Karen

About Karen

Posts by Karen :

November 10 2024

You went for respite and didn’t come back …

You went in for your normal respite stay last October. That’s how it started off, but I also needed to go to the office more frequently. Mum was by now just too frail to cope.

The social worker checked that you were settled, and it was decided that you would stay.

In a way, it was a relief, Dad. I already knew it might happen this way, and I had been dreading if it didn’t and having to drop you off for the final time, knowing that you would not be in your home ever again … that same home that you shared with Mum all those years.

What did you call your married life with her?

‘Three life sentences’, with a twinkle in your eye … and Mum would say:

‘Yes, but for whom? Certainly not you; you’ve been spoilt’, and you would laugh, knowing that to be the case!

You used to tell us how you first met: how you had looked across the dance floor into Mum’s lovely brown eyes and how you just knew. And how you swept her off across the dance floor out of the arms of the partner with whom she was dancing.

You had forgotten so much but you never forgot your love for her.

‘I’ve loved you from the first moment we met’, you said to her.

So that’s why it didn’t surprise me when Mum returned from her first visit and said:

‘He was so thrilled to see me. His face lit up, and he told me that he was so looking forward to us being together again’.

I needed to brace myself for my first visit, because that comment cut through me like a knife and, tears pricking, I turned away. You will never be here with us again, Dad, sitting in your chair with a happy smile on your face, I thought.

I looked at Mum, tired with all her hospital and doctors’ appointments, physically unwell herself and with the upset of the last few weeks: the financial assessments the comings and goings of various people and Dad leaving.

‘Are you alright, Mum?’ I asked.

‘I’m just thinking of your Dad’, she said, ‘of the first time we entered this house and how excited we were about our first home’, their first and last…. and our home too, my sister’s and mine.

And I sat and thought of my childhood here, of Dad always in and out with so many activities on the go and so many people to see … of Mum, tired with her commute to work and constantly multi-tasking when we were young … of her love of reading and escape into literature … of Christmases past, coming home to Mum, so excited to see us, to the glass of wine she had waiting for us as soon as we stepped into the house… of Dad’s smiling face … happy memories …

Although my sister and I left long ago, it seemed that it was only when Dad left for good that our little family unit was no more.

The First Time …

When I went to see you for the first time, Dad, I went armed with your favourite biscuits from home and two takeaway coffees purchased from a hotel near the Care Home. When I opened your door, you were lying on your bed, and I initially wondered if you knew me at all. I needn’t have worried …

Your breakfast was on a tray in your room, and I wondered why you hadn’t eaten it in the dining room with others around you. You were always such a friendly, person. When I asked, you said that people weren’t talking to you. You worried me, Dad. I stayed for lunch with you and, sitting in the dining room, realised that they just didn’t talk to you or anyone, only because they were no longer capable of it, but it still hurt.

Dad, wherever you went, you joined in. Your off-the-scale extroversion embarrassed me as a child; now, I just wanted it back again. And I wanted you around people who responded to it positively.

We did eventually have a laugh together that first time I visited. We talked about your other daughter, my sister, Tracey, about Alec, your grandson, and about my brother-in-law, John, and I made light of things. I didn’t mention Mum or the fact that I was still based with her, and that her health issues were catching up with her too. I didn’t want to unsettle you.

We had already decided that we would try to take our leave in a way that wouldn’t upset you. We wanted you to be left with feelings of love, not abandonment.

So, I waited until you said you were tired and were resting on your bed. I sat watching the rise and fall of your chest. I took one final glance at you before I stole out.

I cried silent tears on the train all the way back.

It didn’t get easier …

You were on the bed again when I arrived. You were tired, you said.

I walked into that room, with the photos of my sister and me when we were students and the one of Mum in Austria with you. They were out of place there; I closed my eyes and saw them in your bedroom at home, the light flooding in.

It took me a while to persuade you to sit up next to me, to watch Andre Rieu with me, to smile, to talk. You, my totally extrovert father, were subdued in a way that you never had been before.

‘Where’s your mother?’ you asked. ‘Is she coming back shortly’.

‘Everything’s fine, Dad; Mum’s fine’, I said, evading the question.

I think I knew then that I had to get you back to the previous home you had been in for respite purposes. It wasn’t that this home was inadequate, it just obviously wasn’t right for you.

You were lying, propped on a pillow and barely opened your eyes the next time I visited. Dad, I’m losing you, and this isn’t just about the dementia, I thought. Nothing I did could entice you out of that bed and how I tried.

You were fast asleep when I left.

My heart always sank as I entered the building and went up the stairs and down the long passage to your room, with your name on the door and a picture of a cricketer … cricket your passion in life.

I entered always to find you languishing on a chair or lying on the bed.

And each time, all I could think … I will never desert you, Dad.

October 8 2024

At home on the hills … Settle, N. Yorks

Karen People and places 0

Hills have always grounded me; they are where I’m most free, most contented, most me.

My sister and I were used to climbing them from a young age.

My first memories of hill walking are with Dad. The only aspect diminishing my enjoyment was the fact that Mum could never accompany us. Even then, in her 30s, her health issues meant that she couldn’t manage hills, but she always encouraged us to go. I see her now, standing there with a smile on her face, stoically waving us off. I’ve often thought how she would have loved to join us – Mum has always loved nature and walking – but she never ever showed the disappointment or even sadness she must have felt.

It doesn’t matter where I’ve been, as soon as the train reaches Settle, and the hills rise to greet me, a sense of well-being and ease wash over me. This is the place where the journey began all those years ago! This landscape runs through me; its ruggedness and elemental beauty sustain me. I carry it with me always; it is surety when all around me lie shifting sands.

And since my return, I’ve spent many a happy evening after work revelling in the landscape.

‘In din of the crowded streets, going among the years, the faces,
May I still meet my memory in so lonely a place

Between the streams and the red clouds, hearing curlews,
Hearing the horizons endure.’

Ted Hughes

So, if you do ever visit Settle, let me share my favourite walk:

Starting point: Greenfoot carpark. Exit the carpark with the rugby field to your right, then turn left onto Ingfield Lane, and take the first turning on your right onto Watery Lane (apparently called Brockhole Lane on the map). At the top of the lane are allotments to your left.

The lane really is watery, often impassable, although I’m very rarely defeated, using jutting areas of wall as stepping stones.

After passing the stream, look out for a stile minutes later to your left. Cross over it into the field and climb uphill, following the path, worn by decades of walking boots!

Watch out for the cows, especially if you have a dog. My sister and I were quite recently chased by rather a temperamental one, my sister only just scaling the wall before its head came into contact with said wall … rather than her, thank goodness!

At the top of the hill, walk towards the dry-stone wall and over the stile. Cross the field, following the path. Climb over another stile and walk across the next field. On reaching a stile with a little gate, clamber through and turn right, walking along a wall with a tree-lined path.

Ahead of you is a dwelling. Go through the gate and walk along the lane adjacent to its garden.

Coming to another gate, turn left up a slight incline which leads into a wooded area.

Keep walking along the lane until you come to a road which leads to Long Preston Moor on the right and Settle to the left.

Turn left and follow the road down into Settle …

Longer route:

Instead of continuing down into Settle, turn right at the signpost.

Follow the path all the way to the Malham road.

Once on the road, turn right and cross it, taking the first turning up the lane to the left. Straight ahead of you is a stile into fields. Clamber over and follow the path.

To the left here is High Hill. Climb it if you are feeling energetic. I’ve done so many a time. I remember one especially cold Christmas, where sun on snow created a bejewelled carpet and the air was ice cold and the landscape was magical when we reached the top.

Alternatively, just continue along the path, through the gate and continue straight ahead towards Warrendale Knots.

Go through the next gate and turn right if you want to visit Victoria Cave.

Otherwise, do what I usually do and turn left, following the path all the way down into the town again.

Once in Settle, treat yourself to a coffee and a snack at the Folly, Car and Kitchen or the Naked Man.

The Golden Lion is a particular favourite of mine, especially if I fancy something a little stronger.

Relax and enjoy, wherever you land!

July 30 2024

This might be your last night at home

Karen Dementia, my Dad, and me 0

I came across this the other day, tucked away in a notebook:

Sitting across from you tonight, all those other times flit by … watching political debates with you; documentaries about the great composers; the New Year’s day concert from Vienna, which I hated until I hit middle age! And tonight, especially, watching All Creatures Great and Small, I remember youth and possibilities and Sunday evenings with another cast of characters and the car splashing through water as the credits rolled.

I think of all the nights in this house where I grew up, Dad. One of my earliest memories is you carrying me up the stairs and we’re counting them in German … eins, zwei, drei und so weiter … and I’m five years old.

Where did that time go?

So many years spent away, living my life, but always returning to you two, Mum and Dad, and the hills of home.

And now, three years here, you’re surprised every morning when you see me Dad, and your face fills with joy:

‘How long are you back for, this time?’ you ask.

Tonight, you were on particularly good form, so happy to be here with us … your ‘girls!’

I tucked you up in bed and felt so protective, probably the way you felt about me when I was a child:

‘Night, night, love you Dad, never forget’.

‘Love you too, my daughter … you never forget,’ you replied.

You have always been such a benign, positive, life-affirming presence in my life, with your openness to others and to diverse cultures; with your dry sense of humour and your love of the absurd.

Tonight might be your last night here, Dad, in this house with its happy childhood memories, and it hurts.

July 30 2024

It goes against the grain … but where I don’t believe that honesty is the best policy

Karen Dementia, my Dad, and me 0

‘I’m just going to ring my mother,’ you said.
‘But Dad,’ I responded, ‘Gran died a long time ago’.

You looked shocked and sad.
‘No,’ you said.

The next morning the conversation was a repeat of what had been said the day before.

You forgot as quickly as I responded, but it was obvious that although you had forgotten what was actually said, the accompanying worry and sadness remained.

I don’t know why it hadn’t dawned on me earlier how cruel my response was; my only excuses are that I hadn’t wanted to mislead and that I hadn’t been back with my parents long and was relatively new to the day-to-day realities of dementia.

By the second day, I had realised that I had to go along with whatever you said, Dad.

‘I’m just going to ring my mother,‘ you said, ‘but what’s her number?’

‘Try later,’ Dad, ‘I don’t think Gran’s there now’.

‘Oh, right,’ was your only response.

Then you forgot, and you only occasionally ask now.

And, I suppose I mention this as a precursor to a conversation I recently had with a social worker (Autumn 2023). In view of my Mum’s health and the realisation that I would now need to leave more often for work, we had realised that Dad would have to go into a home, and the realisation hurt.

So, I was already raw when discussing the situation. Strangely, it wasn’t talk of care homes that set me off, it was when she said:

‘How does your Dad feel about that?’

I could feel my stress levels rising.

‘I can’t phrase it like that to Dad,’ I said. ‘That would just be cruel. He no longer has the cognitive ability to understand. It would just cause him needless upset’.

Already, I could imagine his hurt face looking at Mum and me, the worry in his eyes at our desertion of him, my Dad who loved my Mum, my sister and me above all else.

I felt distraught when I put down the phone.

In the beginning, I didn’t use support lines at all, but I had recently started to reach out to the Alzheimer Society’s dementia support line and that was my go-to now.

‘I can’t do it,’ I heard myself saying, ‘I can’t have an honest conversation with Dad; he just wouldn’t understand, and it would cause him so much pain, but I feel so bad about misleading him’.

It was such a relief when she reiterated what I already thought: that Dad would forget the conversation but probably be left with the feelings of sadness or worry that would accompany it. The conversation with her helped to allay the feelings of guilt, and it crystallised my approach.

That woman was a lifeline to me. She understood; she understood my guilt at lying but that honesty would be cruel where cognitive function didn’t exist anymore. There was no need to explain to her how upset I was about the thought of causing Dad severe distress should I tell him that he was going into care for good.

She said to me that if the next conversation upset me as much I should just ring again. Luckily, when I saw the social worker face-to-face and explained, she totally understood, but knowing that lifeline was there has made all the difference.

June 24 2024

Brahms’ House Baden-Baden

Karen People and places 0

Pausing momentarily, I looked up at the white house perched on the rock above me. I had only landed here because the Frieder Burda Museum was closed, it being a Monday. But already, before entering, I knew that this was where I was meant to be on that fine, still day in March in Baden-Baden, back in 2017.

I crossed the road and opened the gate, taking the steps up to the wooden building two at a time.

The notice outside the door read ‘please ring the bell’ so I did and, stepping back, waited. I could hear an echo somewhere inside and then footsteps on the stairs and the turning of a key.

A friendly woman opened the door to me.

‘Grüß Gott’, I said

She responded similarly, adding ‘Engländerin?’

It’s always apparent.

I followed her up the stairs into the little house.

She continued to speak to me in German, which I’ve always liked.

‘Do you know anything about Brahms?’ she asked.

I responded in the negative.

She told me that the house was Brahms’ summer home from 1865 to 1874, and that he spent time there to be near his dear friend, Clara Schumann.

Inside were a piano and work desk in one room, a bed in the other

The curator kindly opened the bedroom window for me, to get a better sense of what Brahms looked out over every morning.

There is a timeless quality about places like that, somehow imbued with the spirit of their former inhabitants. What had Brahms been thinking as he flung open the window and greeted a new day on those summer mornings? Was it frustration at a composition half-finished which wasn’t quite to his liking, or elation at a passage completed over which he had laboured long and hard? Was it something more than achievement: the delight of seeing a very dear friend again, plans already forming as to what the two of them would do that day?

I knew nothing of Brahms, nothing of Clara, nothing of classical music, but I was hooked. Their friendship was enough to entice me in.

So, I lingered there, soaking up the atmosphere, wondering, as dreamers do, about the lives of those two, marvelling at the magic of a morning meant originally for other things.

And the special feeling
associated with my trip
never went away. I returned
home with a poster of Brahms
in his youth, given to me
because it had been produced
to advertise his concerts and wasn’t
for sale.

On discovering more about how Johannes Brahms met Clara and Robert Schumann, I was drawn into the world of that 20-year-old with the sensitive face and piercing eyes. His deep regard for them both is palpable, as is theirs for him.

I admire the young Brahms’ support of the Schumanns, especially after the failed suicide attempt, which saw Robert ending his days in an asylum, and I admire how he was there for Clara and her children.

I understand, too, Brahms’ idealism, how he could fall in love with Clara, this talented genius, fourteen years his senior.

It is frequently assumed that he was the one who finally broke free of any romantic attachment. After all, this is the man who later lived according to the tenet ‘free but lonely’.

But perhaps Brahms was always a dear friend as far as Clara was concerned, nothing more. Perhaps pursuing her art to support her children was Clara’s all-consuming passion after Robert’s death. Perhaps she no longer wanted the constraints of a 19th century husband. I don’t know; I need to read more, and even then, I will never know for sure.

For all that is written about the older Brahms and his caustic character, it is the idealist in him which remains with me, and it his enduring friendship with a woman I have come to deeply admire which fuels my imagination.

The sentiments of the following passage from a letter, which Brahms wrote to Clara on Easter Monday, 1872, resonate so entirely:

‘My beloved Clara,

I always spend festivals by myself, quietly in my room, with a few dear ones, as my family are either dead or far away. How good it does me, then, when I feel with delight how love fills my heart.

I am obviously dependent upon the world outside, the chaos in which we live. I don’t join in the laughter; I don’t join in the lies, but it is as though I can lock the best of myself away, and that only half of me goes forth, dreaming.’

June 9 2024

Late night, early morning …

Karen Dementia, my Dad, and me 0

It’s 12:45 am when I head to bed myself and the light is on in your room. I open the door to find you in Mum’s wardrobe.

‘Hi Dad, what are you doing?’ I ask.

‘I’m getting up’.

‘But, Dad, it’s the middle of the night’.

‘No, it’s not,’ you reply.

I turn off the light and open the curtain to pitch black outside.

‘Look Dad. Does that look like day time?’

‘No.’ you say.

‘Can you go back to bed, then?’

‘Alright’…

I tuck you in again.

1:00 am

I hear the bed creaking and you’re on your feet when I enter the room.

‘Are you alright Dad?’

‘Yes, I just need socks’.

‘Why Dad?’

You look exasperated.

‘I’m getting up’.

‘No Dad not yet,’ I say.

‘Yes, I am’. You’re adamant.

‘But it’s dark outside Dad’.

‘No, it’s not’.
I switch the light off and open the curtains again.

‘Oh, so do I need to leave my legs like this?’ you ask, looking dolefully at your bare feet.

‘Yes,’ I respond. ‘Don’t you want to go back to bed, Dad?’

‘Ok’

I tuck you into bed again.

1:10 am

I’m wide awake, listening out for your footsteps.

I hear the bed creak and the light switch flick.

I get up and open your door. ‘Dad, what are you doing?’ I ask.

‘I’m getting up,’ you respond.

‘But, Dad, it’s the middle of the night, you don’t want to get up in the middle of the night, do you?’

‘It’s not,’ you say.

‘Look Dad,’ I draw the curtains again.

You look out.

‘It’s dark’.

‘Would you like to go to sleep, then, Dad?’

‘Alright’.

I tuck you into bed again.

1:30 am

I hear creaking in your room.

You are sitting on the end of your bed yawning.

‘Dad, don’t you want to go to sleep?’ I ask.

‘No, I’m getting up’.

‘Why, Dad?’
You look at me as though I’ve lost the plot.

‘I want to,’ you respond.

‘Really, Dad?… but look how dark it is outside. Do you really want to get up?’

‘Oh’ you say, looking puzzled.

You remain seated.

‘So what do you want to do, Dad?’

You look at me as though I’m quite strange.

‘I’m going to bed; it’s night,’ you say.

I tuck you in again.

4:30 am

I hear my name being called and knocking on the bathroom door.

I get up.

‘Oh, you’re there,’ you say.

‘Are you alright, Dad?’

‘I need a tinkle,’ you say and close the door.

I wait.

5 minutes later and you’re still in there.

‘Dad, are you coming out soon?’

I hear the washing of hands and then you open the door.

You point to the floor.

‘Don’t worry about that Dad; I’ll clear it up’.

There’s urine everywhere.

5:00 am

I awaken from a light sleep to tapping on the door …

I’m so very tired and another day’s work looms.

May 19 2024

Just nobody else mention commodes!

Karen Dementia, my Dad, and me 0

I needed to get out on my return from the hospital, to alleviate the frustration and find peace in nature.

The conversation I’d had earlier still baffled me!

‘You could use a commode’, the nurse had said, ‘when he’s discharged’.

Funny how I had felt my blood pressure rising at the very word. How many times had I been told that already since I’d been back with my parents, supporting Mum with Dad.

No, I can’t use a bloody commode. Have you any idea what it’s like in the middle of the night? Have you been up every time your father goes to the loo, wiping up the streams of urine that reach the bathroom door? But at least he still knows to go to the bathroom, and I’m thankful for that.

‘It wouldn’t work’, I had said. ‘Dad is not used to using a commode. I can’t introduce something he’s not used to. The bedroom would stink of urine’.

‘He would sit on it’, had been her response.

Yes, right. Dad is used to standing and he’s got dementia, so he’ll either be confused or stubbornly decide sitting is not something he wants to do … And, it will be the middle of the night, just to add to the confusion.

I was still thinking about the chaos that would ensue.

The nurse had looked at me as though I was just another awkward relative, not prepared to find a solution.

And I had looked at her and thought just what I would like to do with a commode at that moment.

And I didn’t get it. I didn’t get how people, who must have some dealings with dementia, could even suggest commodes and Zimmer frames and all those other things Dad was not used to doing / using. (Don’t get me wrong, I was/am so grateful to the NHS, especially for all the help we had had during lockdown from consultants, paramedics, and the district nurses). But to get back to my point, Dad continued to do what he had always done, mostly as an inbuilt reflex. I could have explained till I was blue in the face, and he still wouldn’t have got it. That wasn’t his fault.

‘My Dad has dementia’. How many times did I need to say it in response to an idea mooted that would have worked under any other circumstances?

Please, stop telling me what my Dad can or can’t do; I already know and I’m sick of hearing.

May 4 2024

Escape

Karen Dementia, my Dad, and me 0

It’s early morning and I’m half asleep when I meet Dad on the stairs.

He raises his finger to his lips to signal that I shouldn’t speak.

Then he whispers:
‘When are we getting out of this place?’

‘Dad, where do you think we are’, I ask?

‘I don’t know’, he says.

‘Don’t worry, Dad, we’re at home’, I respond.

‘Oh’, he says, looking around in surprise and still not quite comprehending where home is.

Then, he laughs, and old Dad is back.

‘Of course we are, he says’, shaking his head in astonishment that he could have thought otherwise.

Sometimes, he asks me if he needs to go to school; he frequently tells me that his schoolmasters will wonder why he’s late … Dad’s never late … unlike his elder daughter!

Then, there are those days he tells me that he will see Peter later; that’s my Uncle Peter who he’s forgotten moved to Australia years ago – and is now, sadly, no longer with us – and he talks about seeing his parents and my Aunty Jen and in his head he’s at home with them.

And, there are mornings, like this one, where he quickly becomes himself again, and I’m his daughter, and he’s in the house where he has lived all his married life with Mum.

April 22 2024

‘Karen, Do a Pedro’: Dad’s constant refrain during lockdown

Karen Dementia, my Dad, and me 0

Whenever Dad doesn’t want to comply with one of my requests, I am told to ‘do a Pedro’. When he finally forgets Pedro, I’ll know things are really bad.

My parents spent many a rainy British winter month in Spain. Pedro owned their favourite bar; he was a great guy who loved Dad and was perpetually having problems with ‘your lot’, in other words the English. Of what nature, I’m not quite sure, but I can imagine! Some English visitors to Spain are not always a credit to our nation!

My father, a man who very rarely swears, insisted Pedro take a no-nonsense approach and just tell them to ‘bugger off’. Whether Pedro took this on board, I don’t know, but from this point onwards, he always called Dad ‘Mr B off’ and so the swearword itself morphed into ‘Do a Pedro’ every time Dad decided that he didn’t want to take any notice of us!

Let’s return to the present for a moment!

Asking Dad if he wouldn’t mind:

• getting up so I can dress him;
• standing well over the toilet;
• going to bed before midnight so that I can help him undress and put him to bed without feeling knackered the next morning as my working day begins …

… all elicit a ‘Karen, do a Pedro’, said with a broad smile on his face.

It’s something that he’s so far held on to.

When ‘Karen, do a Pedro’ goes, we will have reached another stage.

April 14 2024

It’s the little things that matter

Karen The little things 0

A warm Summer’s evening in Cambridge pre lockdown:

Before lockdown, a friend and I used to meet frequently to watch movies at the Arts Picturehouse. How I love it there … just being able to sit with a drink and relax in ambient surroundings, to be able to see movies made by brilliant directors , who view the world through a wider lens.

I look back on those times with such pleasure.

The evening in question, I was wending my way in that direction, via Cambridge market square. Summer sun had given way to a warm and balmy evening, and the weekend stretched ahead full of possibilities. There is something about Friday nights that I have always loved … freedom!

I noticed the young man dismount his bike. It was the smile that struck me. It’s always been the little things which have drawn me to people: a warm smile, kindness, a depth to the eyes.

I had noticed the flowers in his basket, the vibrant colours, no doubt intended for a vibrant person. But he had secured his bike and was about to walk off without them. Don’t forget them, I thought; she (or he) will love them.

‘Don’t forget your flowers’, I shouted.

Turning back, he smiled. Retrieving them, he plucked a stem and handed it to me.

‘Thank you’, he said.

Then, it was my turn to thank him, as I happily turned towards my destination.

The encounter has always warmed my heart and brought a smile to my face. I imagine two young people talking of their hopes and dreams, of their studies and where they might lead, as the night draws in around them.

As for me? I placed the stem in a vase on my return home after a lovely evening.

Standing on a train from Doncaster to Leeds post lockdown

I’d had a dreadful journey. The trains were all over the place; I can’t remember why. I’d had to make an additional change at Doncaster. The train was heaving and, situated in the corridor next to the doors, I was juggling with work and my head was crowded with worry about the situation at home.

I barely noticed the man who had made his way to the corridor ready to alight in Wakefield. My suitcase was blocking one of the doors.

‘Do the doors open on this side’, I asked.

‘No, over here’, he replied.

Disgruntled by everything, as I was, that was where the conversation might have ended, but he said something else, and I found myself commenting on my dire journey so far.

‘You’ll get where you need to go’, he said.

It was at this point that I really ‘saw’ him, his kind, warm eyes and pleasant smile. And his comment really struck me on so many levels, because it touched something at my core.

‘You’ve got a very positive attitude’, I responded.

‘Well, I suppose I have, I’ve worked in the NHS for over 20 years‘, then, changing the subject, ‘but you’re not from this area’, he said, ‘your accent isn’t from round here’. Neither was his; he had what I took to be a slight Scottish lilt.

‘I am’, I said. ‘I was in London last week where people frequently comment that I’m from Yorkshire. I don’t belong anywhere’.

‘You belong everywhere’, was his reply.

He will never know how that comment resonated. I am, after all, very much a ‘citizen of the world’.

‘What do you do?’ I asked.

‘I’m an oncologist’.

‘Such an important job’, I responded.

‘I suppose so’, he said reflectively, ‘even if the outcome isn’t always good.’ It was almost a question. ‘Yes’, I said.

I don’t know how we got onto Germany, my time living in Stuttgart and the time he had spent there too, but then Wakefield was upon us, and he had alighted.

He helped those who were seriously ill every single day, and there I’d been, feeling disgruntled about nothing. I was embarrassed by myself.

Sometimes, people come into your life only fleetingly, but they leave an imprint.

Such moments of connection are so important.