I could hear her shoes squeeking on the vinyl floor. Her steps fast, she was in hurry to get to her destination.

“Excuse me, I am looking for the bus stop, could you point me in the right direction?”, such kind and yet little confused expression on her face.

“I feel like I have been walking in circles”, she followed that by a nervous giggle. “It’s one of those days, too much to do haha. But, really if you could point me towards the bus stop, that would be marvellous. Do I know you by the way? You look very familiar.”, the expression on her face, puzzled, so clueless.

“I mean, maybe I know you, but I…it doesn’t matter, I really ought to go. Never mind, I’ll just head down this way.”, she was pointing to her left, a long corridor decorated with pictures and art from the 50s and 60s.

“Alright, go on then Doreen. I’ll see you later.”, she turned around, mystified that I knew her name and then proceeded to walk away.

The air in the corridor was stale, the walls painted in bright colours…yellow, orange…pink. I could hear The White Cliffs of Dover playing on the stereo. The lyrics so piercing, so reassuring. For a moment, I got lost in my thoughts, listening to it. Suddenly, a tap on my shoulder and there she was with her blue piercing eyes, staring at me. Short grey hair, tiny figure, all dressed up, purse in one hand and umbrella in the other…just in case it rains.

“Excuse me, I am so sorry to bother you. I…I have been trying to get to the bus stop and I seem to be getting lost. Perhaps I took a wrong turn. I am not quite sure. You see, I live here and…I…well, I think perhaps I am just tired.”, she chuckled and then pulled on my shirt to get a better look at my name tag.

“Oh, you are Tim. That’s a lovely name. My husband was…his name is Tim too. Oh dear, that reminds me, I was going to meet him.” She looked at the watch sitting on her tiny wrist, “I better go, I wouldn’t want him to wait for me. Cheerio.” And she hurried down the corridor, her purse swinging from side to side as she briskly marched away.

I could hear people singing in the lounge now, “…there’ll be bluebirds over, the white cliffs of Dover, tomorrow, just you wait and see…”. I stepped closer to get a better look. It was lovely to see people dance and be present…even if just for a moment.

“Ah, goodness.”, Doreen panting behind me.

“Are you ok Doreen?” I asked.

“Oh hello dear. I’m dreadfully sorry, I don’t mean to be a nuisance. Would you…could you…”, I didn’t let her finish the sentence.

“Would you like me to walk you down the corridor? We could try to find the bus stop together. If you want?”, she was ecstatic, smiling from ear to ear.

“Oh yes, that would be splendid. I don’t know how to thank you. I am Doreen and you are?”, her glasses sliding from her face as she leaned in to read my name tag.

“Tim, I am Tim.”

“Lovely! My husband is also Tim. It’s a beautiful name. He was…he is…I…he is waiting on me.”, she grabbed my wrist and we strode down the squeaky corridor.

We kept walking and walking, we were on a mission. She told me all about her husband and how he fought in the war, how glad she was he made it home safe and sound. I heard it all before, many times…she tells me everyday.

Her brain a fog of memories, fractured emotions and reasoning. It’s like a movie on loop. Sometimes the movie is fun, full of joy. Other times it’s terrifying, filled with uncontrollable moodiness, anxiety and anger. A terror that doesn’t go away…it stays, it eats away at her.

Still, we walked through all the halls…all of them. Bus stop nowhere to be found.

We stopped couple of times to catch our breath, have a cup of tea and biscuits…small chat with other residents and family members.

“Hi Doreen,” people, would say as we walked past. She would say hi back, little perplexed. “I don’t think I know them”, and carry on.

It was, but another day at a nursing home…living with dementia.

*To me, dementia is one of the scariest things. It completely changes person, to a point where only fragments of themselves remain. The quality of life decreases immensely and drastically. I am not a doctor, but this story is inspired by my experiences working with dementia patients. In my mind, this is a horror story through a different lens.*