I Could Just Stare at This for Hours

I’m in clinical, assigned to a patient in his early 70s with dementia. He’s tall and looks healthy, like he was an athlete. He knows who he is, but not how old, where he is, or what year it is. Despite this, he is remarkably pleasant. I had never seen a dementia patient maintain such a cheerful affect, and it intrigued me.

He made me want to smile in a way that felt confusing because I thought I should find it sad.

Sometimes, he believed he was in a hotel, being brought room service.

At one point, I go in to check on him and find him staring at the television. It was powered off—a black screen.

“How are you doing?” I ask.

He continues to stare and sighs, “Would you look at that?”

“What?”

“That piece of art," he says, "I could just stare at that for hours… It’s beautiful.”

He gazes at the dark screen with such fondness that I suddenly want to cry.

Not because I was sad. Because it was sweet. Because it was beautiful. Because the world is beautiful.

Because here I was, drowning in the stress of nursing school, consumed by the pressure of every waking moment to the point that I physically hurt, and this man with dementia had discovered something I'm desperately searching for.

I wanted to cry because I was jealous and I felt dumb. I wanted to cry because I was grateful I was assigned him as a patient.

I felt my face burn, but held it together, reminding myself I could cry on my drive home, and said, “It really is, isn’t it.”

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Review

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This piece is delicate and deeply moving in its simplicity, offering a profound reflection on perception, presence, and the unexpected wisdom that can emerge from cognitive decline. The brevity of the narrative enhances its emotional resonance, allowing small moments to feel monumental.

The central theme revolves around the beauty of altered perception and the unexpected gifts within vulnerability. The story explores how dementia, often viewed solely as a tragic decline, can also create moments of profound clarity—moments that challenge conventional notions of what it means to be "aware" or "whole."

Another subtle but powerful theme is the burden of striving versus the freedom of letting go. The patient, free from the constraints of time and societal expectations, finds beauty in what the narrator initially sees as emptiness. This contrasts with the narrator’s own experience of stress, ambition, and the pressure to succeed—a poignant reflection on the emotional toll of modern life.

The emotional tone is gentle, contemplative, and bittersweet. There’s a tenderness in how the patient is described—his pleasant demeanor, the childlike wonder as he stares at the black screen. The narrator’s conflicting emotions—sadness, admiration, jealousy, and gratitude—are conveyed with raw honesty but without melodrama.

This restraint allows the emotion to feel authentic and relatable, making the reader sit with the uncomfortable realization that perhaps there is peace in not knowing, or in simply being.

The patient’s gentle nature and altered perception are portrayed with dignity and warmth. The narrator’s vulnerability, particularly the unexpected jealousy, feels raw. The focus on small, quiet moments gives the story emotional depth without overstating its message.

This piece challenges perceptions of dementia—shifting from viewing it as purely tragic to recognizing moments of beauty and clarity that can emerge from altered consciousness. It also highlights the contrast between societal ambition and inner peace—how relentless striving for achievement can blind us to simple, profound moments of beauty and presence.