Seven hundred thousand people who have dementia in this country

Host: The hall was vast and silent, the kind of space where even whispers sound heavy. Rows of empty chairs stretched toward the dim-lit stage, where a single microphone waited in stillness. Dust drifted lazily in the spotlight, and the air carried the faint scent of old wood and rain, like forgotten applause.

Jack stood near the edge of the stage, his hands in his coat pockets, reading from a folded newspaper. Jeeny sat in the front row, her elbows on her knees, her gaze steady on him. Behind them, the echoes of a past speech — applause, passion, pain — still seemed to linger in the walls.

Jeeny: “Terry Pratchett once said, ‘Seven hundred thousand people who have dementia in this country are not heard. I'm fortunate; I can be heard. Regrettably, it's amazing how people listen if you stand up in public and give away $1 million for research into the disease, as I have done.’”

Host: Jack looked up, the paper trembling slightly between his fingers.
Jack: “That’s the kind of honesty that cuts both ways — gratitude and grief in the same breath.”

Jeeny: “He was never afraid of that balance. Even when his mind began to fade, he made his truth louder.”

Jack: “Yeah. And it’s brutal — that line between being heard and being ignored. Between a voice and silence.”

Jeeny: “That’s what he’s pointing out — the tragedy that society only listens when money speaks.”

Jack: “Or fame.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The currency of compassion seems to need a price tag.”

Host: The rain began outside, slow and deliberate, tapping against the tall windows like a memory trying to get in. The stage lights flickered once, then steadied, illuminating the microphone as though inviting a ghost to step forward.

Jack: “You know, when he said ‘I can be heard,’ I don’t think it was pride. It was guilt. Survivor’s guilt of the articulate.”

Jeeny: “Yes. He had the platform, the language — the power to translate pain into dialogue. But what about the others? The ones who drift away quietly, unseen, unspoken?”

Jack: “The ones whose stories vanish before they can be told.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And he knew that. That’s why he used his final years to shout — not for himself, but for those whose words had already been stolen.”

Host: Jack walked to the microphone and touched it gently, testing its weight. The metallic clang echoed across the hall.
Jack: “You ever think about how cruel that is — to lose your mind piece by piece, while the world watches and calls it bravery?”

Jeeny: “It is bravery. But it’s also horror. He faced oblivion and chose to turn it into a legacy.”

Jack: “A legacy built on the truth that even the brightest mind can dim.”

Jeeny: “But he made the dimming meaningful. He lit a path for others.”

Host: The rain grew heavier now, the sound deep and constant. Jeeny rose from her seat and walked to the foot of the stage, her voice lower, more intimate.

Jeeny: “You know, I remember reading how he described his illness. He called it an ‘embuggerance.’ Only he could turn Alzheimer’s into wit. That was his defiance — to name the enemy and still laugh in its face.”

Jack: “Yeah. To find humor in the dark without making light of it.”

Jeeny: “He gave dementia a voice. A human one. Not clinical, not tragic — real. He made people see the person, not the patient.”

Jack: “And that’s what’s amazing — not just his generosity, but his clarity. Even as the disease tried to erase him, he fought to remind the world that he existed.”

Jeeny: “And that those like him deserved to exist beyond diagnosis.”

Host: Jack’s shadow stretched across the wooden floor, merging with the microphone’s thin silhouette. His voice softened.
Jack: “You know, money gets headlines. But the real wealth was his courage — to speak while he still could, to hand his words to those who no longer could.”

Jeeny: “And to show that dignity doesn’t vanish with memory.”

Jack: “No. It endures in how we choose to be remembered.”

Host: The hall was completely silent now except for the rain and the faint hum of the building’s old lights. Jeeny stepped onto the stage beside him, her eyes reflecting both compassion and defiance.

Jeeny: “You know what I love most about Pratchett? He didn’t romanticize suffering. He told the truth — that the world only listens when you make noise loud enough to break its comfort.”

Jack: “And he used that noise to build empathy.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. He didn’t shout for attention; he shouted for awareness.”

Jack: “But awareness fades fast. People listen, they nod, they cry — and then they move on.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s our job — to keep his echo alive. To keep repeating it until the silence breaks for good.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly, staring at the empty rows before them — ghosts of audiences past.
Jack: “You know, I think what he feared most wasn’t death. It was being forgotten. Not just him — but all of them. The seven hundred thousand unheard.”

Jeeny: “That’s why he spoke so fiercely. He turned fading into resistance.”

Jack: “And that’s the kind of courage most people never understand — the courage to fight not for your life, but for your voice.”

Jeeny: “And for others’.”

Host: Jeeny reached out, pressing the microphone button. It hummed softly to life, the feedback like a heartbeat. She looked out into the darkened hall, her voice steady but tender.

Jeeny: “This is what he meant, Jack. This — standing up, saying something into the void, knowing it might echo, knowing it might not. Speaking anyway.”

Jack: “Because silence is complicity.”

Jeeny: “And speech — even trembling — is rebellion.”

Host: The sound of rain softened again, becoming gentle, like memory itself exhaling. Jeeny stepped back from the microphone.

Jack: “You know, I never met him. But I read once that he wanted his death to be dignified, on his terms — surrounded by peace, not pity.”

Jeeny: “And that wish itself was a message: that dignity isn’t about control. It’s about being seen — truly seen — even when you’re fading.”

Jack: “And that’s what his million dollars bought — not just research, but recognition. A light for those who can’t speak their own names anymore.”

Jeeny: “That’s the real fortune — compassion converted into action.”

Host: Jack turned off the microphone. The hall fell into soft darkness again. Jeeny moved closer, her voice a whisper meant only for him.

Jeeny: “You know what’s truly amazing, Jack?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “That he used the end of his story to give others a beginning.”

Host: Jack looked at her — tired, thoughtful — and nodded.
Jack: “Then maybe that’s what we’re all meant to do. Leave our voices behind before silence wins.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s the closest thing to immortality.”

Host: Outside, the rain stopped. The world beyond the windows gleamed — wet, renewed, reflective. Inside, the hall remained still, holding their words the way it once held applause.

And as they walked out into the night, their footsteps echoing through the empty corridor, the microphone light blinked one last time — faint, persistent, alive.

Because Terry Pratchett had been right —
it was amazing how people listened when a voice rose above the silence.

But even more amazing was what happened when that voice
refused to fade.