The only thing Spiritomb said to me this morning was that Alder had only a few hours to live. Everybody knew Alder as one of the old champions of Unova. Spiritomb went on about it as if it was a playground attraction. Of course it would have made much more sense if Alder was in a hospital in Unova, since that was where it was from, but Unova was suffering with an epidemic of MRSA. So to protect Alder from getting the disease he was moved to this hospital.

But I don't think that the epidemic was the only reason he was transferred here. This time last month, Alder was in a nursing home that was closed down. Marshall told me that he was appalled by the dark lighting and high level of abuse. None of the care assistants were properly trained and poison types were in the kitchen and also doing personal care. Poison-types should not be doing any kind of personal care because that would make the patients much more contaminated.

We've had poison-types work in the hospital, but they could not do personal care, nor where they allowed to deal with food. If a patient was a poison-type, only senior nurses and steel-type staff should be allowed near them. It sounds harsh, but it's a scientific fact that poison types are most likely to spread infection faster than any other type.

I could only look at Alder and see that he has been abused. Not from the bruises on his arm, but from the way his bones were sticking out. His frail and skinny frame took me back to when I once watched an interview with him last year. I can remember his big fiery hair and big muscles made him look young for his age. Only neglect could have made him lose a dramatic amount of weight. His mouth couldn't even move properly as it was not used to food. Monica, a bellossom nurse fed him, taking a long two hours for Alder to finish his bowl, and it must have been heartbreaking for him. It must have been the only good meal he's had since being admitted to the home.

Judging from what I observed, it looked as if Alder knew his time to go was on its way. In the staff room the chanseys told Domino and myself that Alder had been kissing a picture of his late volcarona and croaked, "It won't be long until we meet again." Those words must have left a burning mark in their heads. They're so used to people begging to save patients' lives, by the time it's time for a patient to die they feel as if they've failed a task.

Old age can be a lonely era for humans because they lose so much and realize how much they had in their youth. I remember the last time I saw Alder in person was when he was carrying his baby grandson in his arms. He looked so happy back then, just as he tried to be on that plain white bed. I was left with alone with Alder. I was told by Domino to keep a close eye on him, and I found myself in the rare position of having nothing much to do. I swayed my eyes against the blue walls and how the white bed and ginger hair made a striking contrast.

Alder raised his eyebrow and his arm slipped out of the bed. "Matron..." I stepped closer and reached my arm out. He wrapped my arm around his index finger. With his shrinking eyes he told me that he didn't have very long to live. He didn't have a worried look on his face at all. "Do you think my grandson will be coming?"

"I'm sure he is on his way," I assured him.

"I've forgotten his name," Alder croaked. "If only I could see him just for a moment, then his name will come to me." Benga was spitting image of his grandfather in his youth. Just as I was about to speak, Alder gently poked me. "Don't tell me his name," Alder requested. "I can't even remember the names of my family either. Maybe they will come to me too."

Alder's forgetfulness and declines in health were solid signs of the Alzheimer disease. I felt that I had the evidence to diagnose him with that kind of dementia. Why didn't the poor man get the support he needed. I really believed that if he hadn't had gone through such horrific abuse that he could have still had a chance of surviving a little longer. I wanted to say that I could cure him, but there was no current cure for dementia.

It wasn't long until Benga finally arrived to the hospital. He looked bewildered and his eyes were wet. The poor child, Alder wouldn't want him to become a burden. As soon as he entered the room, his legs froze. He wept and shook his shoulders.

"How is he?" Benga asked.

"He is dying," I confirmed. "We are trying to make the final hours of his life as comfortable as we can."

Benga was silent and scurried to Alder's lap. He held onto Alder's hand and their eyes never left each other. Benga's mouth trembled as if he was trying to find the words to speak but they were stuck in his throat.

"Benga..." Alder croaked.

"Yes," Benga cried.

"Of course," Alder muttered. "That is your name. I remember now."

Alder closed his eyes for the very last time. I looked up at the watch and said, "Time of death 19:48."

Benga's upper body jumped on the bed as he held onto his grandfather's shoulder. I hopped over to Benga and rubbed his back. He buried himself on Alder's chest and wailed without letting go of his grandfather. It was the end of Alder's suffering, but the beginning of Benga's grief.