Everyone has a story. I sat next to Carol on the airplane. I told her my story and she told me hers. Her sister died at age 56 from FTD, Frontal Temple Dementia. She lived alone, was religious, and did well for herself. The sisters used to travel together, both being single. But, then Carol became her sister’s caregiver. She had to make decisions for her which weren’t easy, like letting her receive a pacemaker even though her brain would continue to shut down her nervous system. She got a pacemaker. Eventually, she had to move into assisted living. Carol put her in a very nice place, and got her round the clock care so she was never alone. After all, her money should be used to care for her in the best way possible. She would hallucinate, but every once in a while the real sister would say something like, why is this happening to me? Her sister was a writer and wrote all the time until she could no longer. Her manuscripts are in Carol’s possession. She has started to read them voraciously to keep her sister’s memory alive. A single tear fell as she told me how it took her a long time to even talk about her sister because it was too difficult. I’m guessing I was one of the first strangers she told. Always easier to tell a stranger something personal. She did well at holding back the stream of tears with some deep breaths. I told her that her sister knows she is being remembered and that she is sending the love right back down.