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My father forgot my name. When I found out what caused it, I realised I was already making the same mistake. My father forgot my name on a Sunday afternoon in October. I'd driven up to see him at the care home, same as every week for four years. Walked in with his favourite biscuits. Custard creams, always custard creams. He looked at me and said: "That's kind, love. Are you one of the new nurses?" His only daughter. Standing right in front of him. Dementia took everything from him. His memories. His jokes. His laugh. The man who walked me down the aisle, who taught me to drive in his old Vauxhall, who cried at every single school play I was ever in, gone. Replaced by someone who stared out the window and asked what day it was every ten minutes. I promised myself, standing in that awful corridor that smelled of disinfectant and overcooked cabbage: I will do everything I can to make sure this doesn't happen to me. I just didn't know how. Not then. Then, six months ago, my brother Kenny showed me something that made my blood run cold. Johns Hopkins University, one of the best medical research institutions in the world, published findings that I can't stop thinking about. "Hearing loss doesn't just mean an older adult needs to turn up the TV. It's been linked to a range of health problems, including dementia." But it was the next line that truly scared me. "The latest aging research not only shows the two are connected, it's also leading scientists to believe that hearing loss may actually be a cause of dementia." Not a risk factor. Not a coincidence. A cause. Mild hearing loss: twice the risk of dementia. Moderate hearing loss: three times the risk. Severe hearing loss: five times the risk. Five times. Here's the article if you want to read it yourself: https://publichealth.jhu.edu/2023/new-study-links-hearing-loss-with-dementia-in-older-adults And I've had moderate hearing loss for three years. That's when it hit me. That's the mistake. The same one my dad made. Three years of not hearing Jim properly. Three years of asking people to repeat themselves. Three years of the television getting louder and louder. Three years of my brain not getting the signals it needs — slowly getting worse, just like dad's did. When Kenny showed me that research, I didn't sleep that night. I kept thinking about dad in that care home. The custard creams. The empty look. About whether that would be me in five years, ten years, sitting across from Jim and not knowing who he was. I'd been putting off doing anything about my hearing. The way everyone does. "It's not that bad." "I'll manage." "People mumble." After reading that research, I wasn't putting it off anymore. GP confirmed what I already knew. Moderate hearing loss, both ears. "I'll refer you to audiology. Wait is about sixteen months." Sixteen months. Sixteen months of my brain getting worse while I sit on a waiting list. "What about private?" Boots: £3,495. Specsavers: £2,495. Hidden Hearing: £3,200. On our pension? Jim would have to sell his car. Then Amazon. Two different pairs. First one whistled so badly Jim thought the kettle was on. Second one made everything louder but voices were still muffled. Sent them both back. So that was it. Wait sixteen months, pay three and a half thousand, or do nothing and hope I don't end up like dad. I chose nothing. For another six months. Six months of Jim waving his hand when I didn't hear him. Six months of our granddaughter Rosie learning to tell Mummy things instead of Nana. Six months of that Johns Hopkins research sitting in the back of my head like a ticking clock. Then Kenny got involved. Our Kenny knows everyone. One of those blokes who's always got "a mate who can sort that." Plumber? Kenny knows one. Solicitor? Kenny's got a bloke. "Marg, I've met this lad David. He runs a hearing aid company in Stoke." "Kenny, I'm not buying some dodgy..." "Just listen. His mum had dementia too." That shut me up. "He told me the whole story. Visited her every week for six years. One day she looked at him and said 'are you the doctor?' His own mum. Didn't know who he was." I thought about dad. About the custard creams. "What's that got to do with hearing aids?" "After his mum died, he read the same research I showed you. The Johns Hopkins stuff. And he couldn't stop thinking about all these people losing their hearing, can't afford the private ones, NHS takes forever, so they just do nothing. And every day they do nothing..." "Their brain gets worse." "Exactly. So he built a hearing aid company. Same technology as Boots, same components, same everything. But he sells direct. No shops. No salespeople. No massive markup. £149." "£149? Kenny, that's not real." "I've been to his warehouse, Marg. I've seen it. It's a proper operation. Not some bloke in a shed." "How can the same technology cost £149 instead of £3,495?" "He said the whole industry's changed in the last couple of years. The processing chips and receivers that used to be locked up by the big manufacturers are available to everyone now. AI technology's brought the costs right down. And since the beginning of 2025, the UK government actually allows you to buy hearing aids over the counter now. No GP referral needed, no clinic appointment, nothing. You just buy them yourself, same as reading glasses. That's what made the whole thing possible. So he sells direct — no shops, no salespeople on commission, no massive overheads. The three grand Boots charges? Most of that's their rent, their staff, and their shareholders. Not the technology." That actually made sense. Same way those online glasses companies work. Same product, no shops, honest price. "I want to see it." Jim thought I'd lost it. "You're driving to Stoke to look at a warehouse?" "I want to know it's real." We drove up the following Tuesday. Kenny came along, obviously. The warehouse was on an industrial estate. Nothing flashy. Just shelves full of stock, packing stations, people getting on with things. A proper working operation. David met us at the door. Normal bloke. Cup of tea in my hand before I'd sat down. He told me about his mum properly. Face to face. How she forgot the day of the week first. Then how to make tea. Then his wife's name. Then his. How he read the Johns Hopkins research after she died. How he realised millions of people are slowly losing their minds, not because there's no treatment, but because they can't afford it or can't be bothered to wait eighteen months for it. His dad was his first customer. Stubborn man. Missed his granddaughter whispering "I love you, Grandad" because he couldn't hear her. First day with HearWell, he heard her. David said his dad cried for the first time in forty years. Standing in that warehouse, I thought about Rosie. About the birthday candles she'd stopped asking me to blow out with her. About Jim waving his hand. About dad and the custard creams. "I'll take a pair," I said. Jim looked at me. "Don't you want to think about it?" "I've been thinking about it for two years, Jim. I'm done thinking." David handed me a pair from the shelf. "We do a 45-day trial at home," he said. "If they're not right for you, just send them back here. No hassle." He also told me they guarantee the hearing aids for a minimum of two years. If anything goes wrong in that time, they replace them. No questions. I opened the box in the car park. Couldn't even wait to get home. Tiny things. Smaller than a five pence piece. Charged them in the car on the way back. Put them in as soon as we walked through the front door. Jim went to the kitchen to make toast. "Tea or coffee?" he called out. Normal voice. Not shouting. I heard every word. "Say something else." "You're a stubborn woman and I love you." Clear as day. That was four months ago. Blew out candles with Rosie at her cousin's christening. She grabbed my hand and pulled me to the cake without asking. Just assumed I'd be there. Because I'm Nana. And Nana always does the candles. Television's at 18. Was at 44. Jim's stopped waving his hand. He talks to me normally now. Like we used to. And every morning when I put them in, I think about dad. And I think: my brain is getting what it needs today. Sound. Stimulation. Connection. And I got them for £149. David told me they're guaranteed for a minimum of two years, if anything goes wrong, they replace them for free. Most people use them for three or four years. Mine show no signs of slowing at four months. That's less twenty pence a day. Less than a biscuit. Twenty pence a day to hear my family. To keep my brain working. To make sure Jim never has to look across the table and wonder if I know who he is. Kenny bought a pair after the warehouse visit. Jim's sister cancelled her eleven-month NHS wait and ordered some. My friend Joan got a pair for her husband. Too late for the dementia, but he can hear her voice now when she talks to him. She said that's enough. Now , if you're still sceptical, I completely understand. I was the same. £149 for hearing aids that work as well as £3,000 ones? Sounds mad. Before our warehouse visit, Kenny sent me an article that really helped. Written by a former NHS audiologist, someone who spent 30 years fitting hearing aids in the system. She bought five different hearing aids with her own money and tested them all side by side. Real patients, real conditions. Boots, Specsavers, NHS, Amazon, and HearWell. She breaks down exactly what you're paying for at each one, and exactly where your money actually goes. It's the most logic thing I've read about the hearing aid industry. Have a read and make up your own mind: Here’s the article if you’re interested: www.betterlivingdaily.co.uk/pages/former-nhs-tests-5-hearing-aid-brands And if you are interested in trying HearWell, this is their official website: www.gethearwell.co.uk/products/hearwell-comfort Still £149 last time I checked (but I understand soon it'll be back to the normal price of £300), with a 45-day trial at home, so there’s nothing to lose. If they don’t work for you, you can just sent them back to Stoke. I suggest you don't wait like I did. Don't make the same mistake my dad made. Don't spend months terrified of dementia while doing absolutely nothing about the thing that causes it. But end of the day make up your own mind, I just wanted to share this. Margaret Palmer, 71 Retired teacher, full-time Nana again P.S. Rosie whispered something in my ear last week. Cupped her little hands around it and everything. "Nana, you're my best friend." Heard every word. Twenty pence a day. Worth every single penny.