“This Was Before the Fog Came”: Martin Frizell’s Heartbreaking Tribute to Fiona Phillips—and the Quiet Grace of Loving Someone Through Alzheimer’s

Some people remember her as the bright smile on morning television.

Some remember her voice—calm, articulate, guiding viewers through breaking stories with warmth and authority.

But Martin Frizell, husband to broadcaster Fiona Phillips, remembers something quieter.

“This was before the fog came,” he wrote, beneath a photo of Fiona from four years ago.
“She’s waving. She’s smiling. It’s my favorite picture of her.”

From Morning TV to Memory Loss: A Love Story Interrupted

Fiona Phillips, 64, is no stranger to the spotlight. For years, she was one of the most familiar faces on British television—anchoring GMTV, covering royal weddings, humanitarian crises, and kitchen-table politics with equal ease.

But behind the poise and professionalism, there was always something personal. Her openness about her family’s history with Alzheimer’s touched many. She had lost both parents to the disease. She once said:

“It haunted our house, quietly at first. Then loudly. Then completely.”

In 2022, Fiona revealed the words no one ever wants to say out loud:

“Now… it’s come for me.”

The Diagnosis That Echoed Generations

Fiona’s diagnosis came as a private whisper first—missed keys, forgotten appointments, confusion over simple words.

But it didn’t stay private for long.

In an emotional interview, Fiona shared that she had known this was coming.
The hereditary ghost was always there. Watching. Waiting.

“I saw it take my father. Then my mother. I knew the signs too well.”

Still, when it came, it felt different.

“It’s one thing to fear the storm. It’s another to stand in it.”

Martin’s Quiet Witness

Martin Frizell, Fiona’s husband and a seasoned television producer in his own right, has rarely spoken publicly about the weight they now carry. But on Mother’s Day 2025, he broke that silence—not with a press conference or a viral video.

But with a photograph.

“If Mother’s Day is tough, you’re not alone,” he wrote.
“This was Fiona four years ago. Just before symptoms started.”

She’s waving in the image. Not staged. Not styled. Just… Fiona.

A Simple Award—and Everything It Means Now

In another photo Martin shared that day, a glass plaque catches the light. The inscription reads:

“Mum of the Year – 2007.”

“This was more important in our house than any BAFTA, NTA, or RTS,” Martin wrote.

Because Fiona isn’t just a broadcaster. She’s a mother—to sons Nat and Mackenzie, now in their twenties.

She is the woman who still tries to boil the kettle before realizing she already has.
She is the mother who sometimes forgets where the sugar lives, but still hums the lullabies she made up when her boys were small.

And in their house, “Mum of the Year” wasn’t symbolic.
It was earned. Every single day.

Remember When: The Memoir She Shouldn’t Have to Write—But Must

In February, Pan Macmillan announced that Fiona Phillips was working on a memoir. It will be called Remember When—and will be released in July 2025.

She is writing it with the help of her husband Martin, and journalist and close friend Allison Phillips.

“Written with Fiona’s trademark honesty,” the press release says, “it is not just a memoir. It’s an act of remembrance in real time.”

But for Martin, it’s something more intimate:

“It’s her handwriting fighting back.”

What Alzheimer’s Steals—and What It Can’t Touch

Alzheimer’s doesn’t just take memory.
It erodes timing, confidence, safety.

It makes familiar rooms feel foreign.
It leaves the stove on.
It makes simple conversations feel like marathons—one word at a time.

But what it hasn’t taken from Fiona is her ability to feel love, and to be loved.

“Some days are worse than others,” Martin said quietly to a close friend.
“But she always recognizes laughter.
She always responds to kindness.”

And perhaps, that’s the deepest truth they now live inside:
That memory is not the only thing that defines presence.

Why Martin Shared the Photo

Martin says he hesitated to post the picture on Mother’s Day.

He didn’t want pity.

He didn’t want headlines.

He wanted connection.

“If your Mother’s Day is tough, you’re not alone,” he wrote again.
“That photo—Fiona, waving—isn’t just my favorite. It’s my anchor. That was her. That still is.”

Fans Respond: A Tidal Wave of Shared Grief and Gratitude

Within hours, Martin’s post had quietly circulated among thousands.

Comments came from strangers:

“I lost my mum to Alzheimer’s last spring. That smile reminds me of her.”
“Thank you for this. It hurts. But in a healing way.”
“Fiona was my favorite on GMTV. I can’t believe this is her now. Still sending her love.”

One follower wrote simply:

“She’s still waving. We still see her.”

Living Through It, Not Around It

There is no silver lining in Alzheimer’s.
There is only the day, and how you choose to carry it.

Fiona’s family is doing what so many do—without spotlight:

Labeling drawers.
Making picture boards.
Setting reminders on smartphones for “hug her,” “tell her the boys love her,” “don’t rush breakfast.”

“You grieve,” Martin says, “but she’s still here. And as long as she’s here, we show up.”

What Fiona Taught Us—And Still Teaches

Even now, Fiona Phillips is doing what she’s always done: talking through the hardest things with grace.

Her memoir, her public honesty, and Martin’s quiet love letter to her on Mother’s Day are not just about memory loss.

They are about dignity.
They are about the human right to still be seen, even as details fade.

They are about what we owe to one another—especially when it’s not convenient, not tidy, not linear.

Conclusion: The Picture That Meant More Than Words

Fiona Phillips may not remember the photo Martin posted.
She may not remember winning “Mum of the Year.”
She may forget the names of flowers. Or what year it is.

But every morning, she still smiles when her sons enter the room.
She still recognizes Martin’s voice when he calls her “Fi.”
She still reaches out, even when she doesn’t know exactly why.

And that is memory, too.

Not stored.
But lived.