An older couple comes to me in clinic. She is losing her memory, they explain. They are looking for a doctor who will respect her wishes. Once she goes in the nursing home, no intervention. No antibiotics, no shots, no iv, no hospital.

Yes, I say.

It is about a year before she goes in to the nursing home. I do my regular visits.

After a number of years I happen to meet her husband in the hall. “She is talking about her twenties.” he says. “She lived in an apartment and ran errands for her uncles. I am hearing all sorts of stories I never heard! I go home and type them and send them to the family.”

“That is wonderful,” I say. He visits daily.

I go on to her room. She says, “That man comes to see me. He says he’s my husband. I don’t remember, but he is such a nice man!” I think she falls in love with him again daily. He visits and is where she is in her memory.

Some time later the nursing home calls me. “She has a fever of 101 and has not eaten for two days.” I go visit and call her husband. “Should I do anything?”

“No! She’d kill me!”

“Ok. She might die.”

“I know.”

She doesn’t die. The fever comes down and she gets out of bed and is thirsty.

There is a year between my years at the hospital and setting up my private clinic. We send out postcards, trying not to send them to anyone who has died.

Her husband comes to the clinic opening. “She died last year,” he says.

“I am so sorry! We tried not to send postcards if people had died!”

“It’s ok,” he says, “I wanted to come and thank you.”

He dies about a year after she does. I hope they are together again.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: true love.