Caregiving is often romanticized as an act of selflessness, but those who live it know the truth: it is a slow-burning form of courage, built quietly in the shadows of everyday life. In Losing Richard, author Julie Maxwell chronicles a journey that is both intimate and universal — a story of love evolving under the weight of illness, identity slipping away, and a marriage transformed by dementia’s quiet theft. Through the lens of one family’s experience, the memoir becomes a mirror for millions navigating similar emotional landscapes.
Maxwell’s story begins with the vibrant early days of marriage: European adventures, the birth of a premature son, and the fierce fight to support a child living with cerebral palsy. In these pages, readers witness the unshakeable bond between Julie and her husband Richard — a bond forged not from perfection, but resilience. Their life together glows with adventure: romantic escapes to France, summers in Yosemite with their son Nick, and decades of entrepreneurial triumphs that carried Richard across the globe.
But the true heart of this memoir emerges when everything begins to change.
Dementia does not arrive like a storm; it seeps in slowly, disguised as forgetfulness, fatigue, or distraction. Maxwell describes the first moment of real fear with surgical precision: the day Richard misplaced their puppy’s leash and stared blankly at the countertop, unmoored. “It wasn’t the mistake,” she writes. “It was the hollow look that followed.” It is a moment many caregivers know too well — the instant the world tilts and never quite returns to center.
The memoir unfolds with unflinching honesty as Julie guides readers through the devastating progression of Richard’s cognitive decline. Once a world-traveling entrepreneur, he becomes a man uncertain of social settings, overwhelmed by noise, and dependent on the familiarity of home to feel at ease. His disappearance from politics — once a beloved obsession — becomes a symbolic marker of the shrinking world dementia creates.
But Losing Richard is not a story solely about loss. It is equally a story about love that persists in altered form, about the evolution of marriage, and about the invisible labor women disproportionately carry in caregiving roles.
Maxwell lifts the veil on the emotional mathematics of caring for a spouse:
the guilt of frustration,
the exhaustion of decision-making,
the haunting question of “What happens if I’m gone first?”
It is rare to find a memoir that so accurately captures both the tenderness and the terror of this responsibility.
Julie also writes candidly about the loneliness of caregiving. She describes the feeling of “disappearing” — a phenomenon many caregivers face as they stop attending social events, lose touch with friends, and live in the isolating routine of daily vigilance. Yet she also honors the constellation of friends and neighbors who stepped in when she herself fell ill. In these sections, the memoir becomes a testament not only to the resilience of one woman but to the power of collective care.
At its core, Losing Richard is a reminder that dementia does not erase a person entirely. “He still smiles,” she writes. “He still enjoys art, museums, dinners out. And for that, I am profoundly grateful.” It is a line that echoes the sentiment shared by countless caregivers: you learn to cherish every flicker of recognition, every moment of clarity, every remaining piece of the person you love.
The memoir also extends beyond illness to celebrate the remarkable life the couple built — including the extraordinary journey of their son, Nick. Born three months premature and later diagnosed with cerebral palsy, Nick grows into a disability rights advocate, global traveler, business owner, and charismatic leader. His legacy, honored through a San Francisco nonprofit library, threads hope into the narrative, reminding readers that joy and grief often coexist in the same breath.
For readers in the UK — where dementia affects nearly one in 14 people over 65 — Maxwell’s memoir resonates deeply. It highlights caregiving as not simply a responsibility but an act of radical devotion. It challenges cultural silence around cognitive decline and invites a more humane understanding of those living through it.
In the end, Losing Richard is not only the story of one man slipping away but a profound meditation on what remains. Love, as Maxwell demonstrates, is not diminished by illness — it adapts. It stretches. It endures.
And in that endurance, there is a quiet, extraordinary kind of courage.
