I walked to the mall, enjoying the sunshine and the hustle and bustle of the day. On my way home, a sweet elderly lady approached me and asked where the nearest medical clinic was. As I gave her directions, she seemed overwhelmed, her eyes darting nervously. I could sense her anxiety, so I offered to walk to the clinic with her. She gratefully accepted.
On our walk, she introduced herself as Mary. She shared that she had Alzheimer's and forgets things easily. Her accent revealed her Scottish roots, and as we walked, she painted vivid pictures of her life before the disease took hold. She spoke fondly of her son, who was always helpful, and her daughter, who she described as grumpy. Mary’s stories ranged from heartwarming to humorous—she told me jokes and even demonstrated her impressive whistling skills, both with her fingers and thumbs. Despite her vivid recollections, she had already forgotten where we were headed.
As we approached the clinic, I realized that they would probably not see her without a family member present. Nonetheless, we decided to try. We waited for half an hour before seeing the doctor. During this time, Mary searched for her phone, only to realize she had forgotten it at home. Unable to call her family, the doctor informed us that Mary could not be treated without a family member present.
Determined to help, I offered to walk back to the mall with Mary, where she said she knew her way home. She invited me to have tea with her at McDonald’s, a place she frequented daily. The staff at McDonald's greeted her warmly, calling her by name. As we sat down, Mary momentarily forgot who I was and asked if we were sitting together. I gently reminded her of our afternoon together.
Mary recited her daughter’s phone number, and I called her to explain the situation. Her daughter was curt, asking to speak to her mother without any words of gratitude. After the call, Mary wept, feeling abandoned. She couldn’t recall her son’s phone number, leaving us with no other options.
After processing her daughter’s rejection, I reassured Mary that I would walk her home. We continued our conversation over tea. Mary was kind, sweet, and chatty, clearly starved for human connection. She expressed her gratitude for my company, saying she rarely gave out compliments, but she really liked me. Throughout our walk, she repeatedly asked why we were walking together and how she had arrived at the mall, having completely forgotten our journey.
When we reached her home, her daughter greeted us with eye rolls and no warmth. I explained our afternoon and my concern for Mary’s safety, only to be met with more indifference. Despite not living with someone with Alzheimer’s, I could only imagine the complexity and difficulty of Mary’s life—the constant forgetting, the dependence on others, and the impatience of caregivers.
As I walked away, I reflected on the sadness Mary must feel—the frustration of not remembering, the anxiety of knowing she should remember something but doesn’t, and the way some people, even family, treat her. Despite all this, she clung to the pride of once driving a busload of people to Arizona safely.
I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stay with Mary, to protect her, to make her feel loved, needed, and appreciated. As I hugged her goodbye, she smiled, and I told her what a lovely afternoon I had. Walking away, I burst into tears and cried all the way home—25 minutes of tears. I’m still crying as I write this. Mary won’t remember me or our afternoon together, but I will.
