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I used to visit my former mathematics teacher and her mother when I was 18.
They lived on the 33rd floor in one of the HDBs in the Toa Payoh estate, where I’d go to spend time with them, and enjoy a plate of fragrant Hainanese chicken rice.
Popo (or ‘grandma’ in English) was what I’ve come to called my teacher’s mother.
She is good-natured, always smiling and child-like.
Having been diagnosed with dementia a few years back, my conversations with her can be simplified into the same 4 sentences that are repeated every week:
“我很久没有看到你了” (Translated: I haven’t seen you for so long!)
“你有几个弟弟妹妹?” (Translated: How many brothers and sisters do you have?)
“你的弟弟几岁?” (Translated: How old is your brother?) (She’s seen my younger brother multiple times.)
“你好乖哦” (Translated: You are so obedient)
Not that I minded, but the point is: it was the first time I was exposed to handling someone with dementia on a personal level.
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