She lies in bed, barely able to open her eyes. Her voice is feint, her skin is grey. In the three weeks since I saw her last, she has lost more than half her body weight.

The right side of her face droops, she has trouble forming words and thoughts.

Lung cancer, last days.

I feel my heart strings tug. This time, for a change, I am not here in my professional role. I come as a friend.

I went to school with her daughter. We were close all through high school. She went to school with my mother. They were close all through primary school.

We are inextricably linked, not by blood – but by time, community, shared friends.

“Come close, I need to tell you something”, she whispered.

I lean in, waiting for her to catch her breath and find the strength to go on. The words come slowly.

“I need to remind of something that happened when you were about 14…

You came to my house after you had a disagreement with your mother…

You asked me if you could stay for a few days…

Do you remember?”

I reach deep into the recesses of my memory, winding back more than 35 years. A vague sensation of unease. Am I about to be reprimanded for something I can barely recall?

“I told you that you would always be welcome in my house…
but you could only stay if you telephoned your mother and let her know where you were and that you were safe.”

I nod slowly. The memory of that day is surfacing. I can see her in her kitchen, preparing dinner. Some dish from Poland, her home country.
Chicken soup, I think.

Another link.
My grandmother was from Poland.
I am distracted momentarily, but her whisper pulls me back to the present.

“I have always wondered whether that was the right thing to do…
but I knew your mother would be worried about you…
Was it?”

My eyes are blurry, tears fall.

She is obviously troubled by this, a moment in time that I had all but forgotten. It has haunted enout to remember and speak about it in her last days.

I reply.

“Yes, you did the right thing. It is exactly the advice I would want someone to give my daughter in that situation.”

Her face relaxes noticeably. She sighs.

“I am so glad I got to say that…
I have always wondered. Now I can rest…
I might not be here tomorrow.”

I suspect she is right.
I kiss her gently, and hold her hand.
I tell her that I always felt safe and welcome in her home.
I thank her for giving me such good advice, and say goodbye.

I call my friend, her daughter, who is waiting to board a flight from the other side of the country.

It is not an easy thing to do.

I gently prepare her for what she will find when she arrives.
We cry together over the phone.

I tell her the story – she had also forgotten that day, but now it comes back clearly. We laugh and are drawn close by teh shared memory, in spite of the years and distance between us.

I am a fifth generation born and bred local. It is inevitable that I will come across people I know and will have to care for them.

Two years in a row, parents of school friends have been referred to my service. For them, it is a relief to see a familiar face that they can trust.
For me, it is bittersweet.

Fond memories, mingled with sadness at the emotional anguish my friends are experiencing.

Some days are harder than others.