My good friend Josy moved to a nursery home only weeks ago. She should have moved there much earlier, but one of her sons could not let her go.

The last time I visited her, still at home, she asked me a couple of questions (“How are your parents ?”; “Where you ever at my boat ?”; “I knew your grandparents very well — did you know that ?”; “Did you meet my late husband ?”).

Only she asked them hundreds of times. Minute after minute after minute.

Hour after hour.

Her dementia had gotten so bad that after asking a question and listening to my answer, she’d already forgotten that she’d asked it.

When she was off to bed, her daughter-in-law asked me how on Earth I could generate the patience to answer every single one of her questions, and how on Earth I could answer the same question more than a hundred times, for hours.

I told her that for her mother-in-law, every time she posed a question was the very first time she asked it, so she deserved a good and honest answer every single time.

And I honestly think she deeply appreciated that.

If only for a short time.

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