make it any less real.

As Kristen Neighbarger bravely writes in her Grief Story, Grieving the Loss of a Living Loved One, it's difficult - almost taboo - to talk about grieving someone who is still alive. But many of us are living that reality. Maybe you are, too. Perhaps a relationship has fractured. Or maybe mental illness, addiction, or dementia has taken someone you love, leaving behind someone you barely recognise.

My heart is with anyone who is grieving the living, just like Kathy Dye. Today, I’m honoured to share her story - a powerful reminder that this form of loss matters, too.

In today’s Grief Stories, Kathy opens up with raw honesty about her journey through this uniquely painful kind of grief when losing her mother, Mary Jo Dixon, to Alzheimer’s. Her vulnerability is a testament to resilience and a gentle invitation to others to name their pain, to seek help, and to know they are not alone.

If you are walking through layer upon layer of loss, please know this - learning to acknowledge and gently process layered losses, including those involving living loved ones, is essential for healing and finding resilience. And healing takes time. It requires support, patience, and self-compassion.

Healing takes time.

If Kathy’s story speaks to you, we’d love to hear what resonated in the comments.

‘The Long Goodbye: A Journey Through Alzheimer’s’ by Kathy Dye

Grief Story #016

This is so true of one's journey with Alzheimer's.

No one can be prepared for what lies ahead when the prognosis comes in.

My mother started showing signs of memory loss a couple of years before she was diagnosed. There were the usual signs: forgetting recipes she had always done by heart, forgetting the names of people, and where she had put things. We all just laughed it off. Haven't we all forgotten those types of things?

Our family's first big 'Aha' moment came during Thanksgiving, just after my brother-in-law died. We knew it had been hard for her. It was hard for everyone because he passed so quickly. We decided that weekend to try to have our usual Thanksgiving meal, with several of us agreeing to pitch in. Thanksgiving was Mom's special time to cook and set a beautiful table. We were all busy in the kitchen when we noticed Mom just standing there, staring. She couldn't remember where anything was. We felt it was mostly because she was grieving, but in our hearts, we knew it was more.

My dad tried to keep my sister, brother, and me from saying exactly what we felt was happening. I think there was a part of him that felt if it wasn't said out loud, it wasn't real. He would make excuses for her, trying to protect both her dignity and his hope. It was hard to see our dad step into a different role - suddenly becoming her caregiver. We lived out of town, and our sister was navigating her own grief from the loss.

This marked the beginning of the long goodbye to the mother we had once known. We each began to see a difference in her every time we visited.

The next spring, I wanted my mother to visit her sister, who lived in Arizona. My mother's other sister also wanted to come. I knew it might not be easy, especially since we were flying, but part of my reasoning was that I wanted her sisters to see what was going on. Thankfully, the flight went well. It was the things we noticed while there that would begin the phase of what I now understand as compounded grief.

Compounded grief occurs when the progressive loss is continually layered with new losses. Mom knew something wasn't right. She had laughed off the early signs before, but now she was turning sullen. She had always been very outgoing and laughed often, but now she began to grow paranoid. She felt as if everyone was talking behind her back - something she never would have imagined before. She thought we were leaving her out of things. She would often just stare at us, as if trying to piece together a puzzle she couldn't solve.

To me, this is the hardest part of this journey: when the patient becomes aware that they are losing themselves.

I remember that on that trip, I was crying myself to sleep because I missed my mother - the one who played games and loved having fun, who filled rooms with laughter. I prayed and cried out to God to help us do what needed to be done, to give us wisdom for the path ahead.

Not too long after returning home, Dad decided it was time to visit the neurologist. They ran their tests and confirmed what we had begun to suspect: she did have Alzheimer's and was further along than any of us had thought.

Grief compounded - hearing the words spoken aloud. What comes next?

The Uncharted Territory

No two cases are alike. There might be similarities, but each person will experience different symptoms at different stages.

At this point, most of our visits involved sitting on the couch and holding her hand. The paranoia had lessened somewhat. We could take her out into the yard and let her look at the beautiful flowers she once tended with such care.

Grief raised its ugly head again when my mother could no longer remember the love of her life. She would say Dad was a nice man, but she couldn't remember his name. I can only imagine the grief my father must have felt, watching the woman who had loved him for decades look at him like a stranger.

Slowly, she began forgetting who any of us were. Grief upon grief. You find yourself trying to grasp any little semblance of how things used to be. You share old photos, you talk about the past, and you desperately want her to remember.

I found myself thinking, "Mom, just one time, please say my name."

The Hardest Decision

Mother eventually had to go into a memory care facility. Dad had planned for such a time, but planning and living it are two different things. There is profound grief and guilt in making these types of decisions, even when you know it's necessary. But we realized it truly was for the best. It was a very nice place, and the staff was wonderful about letting us remain a part of Mother's daily life.

My brother and his wife would go there on Sundays and worship with her. She enjoyed it so much. One of the most beautiful things we discovered was that she could still remember the words to the old hymns. She would sing loud and proud, her voice carrying the melodies that had shaped her faith for decades. This brought such joy to all of us - a reminder that the core of who she was remained intact.

Finding Her Song

From this experience, I wrote a children's book entitled "A Song in Her Heart." Mother was still there, somewhere deep inside. I had been saying goodbye to her for almost five years, but she held on to the thing that made her who she was - her song. God, her Father, had been her guide throughout her entire life. That's what I wanted to remember, something to hold onto for both of us. I would remember those things for her through this book.

Words for the Journey

I don't wish this disease on anyone, but if you find yourself walking this difficult path, I want to leave you with some things to keep in mind as you navigate your own grief:

Find people to talk to. You may not be the primary caregiver, but you still need support. And remember to support those who are serving as caregivers - they need your encouragement more than you know.
Make lists of the life your loved one lived. Write down their stories, their favorite sayings, and their quirks that made you smile. Remember for them when they can no longer remember for themselves.
Don't feel guilty for getting help. There comes a time when professional care really is the most loving thing you can provide. It doesn't mean you're giving up - it means you're giving them what they need.
Pray to God to be your refuge. He loves and cares for your loved one even more than you do. Trust Him with what you cannot control and lean on His strength when yours runs out.

The journey with Alzheimer's is long and often lonely, but you don't have to walk it alone. Hold onto hope, cherish the moments of connection when they come, and remember that love transcends memory. Even when they can't remember your name, your presence still matters. Even when they can't say the words, your love still reaches them.

And sometimes, if you listen carefully, you might still hear their song.

Grief Story by Kathy Dye

Friend, what are some of the most painful ‘goodbyes’ you’ve had to say without words? What has been the most challenging aspect of watching someone you love become someone you no longer recognise? And what do you want others to know about Alzheimer’s that they might not understand?

Grief Stories by Katy Parker from Journeyofsmiley

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