In 2021, my partner, Mel—who had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in 2020—finally had his ACAT (Aged Care Assessment Team) assessment. I’d been told he needed this assessment to access support services, but at first, I didn’t think we’d need them. I believed I could manage on my own. I also didn’t want to deal with massive amounts of administrative red tape and paperwork.

Over time, I realised I couldn’t do it all. I needed a break. He needed activities. And, more importantly, I had to think long-term about how his condition would progress. It was a lot to take in—overwhelming, really.

I had already registered as his authorized representative on the My Aged Care website so I could handle the paperwork, as Mel could no longer manage these things himself. A few months earlier, he’d had a preliminary assessment, which I mistakenly thought was the ACAT. It turned out to be for eligibility under the Commonwealth Home Support Program, allowing him to access a few subsidised activities. That helped, but it was only for a few hours a week. Then, when the activity center started hinting that he was becoming too difficult to manage and might not be able to attend anymore, I knew we needed more support.

I had read advice from others caring for loved ones with dementia—particularly about ACAT assessments. Many warned that when the assessor arrives, the Loved One (LO) may try to downplay their condition or “confabulate” (make things up or exaggerate—common in dementia). Caregivers were advised to discreetly slip a note to the assessor or position themselves behind the LO to indicate the reality of their condition. The key was to describe what life was like on the worst days, rather than how they presented on that particular day—especially during showtime (when someone with dementia temporarily appears much more capable than they usually are).

In my case, I didn’t have to worry about that. Mel was in a particularly bad mood when the ACAT assessor arrived, and I resisted the urge to pacify or distract him. Instead, I let them see exactly what I was dealing with. The assessor stayed for about an hour, asking Mel questions. Some, to my surprise, he answered quite well; other times, he became agitated, pacing around the room. At one point, in an attempt to prove how physically fit he was, he even jumped up onto a stool. It was a perfect, if unintentional, demonstration of the daily challenges I faced.

A week or so later, the assessment result arrived—Level 4, the highest level of support available at the time. Soon, the system will change to a 1–10 scale, for better or worse, but at that moment, Level 4 meant the most assistance I could get.

I opened the letter and cried the entire day. I was completely in shock.

I cried partly from relief—relief that we would get the maximum support possible, that someone had acknowledged just how hard things had become. But mostly, I cried because it was official. The man I loved, whose sharp mind and independence had defined him, was now at this stage. His brain was deteriorating, and there was nothing either of us could do to stop it.

My heart broke for him. The old Mel—the strong, capable man who had cared for others—would have hated this. He had been there for his mother during her struggle with Alzheimer’s, a devoted son through her years of decline. Now, he was the one in need, completely dependent on me.

And yet, amid the heartbreak, there was a silver lining.

With extra support, I knew I could keep looking after him at home for longer. This was our time, and though Mel couldn’t express it, I knew the man he once was would have been grateful. I understood what he was going through, and I was here for him—just as he had been there for his mother.

It wasn’t fair that he had to go through this, but I wouldn’t let him go through it alone.

“I love that you are my person and I am yours, and that whatever door we come to, we’ll open it together.”

That thought sustained me through the challenges ahead.