Why Alzheimer's Research UK

I have absolutely no idea how to start this. So, buckle in folks, it's going to be a sad one. (Yes, I am aware of how cringe that was, but in my defence, how else do you start a blog post about death?)

I thought I knew what it felt like to be sad. I had fallen out with friends, experienced depression, and had a toxic workplace. But, on December 12th 2024, I learnt how sad I could actually feel. My grandad, Malcolm, had passed away. It was the most confusing experience of my life. How was this person here one second then gone the next?

Then, on February 21st 2026, I lost my other grandad. To the same disease.

People talk about grief and pain but it is never accurate, nor does it prepare you for how it actually feels. I did not know that I would grieve for over a year, and I did not know that grieving for two is a completely different feeling.

Before I get into art club and why I decided upon this style of fundraising, I want to tell you about them. About both of them. This is both for me to be able to process the experiences but also to demonstrate how important Dementia research really is. If you feel like this will be too difficult for you to read, feel free to skip to the end.

When I was 4 years old, my parents split up. (This is relevant, I promise). A deal was struck between them that my Dad would see both my brother and I every other Saturday. He would pick us up between 10 and 11am, we would go into town or do an activity, have lunch, go to my grandparents' in the afternoon, before dropping us off around 6pm. This was our routine for close to 15 years.

Also during this time, we attending church on the first Sunday of every month. It was a safe place where we made friends and felt accepted. That church did wonders for my well-being, and even now, at the age of 25, I still find that same escapism and comfort when I enter that building. My grandparents were always there too. Nan would play in the band, and Malcolm would narrate the Christmas Eve service with me or would sit with us in the pews.

Why did we call him Malcolm? It is an inside joke, of sorts. He was my Dad's step Dad, however, because we had known him all our lives, we just saw him as Grandad. When I was a very small child, my Nan asked for a cuppa. "Tea please Malcolm". The annoying little 5 year old I was decided to mimic her, and shout that phrase across the kitchen. It stuck. We called him by his first name from then on.

A few years ago, he started acting a bit different. He was quiet and looked unwell. I eventually found out that he had prostate cancer. I remember the shock and fear I felt in that moment. My Nan reassured that he was fine and that the cancer had gone, but that doesn't mean the battle is necessarily over. He was a lot weaker after that. A lot less capable of living his every day life the way he wanted.

He used to frequently walk long distances, but now he was being found by the side of the road, unconscious. Not long after this, he had a double bypass on his heart. He had a pacemaker for as long as I can remember, but this was the first time in my memories that he had a heart related scare.

Soon after his operation, he was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. I thought they were being dramatic at first. He seemed fine, just a little scatty. I still saw him regularly and he didn't seem any different from day-to-day. I refused to accept it.

But he slowly started showing signs.

He would mention how much I had grown from the last time I had seen him, I was 22 and definitely not growing. He would ask how my 19 year old brother was doing at school. He would forget he had told us a story, and repeated it over and over again. He started combining stories into a mashup that was undecipherable. These silly instances became more scary over time. I remember one occassion my nan asked him to grab his guitar (he was learning guitar as a way of slowing down the disease), he then grabbed it, stood in the living room for a while, and then hid the guitar behind the curtain. I still have no idea what situation in which hiding a guitar was a necessity. He once decided to fan an electric fire place with a rug and almost set it on fire. My nan would ask him to put on socks and he would bring down her socks, stand there in the living room, and ask her what she wanted to do with them.

He was losing himself quicker and quicker and all I could do was watch. There is no cure. All we could do was support, knowing it was a death sentence.

In August 2024, my Dad and Nan showed up at where we lived, crying. They got out the car and asked to speak to my brother and I. We were told Malcolm had been sectioned. That was so confusing. I had always assumed that word was reserved for those who were too mentally ill to support themselves, and Malcolm was not there yet, in my mind anyway. They told us about an incident that lead to this horrible decision. Malcolm has become violent. The man who would stand beside me in a place of worship had started threatening and hurting his wife and Step-Son. They were in the car, and suddenly, he decided he was unsafe. He tried to kick the back window of the car out, he wrapped a seatbelt around my Dad's throat and physically hurt my Nan. He had to be taken to a specialist service.

I visited him numerous times. During these visits, I realised he had forgotten us completely. He would talk about the fact he thought the salt and pepper sachets were mini bombs. He would wander around saying he felt he was in a dream and nothing was real. Through it all, a Bible remained at his side. He was still in there, somewhere.

He had a fall in December 2024. The doctors had said that they could either not operate and decrease his quality of life, or they could operate and risk his passing. My Nan chose the latter. He survived the operation and was recovering. However, just as we had hope, he fell ill. He was then put on a ventilator. We went there to say our goodbyes as there was no coming back from this. I held his hand, and he didn't feel like a person anymore. It was like holding hands with a doll. There was no soul, no warmth. He was a lifeless shell, with a machine beating its heart. At 23:23, that machine stopped, and it was all over.

The next day, I lit a candle for him. And I did the same on the year anniversary of his death. I started wearing a cross daily; it feels like he is here with me. It is my way of holding onto him. I got a tattoo of a dove, because I painted it on his coffin for him.

Now, I am sure you are wondering, where does my other grandad come in? And will I have to read all of that about another person? The short answer, no. It is a far shorter story this one.

When we were kids, we had nicknames for all our grandparents, we had so many. Nanny and Grandad Truro, Nanny and Grandad Bessie (if you are ever wondering, my train tattoo is for him), Nanny and Malcolm and then Nanny Lynda and Grandad David. That is who we will talk about now.

When we were experiencing all this in close proximity with Malcolm, we heard that Grandad David had been diagnosed with Dementia. For context, Grandad was my Dad's Dad, and lived in Welwyn Garden City, Hertfordshire. We would visit them annually, and spend time with them in the outskirts of London. They would also come down and visit us. Every Christmas Day, we would call them. Due to the amount of distant relatives, this was a tradition of ours'.

When I heard the news of his diagnosis, I was sad, of course, but I felt awful for my poor Dad. Both his Step-Dad and Dad at the same time. I can't imagine how hard it was for him.

I was not as involved this time, I was experiencing it occassionally via phone calls or short visits. However, Christmas 2025, he was evidently not himself. He didn't know it was Christmas and declined speaking to us. He didn't know who we were. I heard stories about how he kept walking into rooms, unsure why he was there. He fell, regularly. He also, became violent.

At the beginning of 2026, my boyfriend and I went to visit him in hopsital as he had been put into palliative care. We saw a skeletal version of him, lying in this hospital bed. He was scrawny and unwell. He was refusing to eat and had to be forced to drink water. He still had his humour, though, that was a blessing. He was bantering all of us and it felt refreshing to witness. He may not have remembered me, but he was still himself with me.

A month later, I was at my friend's 30th birthday party. I was so excited for a night out like this. I met new people and had a good laugh. Then my phone buzzed. It was my Dad. 'Grandad David just passed away'. I felt like everything froze. I didn't cry, I didn't move. I experienced pure shock for the first time in my life. I turned my phone to my best friend, and rushed outside. The air helped. I called my mum, my brother and my boyfriend. It appeared we all felt the same way. My poor Dad couldn't even speak. My boyfriend rushed to pick me up, however, I was 40 minutes from home. So I had to sit and try to be okay at this party until he arrived.

The next day, I lit him a candle.

Just over a month later, I got a tattoo of his favourite song.

These two men were monumental parts of my upbringing. I am who I am partly because of them.

After they both died, I started Ellie's Art Club. It was something I had thought about for sometime, but I finally had the courage to do it. I feel they helped me take that step. They would have been there by my side, and in a way, they were. Malcolm was a teacher; he had such a love of education, I was following in his footsteps. I also now work in the surgery he was once the Chairman for, which is another way I am connected to him.

At Malcolm's funeral, my Nan wanted anyone to donate to Alzheimer's Research UK. To help find a cure for this horrible disease. I researched more into this incredible charity, and knew I had to do my part.

I don't want anyone else to ever go through this. And I will do what I can to help a cure be found. This is why I am running this session for them, this is why I am not even covering expenses and sending every penny to charity. I want to help. I need to help.

Thank you everyone who donated, I can't tell you how grateful I am. All this money will help change lives. xx