“People Just Stared”: Facing Stigma While Caring for My Dad in Public

When my dad was diagnosed with dementia, I knew life would change—but I didn’t realise how much harder it would get once we stepped outside the front door. Inside the house, I could manage the routines, the refusals, the memory lapses. But out in public? That was a different battlefield. One I wasn’t prepared for.

This blog is about the stigma. The looks. The whispers. The outright laughter. And how I learned—slowly, painfully—not to let it break me.

The First Time It Happened

We were in the local Co-op. Dad had wandered off while I was grabbing milk, and when I found him, he was standing in the cleaning aisle, staring blankly at a shelf of bleach bottles.

He turned to me, confused. “Did I come here for something? I think I was looking for... socks?”

A woman nearby snorted. Not a kind chuckle—more like the kind of laugh you give when someone’s being “weird.” I felt my stomach drop. I wanted to explain, to say, “He has dementia,” but I didn’t. I just took his arm and guided him out.

That night, I couldn’t stop replaying it. Her laugh. His confusion. My silence.

The Café Incident

A few weeks later, we went to a café we used to love. Dad always ordered the same thing—tea, two sugars, and a toasted teacake. But that day, he couldn’t remember how to order. He stood at the counter, fumbling with his wallet, mumbling something about “the thing with raisins.”

The young guy behind the till looked annoyed. “You mean a teacake?” he said, impatiently.

Dad nodded, but then tried to pay with a bus pass. I stepped in, smiling, trying to smooth it over. “Sorry, he’s got dementia. I’ll sort it.”

The guy didn’t say anything. Just rolled his eyes and took the money.

We sat down, and Dad looked embarrassed. “Did I mess that up?”

I lied. “Not at all.”

Inside, I was furious. Not at Dad—never at Dad—but at the way people treated him like he was a nuisance. Like he was holding up their day.

The Market Stall Meltdown

One of the worst moments happened at the Saturday market. Dad loved browsing the stalls, especially the ones selling old tools and bits of hardware. He picked up a spanner and asked the stallholder, “How much for this hammer?”

The man laughed. “That’s a spanner, mate.”

Dad frowned. “No, I need a hammer. That’s what I said.”

The man kept laughing. “You alright, pal?”

I stepped in. “He’s got dementia. Please don’t laugh.”

The man shrugged. “Didn’t mean anything by it.”

But he did. And so did the people nearby who smirked and looked away.

I felt rage. Not just anger—rage. The kind that makes your chest tighten and your fists clench. But I didn’t shout. I didn’t cause a scene. I just took Dad’s hand and walked away.

The Emotional Fallout

These moments chipped away at me. Each time someone laughed, rolled their eyes, or treated Dad like he was stupid, it felt like a punch to the gut. I started dreading going out. I’d scan every room, every queue, every café for signs of judgment.

I felt protective. Defensive. Exhausted.

And guilty. Guilty that I couldn’t shield him from it. Guilty that I sometimes wished we could just stay home. Guilty that I let strangers make me feel ashamed of my dad.

Learning to Let Go of Their Arrogance

It took time, but I started to change how I responded.

I stopped trying to explain to everyone. Not because Dad didn’t deserve understanding—but because I realised some people just don’t want to understand. Their ignorance isn’t my burden.

Instead, I focused on Dad. On keeping him calm, comfortable, and included. If someone laughed, I ignored them. If someone stared, I stared back. If someone made a comment, I’d say, “He has dementia. You might want to think before you speak.”

Sometimes that shut them up. Sometimes it didn’t. But I stopped letting it ruin my day.

The Kindness That Broke Through

Not everyone was cruel. There were moments of unexpected kindness that reminded me humanity isn’t lost.

Like the woman in Boots who saw Dad struggling to find toothpaste and gently asked, “Would you like me to help you find something?” She didn’t flinch when he said, “I need the one with the minty bits.”

Or the bus driver who waited patiently while Dad tried to remember where we were going, and then said, “Take your time, mate. No rush.”

Those moments mattered. They reminded me that stigma isn’t universal. That compassion still exists.

What I Wish People Knew

If I could speak to every person who’s ever laughed, stared, or judged, I’d say this:

• Dementia isn’t funny. It’s confusing, heart-breaking, and relentless.

• That “weird” behaviour you’re mocking? It’s someone’s dad, mum, partner, friend—doing their best.

• Carers aren’t superheroes. We’re tired, emotional, and doing everything we can to preserve dignity.

• A little patience goes a long way. A smile, a kind word, even just not staring—it helps more than you know.

The Impact on Me—and Us

Navigating public spaces with Dad taught me resilience. It taught me how to advocate, how to protect, and how to let go of other people’s ignorance.

But it also deepened our bond. Because every time I stood by him, every time I chose compassion over shame, I felt closer to him. I wasn’t just his son—I was his shield, his voice, his safe place.

And he knew it. Even when he couldn’t say it, he knew.

Final Thoughts

If you’re a carer dealing with stigma, I see you. I know the frustration, the anger, the helplessness. But I also know the strength it takes to keep showing up.

You’re not alone. And neither are they.

Thanks for reading. If you’ve faced similar moments, feel free to share. Let’s keep building a community where dignity comes first—and stigma doesn’t get the final word.