John Suchet: 'Bonnie became two people... the woman I had loved and the one who was still there'

IN summer 2004, John Suchet and his wife Bonnie were at Stansted Airport, waiting for a flight that would take them to enjoy a carefree holiday at their second home in France.

Bonnie slipped away to the loo. After 15 minutes, John became concerned and thought she might have become ill. Then he was paged to meet his wife at the information desk. When he appeared, Bonnie's face lit up. "There you are! I thought I had lost you!" she said. When John explained he had been waiting for her, she looked at him uncomprehendingly.

With the benefit of hindsight, Suchet sees that incident as the first sign of dementia. Early the following year, while visiting family in the US, Bonnie collapsed and hospital tests revealed abnormal white areas on her brain, which a doctor suggested could be Alzheimer's Disease. A battery of tests carried out back in London confirmed the degenerative brain disorder. She was 64.

Nine months ago, after four years of being his wife's primary carer, there came a point where John could no longer cope with his wife's escalating condition and her needs were becoming greater by the day. The graceful, serene and smiling American he had met 30-odd years before and had lived with for 26 years had become another woman – one who walked back and forth constantly, was incontinent, hated getting undressed, could be aggressive or mute and showed little understanding of what was happening around her.

After a great deal of heart-searching and medical advice, including that of a specialist Admiral Nurse who works with carers of people with dementia, he faced the prospect of placing Bonnie in full-time care. He was told that it would be better for everyone, especially her, if she could settle into a home before a huge crisis forced the issue further down the line.

Suchet's account of the day he told her they were "going for a short break" then bought one return ticket and one single ticket to take Bonnie with her suitcase on wheels to the home is nothing short of heartrending. The last walk in the park... the last meal... the finality of closing the door on the flat they had shared happily for 26 years. He fought back tears all the way as he led her into a new home, and after a few hours let a carer lead her away before returning alone to London and howling in grief.

He writes about his love for Bonnie, their idyllically happy marriage and the shattering of their life by his wife's illness in the book My Bonnie – How Dementia Stole The Love of My Life, a brutally (and sometimes uncomfortably) honest account of his wife's illness told against the backdrop of their love story and all the memories Bonnie can no longer recall, but which John returns to every day.

A former Reuters reporter, ITN US correspondent, and for the last 20 years of his career a newsreader, John met and fell instantly in love with Bonnie when they were both married to other people and living in Henley-on-Thames towards the end of the 1970s.

They socialised as couples, and Suchet had to hide his growing feelings towards his neighbour. They both had children to think of, but by the time Suchet was promoted to the Washington Bureau, the two had shared one illicit and passionate kiss that started a cataclysm in their lives.

He went off to America and became more and more uncomfortable and disillusioned with his volatile marriage. A couple of years of transatlantic phone calls and visits by Bonnie later, they decided to end their marriages and get together, painful though the process might be. Starting out in a bedsit in Washington, they later returned to live in London and married in 1985. Theirs was a blissful existence in an elegant London flat, a life together punctuated by romantic holidays, flowers, surprise gifts and the conviction that theirs was a love written in the stars.

Looking back, John is thankful that one feature of the illness that gradually took the Bonnie he knew away seemed to protect her from any understanding of what was happening to her. She has never to this day, he says, questioned what was wrong with her or referred to any aspect of her condition.

One phase gave way to another: she carried her keys around on a tray along with sunglasses, phone and glasses of water she never drank; she showered constantly and went to the bathroom every few minutes; she collected then shredded tissues, but she never stopped to wonder why. Later on she wouldn't shower or dress and couldn't control bodily functions.

John describes in painful detail how he sometimes lost his temper and screamed at Bonnie, including a couple of incidents when his frustration with her inability to understand a simple request led him to grip her tightly by the arms, causing bruises. After each of these occasions he was tearful, horrified and remorseful.

Vital help was offered by an Admiral Nurse called Ian Weatherhead, who was assigned to support John in understanding Bonnie's illness and his own reactions to it.

"I told Ian about an incident in which Bonnie had disappeared just when I was serving a meal, leaving it to get cold," says John. "I had lost it, screaming and shouting at her. I assured Ian I would never lose my temper like that again. 'Oh yes you will,' he said.

"I don't know what I'd have done without his help. I think I'd have sunk beneath the weight of caring for Bonnie and doing all the domestic chores at times, if he hadn't been on hand to talk to. I was lucky that the primary care trust we lived in did provide the service of an Admiral Nurse. There are only 75 in the country, so most people can't have their help. The biggest thing was that he made me feel my behaviour and reactions were 'normal' for a carer of a loved one with dementia.

"Bonnie was now two people – there was the one I loved, who was gone, and there was the Bonnie who was still there with me. I began to understand that my feelings and occasional temper tantrums were about mourning the Bonnie she used to be, while living with the one who couldn't remember the good times and what we'd been to each other. I used to be her lover, and it was difficult to accept that I was now only her carer."

John Suchet was, unlike most carers, in the lucky position of being able, after a certain point, to afford the help of a housekeeper, called Monika. She looked after Bonnie while he continued to do some journalistic work and, in 2009, took on the role of being the public face of the charity Dementia UK. When he went public about his wife's condition he was unprepared for the huge media interest and the hundreds of letters he received from carers around the globe.

He had been approached to write a book about Bonnie's illness in the context of the love story that went before, and Suchet says he hesitantly agreed after much soul-searching about whether he had the right to reveal the intimate details of his wife's illness, in a book she would never understand or even read.

"I was persuaded that it would be helpful to others who struggle with caring for loved ones, and Bonnie would want to help others. But I have worried about it. I see that there's no point in writing about the illness and its effects on your relationship without being completely honest, but I sometimes wish I hadn't written it and certainly that I hadn't included the accounts about feeling and even being violent once or twice. How could I hurt Bonnie, who I loved so much? I feel a bit insecure about it now, but I was speaking out for others who feel equal despair."

As a reader you can only applaud his honesty about the grim reality of watching someone you love crumble and disappear and imagine what it's like for those who have no respite from caring. While Bonnie is expertly looked after, John is moving on and leaving their flat. "Her clothes and bits and pieces have gone, but I have so many beautiful memories..."

It was Bonnie's 69th birthday this week, and it was celebrated with cake, silly hats and a sing-song. She looked pleased when she saw him, John says, but when he quietly left without any fuss or goodbyes, he knew she would not notice or even remember he'd been there.

"She beams her beautiful smile when I arrive, but I've no idea if she knows I'm her husband. I don't ever ask."

My Bonnie – How Dementia Stole The Love Of My Life is published by HarperCollins, 18.99. To order from the Yorkshire Post Bookshop call 0800 0153232 or go to www.yorkshirepostbookshop.

co.uk. Postage costs 2.75

To find out more about Dementia UK call 0207 874 7210 or go to www.dementiauk.org

John Suchet has launched the Admiral Nurse Academy to increase provision of Admiral Nurses in the UK www.admiralnurseacademy.org