My beloved husband died on Fathers Day, the 21st June, the day after his 95th birthday. He had been diagnosed with the early symptoms of dementia just after his 90th birthday and I looked after him at home until he became physically so weak that I could no longer cope. He had been in a nursing home for the last 18 months, wonderfully cared for by the most amazing staff, and he died peacefully with people who really cared for him. Until the last few months he had been able to hold a limited conversation, and even make jokes, and a great blessing as far as we were concerned was that he never failed to recognise me - I went in every day - or daughter and grandchildren or friends. I count my blessings that he was diagnosed relativity late in life so we had a lot more time together than many have. We had been married for 55 years. Insofar as a funeral can be a joyous occasion his was and it was a true celebration of his life with his favourite music and some laughter. So many people came, and I am running out of room to put all the cards and letters on view. I feel I am surrounded by so much love. Fortunately my daughter and I have the same view of death. The person is not in the coffin, what is there is a poor worn-out body which he has left behind to move on to the next life. Probably because I had had years to prepare for it, and seeing how rapidly he had deteriorated in the final month I can honestly say that the sadness I felt at his death has not been as overwhelming as that which I felt when I had to put him in the nursing home. He was then aware of what was happening and being asked "When am I coming home?" was heartbreaking. I felt I had betrayed him by not continuing to look after him at home, impossible though that would have been and in the end the move was the right one for him.