He was only about three; a bright eyed little boy, clearly bursting with news.
Alongside him, his mum, in comfy tracky bottoms, walking gingerly. And his dad, holding a baby car- seat containing a tiny bundle which was wrapped in a pale lemon blanket.
As he got closer to the bench where I was sitting, the boy wrenched his hand away from his dad's, and ran up to me.
"See that?" he said, jabbing a little finger back towards the car seat."THAT...is my new baby sister. I'm a big brother now. And I LIKE it!"
It turned out that little Emma was just one day old, and that the menfolk were there to collect her, and mum, from the maternity unit.
I waved at him as they drove away, his eyes still gleaming with excitement and pride, then finished my sandwich, soaked up the sun for a few more minutes, and headed back inside. I skipped the lift and climbed the four flights of stairs back to Dad's ward, well aware that it was one way of extending my "lunch break" on this long day in a week of long days ; knowing a tricky six or seven hours still lay ahead.
You couldn't get a bigger contrast between baby Emma's ward and this one, I mused, as I walked back to his room. One nurtures new life, forms families, full of future hopes and dreams. A lifetime and four corridors away, and you're in "Geriatrics". The care's just as tender; the 'customers' just as needy in their way, but time's ticking by. Life's ebbing away. Your heart can feel heavy here.
Some patients here today, like Dad, have dementia. The disease is like a giant eraser, rubbing out their lifeskills, one at a time. Independence? Deleted. Speech? Silenced. Mundane tasks? A muddle. Cutlery's confusing; even families seem unfamiliar . This is no place for planning; surely. No place for pride?
And then, as I sit beside him, he looks again at the framed picture of his grand-daughters. And we talk about what they're doing, and how much they love him.
I know he hasn't held a pen for weeks; won't touch the watercolours or sketching pencils I brought in for him, even though he once drew deftly with them. But I suggest it again, anyway. A note, maybe, for Alice. I could deliver it tomorrow, I tell him.
I busy myself in my magazine, aware that his left hand is moving towards the pen and pad. Moments later, he turns to me, that smile back in his eyes, the same bright, proud, almost child-like smile I'd seen on the face of the little boy downstairs. "There", he says, gesturing towards the book.
Stunned, I see that it's a note to Alice. Personal, and loving. In shaky, spidery writing. Just one sentence long; with words she`ll cherish for a lifetime.
Later, when the nurses come in, I tell them about it. They're surprised, and thrilled. And I guess my eyes are gleaming a bit too. With tears that something so simple is even newsworthy. And pride--for this is a day for pride-- that he managed it.
Dad died in May 2014, peacefully at his home. Alice still has the note from her grandad.
COMMENTS:
@janemcintyre12 fabulous blog Jane - cherish the moments - they're so few as that cruel disease progresses - but so very precious xx
@janemcintyre12 only really afterwards do u truly appreciate how special each "moment" was + the effort it took the person to achieve it xx
@janemcintyre12 thanks for sending that to us, it is a really moving post.
@janemcintyre12 @DementiaFriends @alzheimerssoc @DementiaUK Jane its great to see such positivity. That will be a treasured note:)
Jane McIntyre 
Allan Bennett 
Glynis Ellis 
