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On dementia
©  2016  Rose George

Posted in Blog — 30th August 2016

We are a tribe, us who know.
We are a tribe held in reserve, like veterinary surgeons who take up guns every third year or for war.
Our tribe is the one that understands rotted brains.
We are the ones who notice the pause that is not just a bridge in a sentence but a puncture in the mind.
We are the ones who guide a lost person onto the next train, to the right aisle, to the correct door, because we have recognised what kind of lostness it is: the deeper kind.
We are the ones who go beyond our own schedule and don’t mind.
We are the ones who operate in supermarkets, on buses, on trains, in crowds, in confusion, which for the people we want to help is everywhere.
We are the ones who recognise others from our tribe talking patiently and kindly even in the face of bewilderment, and we tap a shoulder and want to help, because helping is what we had to do, with our father, mother, grandparent, friend, self.
We will always be in this tribe.

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