She Carried Little Stars

From Marian Weststrate - a personal experience.

Six years ago, while navigating the challenges of New Zealand's bureaucracy, we started a green care farm in our home, inspired by Dutch models of care for people living with mild dementia.

One experience in particular has stayed with me.

While walking our dogs at the beach, I met a beautiful woman in her early sixties. She was charismatic, with dark, sparkling eyes, a radiant smile, and a warm presence. I often saw her at the beach and occasionally around the local shops. She greeted everyone with an enthusiastic, “Oh, hello!”—almost euphoric in its warmth.

It was the kind of greeting that invited conversation, so I walked alongside her for a while.

That day she was especially excited. Her daughter was coming to visit, and she was about to collect her from the airport. Her face lit up as she spoke about their long-awaited reunion.

I asked what she had done for work. Suddenly, her expression changed.

“I’m retired,” she said sadly, “but I’m only 63. I loved my job, but when I came back from a short holiday, I no longer had one. Just like that. There had been a ‘restructuring,’ and my role had simply evaporated. They said I was forgetting things. Well, everyone forgets things sometimes, and I never noticed anything wrong. But now my children keep telling me I forget things too.”

Carefully, I asked how much this bothered her.

Tears welled in her eyes.

“You know, when I’m at home everything is fine. Yes, I sometimes misplace things, but the worst part is my children constantly saying, ‘Mum, you forgot this,’ or ‘Mum, you forgot that.’ One day I finally said, ‘That may be true, but stop telling me I forget things! I don’t know that I forget things because I’ve forgotten that I forgot them! I don’t want to hear it anymore. It drives me mad!’”

Gently, I asked whether she had undergone any medical tests.

She told me she had recently been to the hospital.

“It was awful,” she said. “So cold and clinical. They asked endless questions. It felt like I had committed a crime. The whole experience was humiliating—so distant, so impersonal, so over-professional.”

I asked whether she had received the results.

“They say I have early Alzheimer’s,” she replied. “Well, so what? There’s nothing I can do about it.”

Now she was crying.

I asked if I could give her a hug. She nestled into my arms, and together we whispered, “What a terrible disease.”

She cried, and so did I.

Standing there on the beach, we shared a quiet prayer—a cry from the depths of our hearts to the heavens.

After a while, I told her about our day programme for people living with early-stage dementia. We hoped to create meaningful days where people could use their skills, contribute, feel respected, and experience joy.

Her eyes lit up.

“I still know how to do things around my house,” she said. “I’m not crazy. I’m physically capable. I could help you. I’d love to.”

Then she smiled and added, “I’m so glad we talked.”

She promised that she and her husband would visit the care farm soon.

Through all her pain and uncertainty, she became an inspiration to us. People like her remind us why we do this work.

A beautiful, radiant woman like this surely carries many little stars with her.

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A few years later...

My heart still aches as I write this. Perhaps putting these feelings into words helps me process them, reflect, and let them go.

The years passed. Together with a dedicated team of volunteers, we built Home4All. It has been—and continues to be—a blessing for many people living with dementia and for their families.

Then one day, a car drove up our driveway.

The woman from the beach arrived with her family.

It was their first visit.

Her family desperately needed support. They were exhausted and struggling to cope. They hoped Home4All could help.

But she would not get out of the car.

She did not want to come inside.

Tears streamed down her face.

“I just want to go home,” she said, panic filling her eyes.

I reasoned with her gently. I held her hand. I spoke words of reassurance and comfort.

But instead, she opened the car door, stepped out, and ran down the driveway, crying uncontrollably.

And I had to let her go.

Too late.

They had waited too long.

They had struggled alone for too long.

The dementia had already stolen too much for her to feel safe enough to relax, adapt, and engage.

For years, we had hoped she would join us. We imagined her spending meaningful days here—using her gifts, contributing to the household, finding purpose, belonging, friendship, and perhaps slowing the progression of the disease.

But it was too late.

And my heart broke.

What a cruel disease.