A Woman With Dementia Whose Name I Can’t Remember, Changed My Life

At the care home, the 96-year-old woman surprised to see me greeted me sweetly and told me her name and age.

I smiled.

“My name’s Yaqoob. It’s nice to me, you too.” I repeated for the 6th time.

It was the 10th-grade weekly field trip to the nearby elderly care home. I was assigned to the dementia ward. We were there to befriend the elderly as a way to connect with a different generation.

It’s funny, that woman must’ve told me her name dozens of times throughout all my visits, yet I still can’t remember it for this story.

For now, let’s call her Lucy.

Lucy and I spoke once a week for an hour in person. (pre-covid)

She would have forgotten all about our past meetings every time we met, so we would constantly become acquainted with one another. She always introduced herself first by her name then her age.

After the introductions, I ask about her background during my first visit.

She tells me about her migrating from Romania to the UK how she had four children, who all grew up. Her son-in-law who got married in Egypt. She interrupts herself to remind me of her name and age again.

I nod as she continues. I listen intently, focusing on her rather than the story.

Her physical stature was small and frail, as is expected of a woman reaching 100, but what sparked my interest while observing her was her interaction with the world. She would constantly gaze in a different direction instead of the TV or move her hands around while gently laughing. Her disconnect from reality seemed almost peaceful.

She breaks away from her trance to compliment my face and asks if I have a girlfriend yet.

I laugh while shaking my head no. She asks, “why”?

I simply respond, “I don’t know”.

She goes back to talking of her family when I naively ask, “Is anyone from your family still alive”?

She sweetly responds, “no, my husband and children are gone”, with a twinge of sadness on her face.

I hold her hand as she smiles and reminds me of her name and age. I nod, with tears forming in my eyes.

During my final visit to Lucy at the care home, I ask her to give some life advice.

She responds by saying, prioritise happiness and spending time with those you love.

I smile at her answer.

At the same time, in her eyes, I see one of the things I fear most in life.

Regret.

We continue talking and repeating conversations till it was time to leave.

The teacher announces, “all right guys, this is our last time here, so be sure to say goodbye”.

I kneel in front of Lucy in her armchair and bid her goodbye.

With a look of realisation that this would be my last time with her, she suddenly grabs both my hands with hers, looks at my eyes, and, drenched in sincerity, says, “I wish you all the success in the world”.

We part smiling as I walk down the hallway and see through the windows her aimless gaze return.

After Covid and the years since I’ve seen her, she’s likely passed away.

But her final words have lived in my head ever since.

“I wish you all the success in the world.”

It was as if she saw all the potential I had and told me to go and use it to achieve all the success I could.

Her faith in me has changed my course of action since then. Every day, I feel as though I owe it to Lucy to go out and work my ass off.

And that’s what I’ve been doing ever since.