I told him, for the third time that hour, desperately and selfishly wishing that some other kid had gotten childhood dementia instead. It was heartbreaking to see him struggling to remember even the most basic of things, like his favorite toy or our family members’ names. He had been born blind and it seemed like fate was determined to take away every other privilege he could have had. As we played, my heart ached with each time he asked me to repeat my name, as if I was a stranger to him. I wished for a miracle or a cure, but all I could do was try to be patient and kind, even as my heart broke a little more each day.