Navigating the Festive Fog: An Old Airman’s Christmas

The house is finally quiet. The festive "operations" have ceased, the grandchildren have returned to their own billets, and the wrapping paper has been cleared away. Once, the noise brought comfort, echoing the roar of jet engines and the ordered chaos of an RAF flight line or busy engineering hangar. But now, as the present silence settles heavily, I become aware of how much I’ve changed. My navigation systems aren't what they used to be—and I feel it most when excitement shifts, all at once, into quiet.

Living with dementia feels like flying blind through thick cloud—every sense straining for landmarks that sometimes aren't there. Now, in these quieter moments, I can feel myself moving, feel life happening around me, but the moments when I lose my bearings strike panic and a subtle, aching loneliness.

Echoes of Germany

This time of year in the present hits me harder than most. For a long stretch in the past, Christmas meant Germany. I spent years stationed at RAF Gutersloh and Laßbruch, living in married quarters with my wife and young kids. Over the last few weeks, those memories of German winters have grown more vivid than the room I am actually sitting in.

I would look at the mince pies on the table and expect the smell of Glühwein and roasting chestnuts from the Weihnachtsmarkt. I’d look out the window at the grey English drizzle and be genuinely confused why there wasn't two feet of snow or why the neighbours hadn't put their boots out for St. Nikolaus.

Our traditional Christmas morning walks in the snow. The NAAFI Christmas shopping trip and the inevitable stint as Orderly Corporal on Christmas Eve or New Year's Eve - All of these wonderful memories crowd around me as I write.

These flashbacks comfort and confuse. This week, I was so certain I was back in the Airman's Mess in the ’80s I asked my grandson where he was posted. He just smiled and said he works at a train station in Bishop Auckland.

It’s a strange grief—mourning a life you still feel, only to realise you’re an old man in a new century.

The Squadron Assembles

Despite the confusion, having the family rally round was magnificent. It reminded me of the camaraderie we had in the service. There is a specific kind of joy in seeing the ranks swell (new grandchildren and great-grandchildren seem to appear every year) and seeing that the unit is still strong.

I have to admit, the intensity overwhelmed me.

In the RAF, I could sleep through a Vulcan bomber taking off, but family visits bring a wall of sound. Multiple conversations, clattering plates, crackling bonbons, and TV noise create disorientation. It isn’t just noise; it’s physical pressure. I retreat to the hallway at times to let my brain stop spinning.

I see the worry in my wife's eyes when I struggled to engage, and her hesitation when I lost a story’s thread. It hurts my pride.

I fear losing command of my life, becoming just a passenger.

New Orders for the New Year But I am not done yet.

In the Air Force, we didn't stop because the weather turned bad or the odds were long. We adjusted the plan. We relied on our comrades.

I am approaching this New Year with resolve. I know my main battle is against my foggy memory, but I am not fighting alone. My adventures now may be shorter—trips to the library, finishing a crossword—but they matter. Dementia has shifted my perspective, and I aim to use that to bring awareness and insight to others.

So, I’ll roll up my sleeves and advance. Armed with the ammunition of lived experience. And I’ll target the institutions and corners of society that need to be woken up to the needs of the dementia community.

The tree is down, the lights are packed away, but the spirit remains. Chin up, chest out. We march on into January.