The Life She Lived Before Forgetting

Image made by Livia using Stable Diffusion

Working in a nursing home, you learn not to get too attached.

But it’s not easy.

Residents come and go. Some stay a few months, others for years before their health declines. But every now and then, there’s a person you bond with on a deeper level.

For me, that person was Edith.

The first time I met Edith, she was facing the window, muttering under her breath.

“What lovely flowers,” she said, pointing at the bare courtyard. Edith’s dementia made her see things that weren’t there.

I simply replied “Yes, beautiful” and we both admired the imaginary garden for a few moments.

I got to know her well.

She had led a fascinating life — growing up in the countryside, becoming a nurse like myself, and marrying her childhood sweetheart.

She was also well-traveled. She could point out my home country on a map, although she told me she’d never had the chance to visit.

But she’d recount her memories to me in vivid detail, our roles reversed with me now the caregiver.

Edith’s dementia worsened with time.

Some days she was lucid, greeting me by name and reminiscing about her own nursing career. On other days she was anxious and confused, calling out for her long-deceased husband.

No matter her state of mind, she’d often recognize me, squeezing my hand and giving me a friendly smile that warmed my heart.

I became Edith’s touchstone, the familiar face she sought out in moments of distress. If she was agitated, I could calm her simply by talking in a soothing voice about the flowers outside her window.

If she was lost in the past, I guided her back to the present with a gentle reminder of where she was.

Over the years, I watched Edith’s body fail her even as her spirit stayed strong. Her walks around the courtyard grew shorter, her impressive mind grew dimmer. Yet she never failed to recognize me.

Until one day, she didn’t.

I entered her room for my morning visit. Taking her hand, I said, “Good morning Edith, it’s me, Livia!” For the first time, she looked at me with no spark of recognition. Just a vacant stare, her eyes clouded with confusion.

My heart broke in that moment.

My dear friend was lost to me. The Edith I knew was gone. All that remained was a fragile shell of a woman grasping at brief memories.

I often stayed with her, holding her hand as she slipped further away. I didn’t need her to know my name or remember our conversations together. I just hoped my presence brought some comfort as she made her final journey.

That winter, Edith passed away in her sleep.

At her funeral, I mourned the wise, vibrant soul I had come to cherish. But I also celebrated the rich life she lived and the connection we shared.

Working in nursing homes means dealing with goodbyes.

Patients come into our lives fleetingly yet profoundly. Edith taught me the value of living fully in those brief moments when we’re gifted.

I carry her memory with me, a reminder to appreciate every glimpse of human connection — even when I know it is ephemeral.

Wherever Edith is now, I hope she’s once again admiring the flowers just outside her window. And I hope she’s comforted by familiar faces from her long, beautiful life.