A few years ago, I was taking care of a young girl with autism and her brother. One day, while they were at school, I found myself with some free time and felt a strong urge to do something meaningful for the community. I started searching for volunteer opportunities on Long Island and discovered a program that paired volunteers with families caring for loved ones with Alzheimer’s—helping the caregiver get a little “break” while spending time with their family member. It sounded perfect, and that’s how I met Lilah in November of 2018. From the very first moment, I knew she was someone truly special.
I would visit Lilah once or twice a week, and each time, she’d look at me with curiosity and ask, “Who are you and what are you doing in my house???” Every 5–10 minutes, I’d reintroduce myself, gently reminding her, “I am your new friend, and we are going to spend the day together!” And every single time, she would smile warmly and say, “Thank you for being here.” Beneath the fog of confusion, her kindness and gentle spirit always shone through.
Some of Lilah’s favorite things were simple joys: trips to her “dollar store” and watching her beloved opera concerts. Each time an opera started, she would exclaim, “How is this my favorite one? It’s my first time seeing it!” Yet her body would relax, her eyes softening, and it was clear that deep down, some part of her remembered and recognized the music she loved.
We often went through her photo albums together, and Lilah had a wonderful sense of humor about her past. She’d laugh at old photos, joking about her outfits or hairstyles, saying, “Sometimes I’m really funny, aren’t I?” She remembered bits and pieces of her life—like being a teacher. When she saw pictures of herself standing in front of a classroom, she would remark, “I know I’m teaching them something, but I have no idea what subject it was. Maybe I was just being a good teacher?” It was bittersweet—moments of clarity mixed with confusion, but always tinged with her warmth.
Lilah would tell me about her first love, her travels, and suddenly backtrack, insisting she’d never been in love or gone anywhere. “All the men I loved were in the war, and none of them came back,” she’d sigh, and a shadow of sadness would cross her face. The human mind is mysterious—so fleeting and fragile—but my purpose wasn’t to correct her or force memories to return. I just wanted her to feel my presence, to know she wasn’t alone. Sometimes she confided, “I feel like I’m in prison, and my mind is stuck.” I would hold her hand and reply, “Even if your mind feels like a prison, I’ll be right here in the cell with you.”
There were moments when Lilah accused me of doing things she had actually done herself. I never argued; it wasn’t worth it. I simply stayed beside her, letting her lead the story of her life, as confusing as it sometimes was. On particularly difficult days, I would tell her, “People who have created so many beautiful memories sometimes can’t handle them all at once. It happened to me last week, and I’m okay now.” She would nod, smile, and thank me for my patience. Even in her moments of forgetfulness, Lilah remained a beautiful, radiant soul.
Every visit ended the same way—she would thank me, her kindness shining through the haze of her memory. Lilah taught me so much about life: the importance of gratitude, patience, and simply being present. I may have moved away and don’t see her as often now, but I will never forget her. She may not always remember me, but I will always remember her. Our memories together—spelling, coloring, shopping, crafting, laughing—are etched in my heart forever. I can’t wait to visit her again, tease her about her age, and hear her tease me back about my accent.
For anyone caring for a loved one with Alzheimer’s, remember this: don’t get angry if they forget something—it’s not intentional. Be whatever they need you to be in that moment: neighbor, classmate, friend. Just be there, with love, patience, and presence. Love is remembered long after everything else fades, and the heart never forgets how to love.
