Fiona Phillips asked the same question 72 times. Now is the time to ask why

In a recent interview, TV producer Martin Frizell described a moment many families affected by dementia will recognise all too well. During a 35-minute taxi ride, his wife Fiona asked the same question 72 times: “Where are we going?”

It’s the kind of moment that’s easy to recount — and so very hard to live through.

My dad lived with a dementia for 17 years. And we lived with it too. That experience led me to co-create Timeless Presents, a social enterprise designing dementia-inclusive activities that support connection and dignity in late-stage care. Our products have been recognised with a national innovation award, are accredited, used in NHS settings, and stocked by the Alzheimer’s Society’s online shop.

But let me be clear: I didn’t always get it right. I felt the frustration, the helplessness. I fell into the same traps — trying to reason, correcting, hoping something would stick. It’s exhausting. It hurts to keep showing up when it feels like nothing gets through.

What began to shift things for me was an unexpected moment: watching my dad react to the spring blossom outside. He looked at it as though seeing it for the first time — and maybe he was. In that moment, I realised I didn’t have to try to bring him back. I could meet him where he was.

Over time, I learned to reframe what was happening in moments like these. Because here’s the truth: when someone with a dementia repeats the same question over and over, it’s not to irritate or test us. They’re not being difficult or forgetful in a way they can control. Each time they ask, they are genuinely experiencing that moment of not-knowing all over again. They’ve forgotten the answer — and with it, the emotional reassurance it gave them. So they ask again.

From the outside, it can feel frustrating. But for them, it’s a fresh experience of fear or uncertainty — 72 times in 35 minutes. That’s 72 bids for safety. Not just “Where am I going?” but “Am I safe? Am I still with someone I trust? Will you help me make sense of this world?”

And the responses we offer matter. Not because they’ll be remembered — but because they can meet that moment. I learned that I didn’t have to meet repetition with logic or correction, but could find moments of creativity, gentleness and play.

If someone asked “Where am I going?” 72 times, I might turn it into a game. “We’re going on an adventure!” I’d say. “Can you guess where?” Or we’d sing a song — Ten Green Bottles, maybe — something to fill the space with rhythm and playfulness. Musical memories are stored in a separate part of the brain and often remain accessible far longer than others. Sod the taxi driver. This isn’t about social etiquette. It’s about relationships.

My dad had Alzheimer’s Disease. He used to tell me — on repeat — that he’d been a driving instructor during his national service. It was one of the few accessible memories he had left. Sometimes I’d pretend I was psychic: “Wait… don’t tell me… you taught people to drive?” His eyes would light up every time I was right. Other times I’d let him tell me all over again, and I’d appreciate the story. I understood that each telling was a gift, a way of saying, “This is who I am. Will you meet me here?”

Of course, none of this is easy. Every relationship we’ve had in our lives is built on shared memories — they’re how we understand each other. When that foundation disappears, it’s hard to know how to connect. And there’s no guarantee that even if you respond “well,” it will always create a connection. Sometimes, it won’t. Sometimes, it hurts anyway.

And in those moments, it’s tempting to buy into the stigma. To believe there’s no one left to reach. Especially when you’ve tried so hard for so long. I know that pain. I’ve felt that loss. But deciding to live for those moments — however fleeting — helped us both immeasurably.

So if you’re facing this too, here’s what I’ve learned:

Don’t aim to fix. Aim to meet.

Let go of the need to be remembered. Focus on helping them feel safe right now.

Use songs, rhythm, or playfulness — not to distract, but to connect.

And remember: even when nothing seems to work, just showing up still counts. Be kind to yourself.

Because beneath their repetition is a message we can all learn to hear: I need you. Will you stay with me?

Let’s answer that need. Not just once. But every time.