Category Archives: Real Life

Living with Alzheimer’s – Bob has Covid by Chris Suich

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The phone rang loudly punctuating the silence in the house. My stomach lurched wondering if this was the phone call where I would have to jump in the car to get to Bob as quickly as I could. A solemn voice softly spoken, ‘Duty to inform . . . Bob has tested positive.’ How awful. So he’d got it anyway and I never got to comfort him because of this threat.
It has been 252 days since I hugged my husband Bob. I have never felt such a mix of emotions. I have been rendered utterly powerless.  I have tried everything I can to have some contact.

At the beginning of this nightmare I stood in the street shouting up to the first floor window whilst two carers walked with him towards it. Then we progressed to bringing him downstairs to the Reception area where he sat in the wheelchair looking out at me through a closed window. Then I moved him to a care home that didn’t charge nearly a thousand pounds extra third party top-up fee which, as a part-time teacher, I couldn’t afford.

It was July. There was now a chance to see him outside for thirty mins under a canopy but strictly 2 metres apart – and definitely no touching. But then the carer was OK to touch him without PPE – but not me. I asked why ? I was living on my own, avoiding shops, summer holidays (so off work) but my hands were not deemed safe to hold my husband’s hands. He stretched out for them. He’d shout ‘Chris, Chris,’ and try to stand up in his wheelchair to get to me. I had to watch  from 2 metres  away, getting more and more upset. I begged for another visit at the weekend. Thirty minutes once a week was not enough. I was granted another visit at the window on a Sunday.

I read everything I could about the government guidance and wondered why things were not changing. Our son, Joe, a Covid doctor felt if I saw Bob outside in PPE (and as a frontline worker I was permitted a test which was always negative), I could mitigate the risk.  That wasn’t accepted either.

Meanwhile, Bob’s health and well-being was impacted. He became very sleepy. I’d visit at 11.10 am but he was often still in bed asleep.  I changed the time to 2.10 pm but he often was sleepy then. He wasn’t responsive, barely knew what was happening, and couldn’t focus on me or follow a conversation. He looked clean and tidy but his personality had gone. Bob had disappeared he was a shell of himself.

I wrote letters, several citing new guidance, the breaking of laws such as the Equality Act or Human Rights Act – the right to a family life. My local MP wrote to the regional manager and I wrote to Helen Whately, Minister for Social Care. I wrote to author, Nicci Gerrard after reading her article in the Observer one Sunday evening. She invited me to join a closed group, John’s Campaign set up in her father’s name. The carers on there became a great source of information, comfort and support. I was phoned up by the BBC’s Alison Holt who was doing a piece on how this nightmare had affected me personally. My name had been put forward, would I do a story? Yes,  I certainly would, and I had some film to show my trauma when Bob would scratch the window or shout for me to come in. The article was shown on the main BBC news at 6pm and the 10 o’clock news. Bob would have been so proud of myself and our son, Joe.

Over the past few weeks there seems to be a sea change and up and down the country managers are trying to include visitors safely, in sanitised rooms, pods, using Perspex screens or even plastic overalls. But the way forward for visitors is fragmented; it is pretty much up to the care home . The new guidance is exactly that, guidance. I rang Public Health England asking if they had sent information regarding visiting protocols to Bob’s home. No, not at the moment, they should follow government guidance. So I wrote to the regional manager myself to ask that. It was then that I found out there was a Covid outbreak.
How did that happen? No visitors still. So all that time, when I wanted to see Bob and hold his hands in the summer –  when the R rate was low and I was told I was a risk, it didn’t matter anyway because he was destined to get it from within the home. I know it spreads like wild fire. PPE protocols must be rigorous.
It is now a waiting game. Can Bob get over this? I hope so but I am worried, he is fragile, has impaired health already and respiratory illness.
Joe knows this disease, he has been on Covid wards since this it started. It might start mild but it can turn very quickly.
I have been told I can see my husband at end of life. What a shame.  We have lost so much time and all in vain.

SISTER SCRIBES’ GUEST: ALISON LARKIN ON WHY SHE WRITES

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Welcome to Alison Larkin, bestselling author of The English American, award-winning Austen narrator and now the narrator of The Particular Charm of Miss Jane Austen and The Unexpected Past of Miss Jane Austen. 

I’m with Dorothy Parker who said “I hate writing. I love having written.”

I was born in Washington DC, adopted by English parents and raised in England and Africa and I’ve written for as long as I can remember – poems and plays mostly. But they were usually pretty surreal.

Then something happened that changed everything. Including the kind of writing I did.

It was the early 1990’s. I’d recently left drama school and was playing Flora Poste in Cold Comfort Farm in Newbury when the ‘phone rang back stage and I learned that the birth mother I knew nothing about and had been searching for was alive and well and keen for me to come and visit her at her home – in Bald Mountain, Tennessee.

So I went to Tennessee to meet her. Then I moved to New York and became a stand-up comic, because what else do you do?

Growing up, we didn’t talk about feelings in my family, which was helpful I think because the. absence of any other outlet meant I had to write, even though I hated it. I’m sure I never would have written the stand-up comedy act that led to the one woman show that led to my novel The English American if I hadn’t had to.

Photo credit Sabine von Falken

But I did have to. Why? Because people kept asking me what it was like meeting my ‘real’ mother and every time they used those words I felt as if I’d been punched in the heart. Because, to me, my ‘real’ mother was the mother who had raised me. And yet I had needed to find my birth mother and people didn’t ‘get’ why.

So I decided to combine stand-up comedy and theatre and show people through a one woman show in which I played myself, my English mother, and my American birth mother who were diametrical opposites in every way. The show was a hit and led to sitcom development deals in Hollywood and a run in LA and London. And then I had children and stopped performing comedy because I wanted to hang out with my kids while they still wanted to hang out with me.

But then I started to get really annoyed with the way adopted people were portrayed in books and on TV as eternally damaged victims at best, or serial killers. So I thought that maybe if I could put an authentic adopted heroine at the center of the kind of novel that I like to read  then maybe people on a beach or a plane would understand why someone from a very happy adoptive family would need to find the people she came from. And maybe, just maybe, instead of having to go through the whole thing every time someone said “What was finding your birth mother really like” I could say “It would take a book to explain. Oh! Wait! I’ve written one.”

After The English American came out I was rescued from writing by the audiobook industry who set me up with my own studio and hired me to narrate the first of over 200 audiobooks I’ve narrated to date. And I was so busy raising my children there was no time – or need – to do any writing.

My handsome, brilliant Indian fiancé, Bhima, loved my writing. “Why don’t you write more,” he pressed me four months ago. “Because I’m happy,” I said smiling again at the first man I ever dared to fully love. I’d spent a lifetime looking for him. And finally, in my 50’s, there he was.

Then he died. So maybe I will be writing again after all.

 

Between now and Christmas, for every audiobook downloaded directly via www.alisonlarkinpresents.com one will be donated to people in need.

 

 

 

Living with Alzheimers – Will Bob know me tomorrow? by Chris Suich

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I am anxious. Wondering what I will find at the home tomorrow. Will Bob know me again? My window visit is due at 2.10pm. It has changed from 11.10am because it was difficult as Bob was still sleepy. Sometimes, mostly on other days, he wasn’t out of bed. I was told this was person centred care if the patient chose or wanted to get up later they were able to. I tried to argue that he never stayed in bed till after 12 and he was up with me only 9 months ago at 6.30am and went to bed with me at 9pm without sleeping at all in the day. He slept all night at the home too so I was concerned about getting bed sores as that’s an awful lot of hours to spend laying down.

If he was brought to me in a wheelchair for a garden or cafe visit 2 m away (with a minder),  he was often falling asleep or in a kind of unfocused stupor where I couldn’t engage him. I asked if he was depressed or had given up the will to live. I had never seen him like this for so many visits week after week.

I was told by the nurse manager of the dementia unit it’s the onset of the disease, the way it progresses the way it is. But what if it wasn’t? What if it was the medication, the anti-psychotic drugs that he started in March. They are accumulative. Had he had the medication reviewed during covid? Had anyone outside the home seen him and this deterioration?

Two weeks ago he had a kind of spasm and his legs went rigid and he slid down the wheelchair. Luckily I was with my eldest son, a doctor. He was very concerned as he hadn’t seen his father in a while and was worried about his decline  and said he would be reviewed and observed if he was in hospital.

But he wasn’t, he was in a home and even the psychiatrist’s dementia nurse – who knew him since he was diagnosed – had tried to see him but was not allowed access.

So I rang the GP and asked her if anyone had actually seen him, not had a phone call or a Teams meeting but actually donned PPE and assessed him. No they hadn’t. I insisted there and then that a doctor visit him and advised them what I was most worried about. I said that I need to know if the medication was causing the sleeping and decline or the disease. I was really worried and concerned about the safeguarding aspect if medics were not getting access when the families requested it. The same day the duty nurse went in and later a GP – and a GP is scheduled in 2 weeks .

He is off all the dementia medication and he is a lot better. We went to see him 3 days ago and we cried with joy as he recognised us both and called our names out over and over . He was more alert and focused.

But it was a window visit as the home say he is not safe in a wheelchair, so we can’t see him face to face 2 m away . I think this rigidity has now subsided due to being taken off medications and the GP will confirm when she sees him next time.

This is such a blow because he cannot hear or see us very well at the window.  If it just a chair problem to overcome there must be one we can use just to get him out the door? It’s a good job I have a ‘ can do’ attitude as these problems seem insurmountable to some.

Nothing is insurmountable to me and whilst Bob is alive I will fight for him. It is an uphill battle.

What worries me more is how many others don’t have a ‘ me’ to ask questions and check well being and challenge accountability.

Living with Alzheimers – His hand in mine by Chris Suich

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his hand in mine by chris suich

I first remember Bob reaching for my hand when we worked together and we were the best of friends. We were stood together at the left hand side of the chairs in the Pier theatre. The lights had dipped and the show had just started. I don’t remember why it happened but I do remember thinking things would never be the same again. We had always got on well, laughed and joked around. He knew he wanted to marry me more or less instantly. It took me a little longer! In later life he always told me that and he remembers the moment he first clapped eyes on me. I was being interviewed for the job by someone else and he walked into the office to get something from a filing cabinet. But when he tentatively held my hand that evening , briefly, for just a few seconds I knew there was a new intimacy between us. A new connection. A connection that would last.

We have had a lifetime of holding hands.

Bob was always a gentleman. He was the type of man who opened car doors for me or carried my shopping or suitcases. We walked together in the countryside and in towns always holding hands!

I remember the long labour of our first baby and he stayed at the side of my bed holding my hand for hours trying his best to support and help me.

There is something reassuring and comforting when his hand is in mine. I miss it and so does he.

Latterly Bob suffered with severe anxiety and was prone to shaking episodes. I walked around the house with him holding his hand for hours until these shakes subdued. He wanted to hold my hand as he went to sleep and it helped him, soothed and comforted his fevered thoughts. I miss his hand in mine!

It is the saddest part of Bob being in care that we are not permitted to hold hands.

I have seen him in the flesh as it were, just 3 times in the garden. We are 6 months into this now.

The rules are 2 metres away, 30 minutes for once a week. It feels like we are criminals. Bob does not understand why I cannot touch him. He reaches for me. He tries to stand in his wheelchair. The care worker tries to tell him not to, as he might ‘tumble’. But he is valiantly trying to bear his weight and walk to me arms outstretched . Desperate for that contact. Me too. He tries several times and in the end he holds his hands like a handshake and kisses his own hands , the nearest he can get to kissing my hands. It is harrowing to watch. He sometimes says ‘it’s no good’ or he beckons me to him ‘come’ but I cannot comfort him. He sometimes tells me he loves me and my heart soars – he hasn’t forgotten me!

I have tried everything to persuade the powers that be to let me hold his hands. I have weekly covid 19 tests, all negative, I am willing to be wrapped in PPE , gloves, apron, and mask. I will sit out in the open where there is plenty of air circulating. I will do anything to give him this small comfort in his latter stages of Alzheimer’s. The July 2020 government guidance has changed. There is a realisation that Alzheimer and dementia patients need this type of contact. But it is a discretionary measure.

I know Covid 19 is here for a long time and we need to be safe. I don’t shop in supermarkets, I live on my own, I haven’t travelled very far. I have to keep myself safe as I have an 87 year old Mum to keep an eye on. I have taken advice and with the measures I am taking I would be mitigating any risk to give Covid 19 to Bob. or anyone else!

I wonder if I will ever hold his hands again. There must be so many who are suffering I have been told when he is dying I will be given that discretion. Am I supposed to be grateful for that?

Living with Alzheimers – Bob and Barbara Windsor by Chris Suich

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Today I read the sad news that Barbara Windsor has had to be placed in full time care as she, like Bob, is suffering from Alzheimer’s.  I understand only too well how hard this would have been for her husband,  Scott Mitchell, especially in these difficult times of Covid 19 when there are so many restrictions on seeing your loved one properly.

I too understand how Alzheimer’s patients have declined in Lockdown. Bob just doesn’t understand why I can’t come in  the home to him. He has no idea about the virus and is locked in his own world without me reassuring him.

We first met Barbara when Bob booked her to turn on the illuminations at Mablethorpe. I think it was well over 20 years ago.  Bob was in charge of the Tourism and Leisure for the local council and our summer hi -light was the illumination switch-on where a celebrity was booked for the afternoon and evening to switch on the lights and  meet the local dignitaries; the mayor and local councillors, Miss Mablethorpe and the like.

There would be a great parade and the sand-train would be tooting, filled with the great and the good of the town; all waving at the thousands of holidaymakers who always turned up. So Barbara was turning on the lights, quite a coup.

That particular day stands out in my memory because it was torrential rain and because the programme we had planned was cancelled to a great extent. Bob was rushing around frantically trying to re- organise things. The children’s marching bands had to be cancelled because the rain was absolutely torrential.

There was so much disappointment.  There were coaches from near and far with all these children dressed up and ready to perform in the parade, their little faces full of expectation, hoping against hope that the rain would stop. Their costumes looking bright and breezy representing hours of sewing and parental expectation.

Bob asked me to look after Barbara for the afternoon as he was busy sorting out the programme; where would the band play safely  under cover? Was it even safe to turn the lights on?

The thunder and lightening roared on.

I was really happy to look after Barbara as I had always liked her. She was a real trouper and really wanted to do a good job. Her giggle was infectious and we had a girlie afternoon gossiping and laughing. She got changed in the local hotel toilets and we had a bit of something to eat. Then she insisted on going to meet the children on the coaches and made everyone’s day by making sure she spoke to them all. She was as disappointed with the weather as the children were.

The switch-on did go ahead and I remember her doing the banter for the crowds  ( some braved the weather with huge colourful umbrellas). Then  the count down and a few more giggles and jokes and reminiscences of her Carry On actors, right up to her pressing the button that switched on the lights. Bob held an enormous umbrella ensuring  she kept dry.  He didn’t.

We went back to the hotel with all the locals and had a buffet and a glass of wine. It was always a late night but Barbara was not the sort of star to rush off back to London. She was a wonderful star in the best sense of the show -business world. Kind, caring and so appreciative of all the fans that had turned up to see her. I am so fond of these memories of her. How ironic that Bob and Barbara are now fighting similar battles.

Bless them both.

Living with Alzheimer’s – My Lockdown Sadness by Chris Suich

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Tomorrow I am going to see Bob in the garden of his care home. He went into full time care 131 days ago – three days after lockdown was declared. From a full-time ‘on watch’ and caring role to the silence and loneliness of an empty house was unbearable. Worst of all, for most of the time I have only been able to wave to him from the road and look up to him at the first floor window.  The ache in my heart was real and I asked my eldest son if I was ill.

My stomach lurched at the thought of relinquishing his care to strangers. They would never look after him like I do. The cajoling and the patience needed. I knew his ways!  I wasn’t even sure I could manage to sleep on my own after having Bob’s hand in mine for so long. Even at night time he wanted the reassurance of holding hands. But I was so exhausted; I couldn’t do another day.

I knew it was getting close as I had been up every night but one for three weeks and the day times were not easy either. Bob was having night terrors; he was terrified and agitated, screaming that I was killing him or he was dying, or I was dying. He would get aggressive and squeeze my arms sometimes bruising me. Such a gentle man but his face in such anguish, it was very frightening. I managed to see our Dementia doctor and we doubled the Respiridon in the morning and the Tramazodone at night. Even that didn’t work, such was his fevered brain. My goodness, how strong must his anxiety be?  He wouldn’t settle and I ended up getting up with him and the daily start to the morning routine settled him. It was often 5am or earlier.

When Bob went into the home I was still working –  in school three days at first, then from home: preparing education health care plans, organising Annual Reviews, ringing parents and writing risk assessments for those front line workers’ children who could attend school. It was important work and I wanted to do a good job.

My primary concern was Bob but there were always other things to worry about, such is life. Our youngest got stuck in Australia on his year travelling.  He eventually found a job with his London company in an office in Sydney for 2 years. Another hurdle overcome. Of course Bob would want him to take the opportunity and live his life. But packing up his boxes of clothes for the courier was a little sad.

I also  felt constant concern for our son Joe who was working long shifts on the front line in infectious diseases dealing with the Covid 19 cases. It just seemed a constant worry.

At first Bob went into the care home on ‘Respite.’ It was the same place he went to on day care on Tuesdays when I was teaching or if I went for a little walking break. They told me a bed had become available on the Dementia wing. I thought it was what he already knew and would settle better there than a new care home. I knew some of the staff from when I picked him up. It was familiar for both of us. It cost £800 a week for Respite but three days later it had gone up by almost £50 a week. I was desperate and I thought we would get support from social services eventually as we were well below the £23,500 threshold.

During this time I was supported by two amazing women who had been with me on this journey: the dementia nurse who knew us well and the Admiral nurse, a specialist Alzheimer nurse.

Our boys were fully supportive and said I could have done no more. However my journey to get funding was a very different matter. Covid 19 did not help me as it was much slower to get help from the relevant services.

After a difficult fight for part funding for continuing healthcare from the NHS (which I won after doing a lot of research and reading their own legal documents) and after completing a favourable checklist with the Dementia nurse. I then endured a 3 hour panel meeting where I had to argue virtually every domain to get the rating that truly reflected Bob’s condition. It was challenging and difficult and a real endurance test (which I was determined to win for Bob) where the agenda was set at the start to minimise every aspect of his condition in order to make sure he didn’t get the funding for having oversight of nursing care  – which he clearly needed. The newly appointed social worker agreed he was eligible and she supported us in the meeting.

How on earth do other exhausted carers fight for their loved ones like I did? Most people don’t have the stamina.

I had made it my project. I went through 250 pages of Bob’s medical records and highlighted the evidence for the 12 domains, his care home notes for the last week before the meeting (I’d asked for them all), his consultant letters, my diary, the hospital discharge letters etc. I studied the law and I knew what was likely to happen. It is notoriously difficult to get this funding but I knew Bob would meet the severe criteria for several domains that were irrefutable – cognition, mobility and possibly behaviour and psychological /emotional well being.

Why did I bother?

Because it was the right thing to do and Bob deserved the right care. He had worked hard all his life and never asked for anything  – now he was at his most vulnerable.

I sent off all the intrusive evidence to Serco:  our bank statements, Bob’s pension statements, copies of our house deeds, our bills, outgoings. It was exhausting. But we then got some part funding from adult social care and this was then backdated to 14 th May but paid directly to the care home.

It was now July and I had paid the Respite costs of almost £850 each week up to the end of June. I was bleeding money. The care home needed a  further £248 a week third party top up as the contract of ‘respite’ had changed to ‘long term care’ from 14 th May. I couldn’t afford it and so decided to move Bob to another home.

I have visited twice a week since this began, sometimes a lot more and now we are able to meet in the beautiful grounds of the home. Bob’s health has declined. He cannot understand why I was not inside with him holding his hand in the days during lockdown. He scratched the glass or tried to put his fingers through the gap in the window to touch my fingertips. He kissed the pictures in the memory book I gave him and he repeated the children’s names over and over and called for them.

It is heart -breaking. He cannot walk or weight bear and is usually sat in a chair or in the wheelchair I bought for him. He doesn’t ask for the toilet anymore. His hair is long, no hairdressers allowed.

My darling Bob is a shell of what he once was but sometimes his face lights up when he remembers me and for those minutes it is worth it. My love for him is endless. I know somewhere deep inside him he remembers me. Sometimes he says ‘ she’s lovely’ or he tries to kiss me by mouthing kisses. I am filled with a strange mixture of terror and anticipation when I go to see him. My stomach rolls at what I might see and how he might be. All I know is I have to see him in order to settle myself. Then I try to get on with my life for the next few days until I am pulled back to him. My Bob.

 

SISTER SCRIBES GUEST: LINDA HUBER ON FAMILY SECRETS

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I’m delighted to welcome the lovely Linda Huber, a prolific author and fellow Swiss resident, to Frost Magazine today, where she’s talking about how family secrets inspired her writing.

It’s always fascinating, talking to older family members and hearing their stories of days gone by. I remember my grandmother talking about her life growing up in Edinburgh with her parents and brothers. The family were keen photographers so we have a wealth of photos ranging from Granny as a toddler in 1890-something, all the way up to her last years, when she lived in Glasgow with her younger brother.

What she never mentioned was either of the wars she lived through, apart from the odd comment about food rationing. Another taboo was the death of my grandfather when my mother was just fourteen. He died in an industrial accident on the railway, where he worked, so Granny was given compensation – a return train ticket to London. It was her first and only trip outside Scotland. How I wish I’d been old enough to know I should be questioning her greedily, saving up her answers for my own children. I was still a teenager when she died, and there was too much Mum didn’t know either.

That’s how it is with family secrets, I think – usually, they’re not so much grisly skeletons in the closet as things that are just too hard to speak about. Or maybe, details are simply forgotten over time, not mentioned because nobody thinks to. When I was researching my family tree, I came across a distant little cousin who’d drowned in a Glasgow swimming pool in the 1940s, aged eleven. I’d never heard of her, and my mother could only just remember hearing her talked of. It was a tragedy lost over generations, though I’m sure little Agnes’s close family still remember.

Other secrets are grisly and terrible. A few years ago, I read a news story where someone had kept something truly awful from his nearest and dearest for over twenty years. I won’t say more because they are real people, but this man’s wife and children had no idea that the person they were living with was capable of what he had done. That started me thinking… and the end result is my ninth psychological suspense novel, The Runaway.

Cass (left) and Linda (right)

In the book, Nicola, Ed and Kelly Seaton relocate from London to lovely Cornwall. It should be a fresh start for them all – teenager Kelly had got in with a bad crowd, Ed had lost his job and Nicola was struggling to keep the family on an even keel. So they moved into Ed’s old family home by the sea. Nicola was determined to make a success of the new life, but little did she suspect what had happened in the house when Ed was growing up. He’d kept his secret well…

This is the third book I’ve set in Cornwall; I’m making no secret of the fact that I love the place! The Seaton family’s new home is near St Ives, which has fabulous beaches and a beautiful old town. It’s years now since I’ve been there, but one day I’ll go back. And meanwhile, I can write about it.

 

Linda Huber grew up in Glasgow but went to work in Switzerland for a year aged twenty-two, and has lived there ever since. Her day jobs have included working as a physiotherapist in hospitals and schools for handicapped children, and teaching English in a medieval castle.

Her writing career began in the nineties, when she had over fifty short stories published in women’s magazines before turning to longer fiction. The Runaway is her ninth psychological suspense novel.

Find out more about Linda at www.lindahuber.net or follow her on Twitter @LindaHuber19

Living with Alzheimers – Waving from the Road by Chris Suich

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Waving from the Road

After a restless night I knew what I had to do. I had to see Bob come what may!

I stood in the side road next to the care home and the care worker brought Bob to the  window on the first floor. He looked down at me and I waved madly but he didn’t seem to know me at first. As I waved my hanky at him the emotion overwhelmed me and the tears spilled down my cheeks as I tried to smile at him and do a ‘thumbs up.’  The lady opened the window and shouted down, ‘He says he loves you’ .

‘I love you too, darling, I love you too and I miss you madly. ‘ I shouted unaware of who else might be in the street watching this lunatic woman.

My lovely Bob is now in a care home as I simply couldn’t cope anymore. The lack of sleep due to the terrible nightmares and terrors that occurred at 4am most nights and the physical demands of it all had finally got to me. I knew the time had come. It had been 5 years and 3 months since we were told there was a memory problem. It had got much worse in the last 2 years and since the hospital admittance October 2018 for severe anxiety.

How was I to know that the next day the home would be in lock down and 2 weeks and 3 days later I still had not held his hand in mine or been able to kiss or hug him.

It was a different kind of torture.

I have transferred one nightmare for another! So I am taking in to the reception area of the home photographs of us and the boys in happy times, little letters to be read to him, pictures that we had at home and cards with little newsy updates on. His soft comfy blanket for the bed, he must have that!

I am trying to keep the memory of us alive. I hope he will remember me a little longer but I know in his heart I am there and he will always be in my heart and soul! I am lucky to have been so loved by him, my husband, loyal and supportive.

This CV19 is a terrible virus and we are all having to make sacrifices but for me it couldn’t have come at a worse time.