“Are You Staying Long?”: Loneliness, Love, and the Quiet Heartbreak of Rushed Visits
She sits by the window every morning.
The light shifts across her lap as the day moves on, and with it, a sliver of hope: “Maybe today.”
Maybe today someone will visit…or maybe today someone will stay.
Lost in the Hurry
For older adults living with dementia, time takes on a different texture. They may forget the day, the month, or even their place in the world—but they feel something even deeper: the ache of being forgotten.
That ache is not solely dependent on intact memory of specific instances of being forgotten. Instead, it is profoundly tied to emotion—a primal response to absence, to the feeling of disconnection, and to the quiet void that silence can leave behind, regardless of whether the specific details of who or what is missing can be recalled.
The View from Her Side: “Don’t You Miss Me?”
When her daughter walks in, she brightens. Even if she doesn’t say her name, her eyes soften, her posture lifts. A familiar presence has arrived. But before she can fully settle into the joy of company, it begins to slip away.
The daughter is checking her watch. She talks fast. She looks toward the door. The visit feels more like an item on a list than a reunion of hearts.
The mother may not find the words to say it, but her soul speaks:
“Why are you in such a hurry?”
“Don’t you miss me?”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“Why does this room feel even quieter after you leave?”
Even if she doesn’t remember the visit tomorrow, she feels the disconnection today.
She feels it in the rushed goodbye.
She feels it in the silence that follows.
The Other Side: “I’m Doing My Best”
The daughter, of course, is not cruel. She is exhausted. There are many demands on her…managing work, kids, groceries, doctor appointments, and an inbox that never empties. She tells herself that at least she showed up—and she’s right. Showing up counts. It’s more than many do.
But what she doesn’t realize is that her presence matters far more than her minutes.
The rushed visit doesn’t fill her mother’s heart. It only reminds her that even love has limits.
The daughter drives away with a tight chest. Guilt pokes at her like a dull knife. “I should have stayed longer. I know I should have put my phone down. Why didn’t I just… sit?” But she rationalizes it: “Next time. I’ll stay longer next time.”
And maybe she will.
But how many “next times” are left?
Lost in the Hurry
We forget that for a person with dementia, connection happens in moments. Not in tasks or timelines.
Just in being. Sitting side by side. Holding a hand. Brushing hair. Sharing a piece of fruit. Being seen.
When visits are rushed, those moments get lost in the hurry. And while the adult child gets to return to their full life, the parent returns to a room that somehow feels even more empty than before.
The Invitation: Be There Now
If you’re reading this as the adult child, here’s a gentle but urgent truth: You will never regret time spent. Only time you didn’t make.
Put down the phone. Stop looking at your watch. Let the visit stretch, even just by five minutes. Allow silence. Let them feel your stillness.
Because one day, the visits will end.
And what will remain are not the things you brought or the things you said—but the feeling you gave them: I matter. I am loved. I’m not forgotten.
Because what your parent is asking isn’t really, “Are you staying long?”
It’s “Do I still matter in your life?”
And that answer should never be rushed.
