18 Nov 2025
Counting Visits
She forgot her own children. But she remembered my dad. Heād kept showing up. Thatās what survives.
Audio Chapters
* 00:42 The math that changes everything
* 03:26 What my dad understood
* 05:41 The woman who forgot her children but remembered my dad
* 10:30 Why this really matters
* 10:52 What remains
The Math That Changes Everything
I was in Canadian Tire the other day, looking for oil for my car. The guy helping meāsomewhere in his 60s, maybe closer 70āwas explaining to me whether a top up was worth it or whether I needed a full oil change. Then, almost casually, he mentioned he does a lot of driving.
āEvery weekend I go to Toronto to see my grandbaby,ā he said.
Thatās it. That one sentence. But it stopped me.
Because this man has figured out what so many of us are still trying to understand: what actually matters. What winning in life really looks like. For him, itās spending time with his grandchild. So he drives 260km. Every. Single. Week.
This hit differently because Iād been feeling the weight of isolation. As a voiceover artist working from home, I used to go entire days speaking into a microphone without speaking to anyone. The former US Surgeon General says social disconnection is as bad as smoking 15 cigarettes a day. Was I chain-smoking isolation?
Letās do some mathāthe kind that makes you uncomfortable.
Say that grandfather has 20 more years. If he went once a year like most people, heād have 20 visits with that child. Twenty moments. Twenty memories. But because he goes every week? He gets 1,040 visits. Over a thousand more chances to be present. To be remembered. To matter. To give and feel love.
Thatās not just more time. Thatās a completely different life.
Earlier this year, I listened to The Five Types of Wealth by Sahil Bloom. In the section on social wealth, he shared an idea thatās been haunting me ever since: you might only have a few more visits with the people you love.
Not years. Visits.
Think about your parents. If theyāre 60 and live to 85, thatās 25 years, right? But if you only see them once a year, you donāt have 25 years left with them. You have 25 more times. Twenty-five occasions. Twenty-five hugs, twenty-five conversations, twenty-five chances to tell them you love them.
What if you doubled that? Saw them twice a year instead of once? You just went from 25 moments to 50. Live in the same city and see them four times a year? Thatās 100 more visits.
The math is simple. But the implications shake you.
What My Dad Understood
Hereās what freelancing has given me, though: the ability to make different choices about proximity.
When my dad, on a work trip, visited a city five hours awayāhe normally lives in Europe, so this was rareāI didnāt hesitate. I got in the car and drove. But hereās what I didnāt expect: that one decision created ripples of connections.
My cousin also lives in that city. She got to see her uncle, my dad, which hadnāt happened in a long while. Suddenly it wasnāt just me driving to add one visit to my count with my dad. It was my cousin adding a visit to her count as well.
On my way back, I stopped to see friends who lived in cities along the route. One was just 20 minutes from where my dad was stayingāa friend I would have felt guilty asking to drive out of their way, but who was suddenly on my way. Another friend was two hours from home, which would normally feel too far for ājust a visit,ā but when youāre already on the road? Itās just another stop.
And then there was my dadās friendāsomeone heād known decades ago at university but hadnāt seen in person in all that time. Theyād stayed loosely in touch through occasional text messages, but mostly theyād lost track of each other in the way life makes people drift. When he heard my dad was in town, he drove out to meet us and took us out for dinner. I got to sit there listening to two men in their 60s reminisce about their university days, filling in gaps in stories, laughing at memories Iād never heard before.
That dinner added a moment to my dadās count with his old friend. It added a moment to my count with my dad. It introduced me to someone from his past Iād only heard about in passing. One dinner, multiple relationships deepened.
Hereās what I learned from that trip: Ten hours of driving didnāt just create two days with my dad. It created visits with my cousin, two different friends, and my dadās university buddy. It catalyzed a reunion that might not have happened otherwise. One intentional choice rippled out.
I learned this from my dad, actually.
The Woman Who Remembered My dad and Forgot Her Children
Remember that woman I mentioned at the beginningāthe one who forgot her own children but remembered my dad? Let me tell you how that happened.
When he lived in France and I lived in the UK, heād make the drive to see meāsix hours each way. But he never just drove straight through. Heād stop to see his brother near the Folkestone border. Then a family friendāa woman whoād been his mumās friend and had hosted him during his university days. Then another womanāsomeone heād met because her sister, who lives in Zimbabwe, told him about her. Sheād been sickly for years, in and out of hospital, and those visits meant a lot to her. Then finally, me.
Half the visits on the way there, half on the way back. To some people, this probably looked inefficient. Why turn a 12-hour round trip into a multi-day odyssey? Why not just drive straight to see your daughter and be done with it?
Well, my dad understood something Iām only now fully grasping: those stops werenāt detours. They were the point. He was showing up for people who needed to be seen. People who might otherwise go weeks without meaningful connection. People he cared about and who cared about him.
That first womanāhis mumās friend whoād hosted him at universityāwas one of those stops. Every trip while he lived in France.
Then she developed dementia.
My dad had moved countries by then, so the visits became less frequent. But when she turned 90, he flew back for her birthday party.
She didnāt remember many people there that day. Sheād forgotten some of her own children. Dementia had erased faces and names and years of shared history. But when she saw my dad walk in, something shifted. She jolted back to herself, just for a moment. She exclaimed his name. She hugged him.
The other guests were stunned. She remembered him and not some of her own family members.
This is what I meant at the beginning. Those āinconvenientā stops my dad madeāyear after year, visit after visit during those years in Franceāthey werenāt just pleasant memories. They were carved deep enough that even when dementia stripped away almost everything else, she still recognized the man who had consistently shown up.
She passed away some time after that birthday. But my dad still carries the memory of her lighting up when she saw him. He still has those years of tea in her living room, conversations on those stopover visits, the accumulation of moments that mattered enough to outlast memory itself.
Thatās what the visits are for. Not just to rack up numbers. But to become the kind of presence in someoneās life that survives even when their mind canāt hold onto much else.
My dad is still alive. Heās in his 60s. I have timeābut not unlimited time.
The woman who remembered him? Sheās gone now. The woman whoās been in and out of hospital? Sheās doing a bit better now, but those visits my dad made when she was isolated and strugglingāthey mattered.
When I drove five hours to see my dad recently, I wasnāt just adding to my count with him. I was learning to be the person who shows up the way he did. Iām becoming the kind of person making memories other people might remember, memories that endure when others fade.
And maybe thatās the real inheritanceānot just the pattern of making the drive, but understanding why the drive matters. Itās not about convenience or efficiency. Itās about being present for people when presence is what they need most.
For me, that has been the real power of remote (asynchronous) work when used intentionallyānot just the ability to work from anywhereābut the ability to be the person who makes connection possible. For myself, yes, but also for other people. I could rearrange my week. I could batch my recording sessions before I left. I could handle admin tasks like emails from coffee shops or hotel lobbies. I could say yes to the drive because I wasnāt asking permission from a boss or burning limited vacation days.
Itās not a question of āCan I afford the time?ā Itās āCan I afford not to?ā
I have time and location flexibility at the moment and that might change with more responsibilities, but while I can, I want to maximise the opportunities I have now.
Why This Really Matters
The former U.S. Surgeon General, Vivek Murthy, once said that social disconnection has the same mortality impact as smoking 15 cigarettes a dayāworse than obesity, worse than physical inactivity. Loneliness literally shortens your life.
That grandfather driving to Toronto every weekend? Heās probably adding years to his life without even knowing it. Iām doing the same, even if it doesnāt look like it.
What Remains
I donāt have children yet. But when I do, I want them to grow up surrounded by a community of trusted adults. I want them to feel part of something bigger. I want them to feel lovedānot just by me, but by a whole network of people who show up.
That starts now. With choices Iām making today.
So hereās what Iām thinking about: If we might only have a limited number of visits left with the people we love, what can we do to maximize them?
Sahil Bloomās book talks about five types of wealthānot just financial wealth, but social wealth (relationships), time wealth (control over how you spend your days), mental wealth (purpose and growth), and physical wealth (health). Most people only chase the financial kind. But that grandfather driving to Toronto every weekend? Heās got all five.
Not just in quantity, but in depth. Not just showing up, but being fully present.
Because the alternativeāthe isolation, the loneliness, the regret of moments not takenāthat costs us more than we realize.
That grandfather knew. My dad knew. And now, so do I.
Who do you want to remember you when memory itself starts to fade? Are you that person who shows up, not just when itās convenient, but consistently enough that it carves deep?
Those visits arenāt just nice. Theyāre what remains.
Thanks for reading Oreās Gist! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.
This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit oresgist.substack.com (https://oresgist.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1)
