My 91-year-old neighbor has dementia. That’s the reality that shapes everything else in this story. The confusion, the loneliness, the way memories fade but emotions remain sharp. Dementia doesn’t steal the need for connection—it just makes connection harder to find and keep.
This morning I brought my baby Yoda to visit. Not a real baby—a plush toy, the kind that’s become iconic thanks to a TV show. Small, green, impossibly cute. The kind of thing that makes people smile without even trying.
And she immediately fell in love with him. Not gradually. Not politely. Immediately. The way you fall in love with something that reaches past your confusion and speaks directly to the part of you that still feels, still responds, still needs something to hold onto.
Now he’s hers, and she named him Lady Bug. Because dementia doesn’t follow the rules we expect. Because sometimes a character from a space show becomes a ladybug, and that’s okay. Because the name doesn’t matter as much as the ownership, the claiming, the this-is-mine that gives structure to days that otherwise blur together.
After spending about 1 hour with her, I wanted to go home. That’s honest. That’s real. Visiting people with dementia is hard. The conversations loop. The same stories get told multiple times. Time moves differently when you’re sitting with someone whose mind is somewhere else. And after an hour, the visitor was ready to leave.
But Grandma held me and said, “Please don’t leave me alone.”
That stopped everything. Because that’s the real voice—not the confusion, not the dementia, but the human underneath all of it, still present, still feeling, still desperately lonely and hoping someone will stay.
Finally, I stayed for more hours just to keep her company. Not because it was easy. Not because there was anywhere else to be. But because when someone asks you not to leave them alone, and you can stay, you stay.
It felt so amazing to make grandma’s day. That’s the gift that comes from giving time. Not money, not things, but presence. Sitting with someone who’s lonely and letting them know, for a few hours, that they’re not alone. That they matter. That someone sees them, even when their mind can’t always see clearly.
The photograph shows her holding Baby Yoda—now Lady Bug—close. Cradling him like something precious. Her face shows contentment, the kind that comes from having something to care for, something to hold, something that’s hers in a world where so much feels unfamiliar.
Dementia steals a lot. But it doesn’t steal the need for companionship. Doesn’t steal the loneliness that comes from spending days alone with only confusion for company. Doesn’t steal the very human desire to hold something soft and name it and call it yours.
Baby Yoda—Lady Bug—became that for her. A friend who doesn’t require memory or clarity. Who doesn’t get frustrated by repeated questions or stories told multiple times. Who just exists, soft and green and holdable, a constant presence in days that shift and change in ways she can’t always follow.
But beyond the toy, there was the visitor who stayed. Who heard “please don’t leave me alone” and changed their plans. Who understood that sometimes the most important thing you can do is simply sit with someone who’s lonely and let them not be alone for a while.
It felt amazing to make grandma’s day. But it was also hard. Sitting with dementia patients requires patience that doesn’t come naturally. Requires accepting that conversations won’t follow normal patterns, that you might hear the same story multiple times, that your presence is what matters more than anything you say or do.
But she needed it. Needed someone to stay when the instinct is to leave after a polite amount of time. Needed someone to understand that “don’t leave me alone” isn’t manipulation—it’s desperation. It’s the clearest thing she can articulate about what she needs most.
So the visitor stayed. For more hours. Keeping company. Being present. Giving the gift of time and attention to someone who’s largely forgotten by the world because dementia makes people uncomfortable, makes visits difficult, makes us feel helpless in the face of something we can’t fix.
But you don’t have to fix it. You just have to show up. Bring a Baby Yoda who can become Lady Bug. Stay when you’re asked not to leave. Sit with loneliness until it’s less lonely. Make someone’s day by deciding that your time—the most valuable thing any of us have—is worth spending on someone who needs it.
The 91-year-old neighbor has dementia. She also has Lady Bug now. And she had a visitor who stayed for hours, not because it was easy, but because it was needed. That’s what community looks like. That’s what love looks like. That’s what it means to see someone who’s often invisible and decide they deserve your presence.
It felt so amazing to make grandma’s day. And that feeling—the one that comes from choosing connection over convenience—is worth more than the hours it cost. Because time spent making someone less alone is never wasted. It’s the best use of time there is.