Within three weeks I was back to work. There seemed nothing else to do. There was no use sitting at home moping. With Ernie away, the house did not even get dirty. Anyway back to work I went but it was not easy. Indeed no, it was not easy. When at work, all I could think about was getting home as soon as possible and when at home I was restless and went about the house looking for jobs to do. The silver has never been so clean and shining in all its existence. I did a lot of weeping but never in company. Even when patients came to offer me their sympathy I could feel this shutter come down in my mind and they would be in tears and I would be absolutely dry-eyed. Somehow I felt I was letting them down but there was nothing I could do about it. I was always anxious to get back to the cottage. I felt closer there and if he was to get in touch with me I felt it would most probably be there in the beautiful home and garden which we had built together. But he never did and one day, while walking in the nearby oak woods (or Robin Hood walk as I call it because there are several very old oak trees with outstretched branches underneath which the little sheep track passes), I flung myself face down on the damp earth and wept, wept as if the flow of tears would never stop, the sound of my sobs drowned by the noise of the burn as the water fell and tumbled round the boulders in cascades and miniature waterfalls. And then I got up and walked dry-eyed back to the cottage. Each time I packed up to drive back to Edinburgh it was another farewell, another wrench of the heart.

In October of that year 1987 Vivienne and the girls joined me at the cottage for a week's holiday. It was a wonderfully peaceful time and in a strange way I was happy. Everything had a dream-like quality.

The air was warm and gentle and the sun shone with a hazy sparkling light on hills and water. Vivienne's words of greeting were "This is great mum! It's years since I had you to myself." We went for walks, collecting sticks for the fire, picking blackberries and taking photographs. Some days we went for expeditions, packing the car with a gas stove, kettle, water carrier, tea, milk, butter, sausages, rolls, bread and many other items not forgetting waterproofs, wellies, woolly hats and matches. I remember one such outing particularly well. We went to see St Columba's cave at Cove on Loch Coalisport. After exploring the cave and its surrounds we headed for the beach where we set up our picnic on the turf. We soon had the stove going and, while waiting for the kettle to boil, went down to the water to explore and see what we could find. The water comes right up to the turf at high tide but is shallow and we could wade through the water which was as clear as glass and view all the shells, stones, sea-anenomes and other life on the sandy floor. Suddenly I heard an almighty yell and turning round saw Sheona clinging to her mother with her legs tightly wound round her waist, her arms clasping her neck and her face buried in Viv's shoulder. "What on earth is the matter?" I said. "It's the seaweed, she's terrified of it" Viv replied. "Oh well," I said, "let's go back now and have our picnic and try again later."

Once back on the turf she recovered and enjoyed her picnic of hot dogs, banana rolls and slices of chocolate cake.

"Come on Katie," I said when our picnic was consumed, "let's go and see what we can find," and taking her hand went down to the water where we soon were as happy as sandboys, shouting to each other excitedly whenever we found an interesting shell or pretty stone. No amount of persuasion could entice Sheona near the seaweed so Viv spent most of the afternoon walking over the turf, with or without Sheona clinging to her, looking for some water devoid of seaweed. It proved a hopeless task but Katie and I collected numerous shells, including large clam shells and colourful stones. The setting was so beautiful and so peaceful that Viv did not resent her enforced stay on dry land and after Katie and I had returned from our foraging we had a final cup of tea before packing up and clearing away all traces of our presence there. We then piled into the car and drove two sleepy little girls back to the cottage.

The next morning Katie spent hours arranging and rearranging the shells and pebbles in a flat wicker basket, and her creation graces the living room to this day. Each evening, after the girls went to bed, Viv and I played Chinese Chequers or Scrabble or sometimes just talked quietly before going to bed with a good book. In this way, the week soon passed. A calm and healing interlude before I returned to Edinburgh and reality.

Time passed and work at least got a little easier until one particular day. It was late November and very seasonal - that is, very wet, very windy and very dark. A routine call had come in: "Would I visit Mr so-and-so who had just been discharged from hospital and had a letter for me."

It obviously was not urgent so I left it till last. I should add that the call had come in by bleeper - that is my bleeper had bleeped so I phoned Mrs Scott who gave me the name and address which initially were unfamiliar (and I had not medical records with me). The address was in a modern private housing estate which I knew reasonably well and so was quite confident as I set off to find the address. I turned into the little road but the houses were set well back from the road making it extremely difficult to see the numbers. I crawled along but it was no use, so out I got into the wind and rain to walk up to a front door to see the number. But no, it was not the one I wanted so back to the car I went. I drove a little further up the curving road and came to the end but there was no number I was seeking. What to do? Was the number wrong or was the street wrong? I got out my little street directory and looked at all the streets it could possibly be - was it the street, the road, the avenue, the crescent? I tried them all in turn, getting in and out of the car into the driving rain and wind, but none had the right number. By now it was quite dark and I was getting more exasperated. I drove around to find a public phone box - not an easy feat, and got through to Mrs Scott.

"What was the address you gave me?" I asked, thinking I might have misheard her - but no she had the same name and address.

"Could you look through the records to see if we have the correct address on the notes please Mrs Scott? I'll hang on."

After an eternity, or so it seemed, she came back.

"I'm sorry Dr White, I can't find the records."

By now I was cold, tired, hungry and frustrated. Taking a deep breath I said "Never mind. I'll go home now and get something to eat. Perhaps they will phone again, and it will give me time to think. I'll try again after evening surgery." So I drove home and as I drove I began to think: "There is something familiar about that name but it's not quite right. I think I remember the patient from the days when he lived near the surgery but I can't quite place him." I arrived home just in time to snatch something to eat and then was on my way again back to the surgery. I was actually in the process of taking somebody's blood pressure when suddenly into my mind the patient's correct name flashed and as soon as I could I ran through to Mrs Scott.

"I've remembered! I suddenly remembered. It's Mr so-and-so not Mr so-and-so. Look out the notes quickly. That must be it."

And sure enough it was. The names sounded very similar and Mrs Scott had picked it up incorrectly when they phoned in the request for a call.

It was a very busy surgery so it was very late, after 8pm, when I set out again, this time with the records and the correct name and address, but I was already feeling weary and low in spirits. It was still windy and bleak and the numbers difficult to see so it was with difficulty that I found the right house and with great relief that I rang the door bell. I immediately recognised the patient and his wife as I was ushered into the bright and comfortable living room and felt more cheerful as I opened the envelope from the hospital but as I read it, it was as if a thunderbolt from the sky had hit me. "This patient had a dissecting aortic aneurysm and has had an aortic transplant operation."

The same as Ernie, but he was alive and well and Ernie was in his grave. My heart was bleeding, twisting and turning, as I listened to the patient recount the dramatic events of his illness. He had been in the right place at the right time but Ernie had not. My eyes kept filling with tears and I had to force myself to sit still and not rush out of the house and away, which is what I wanted to do.

"Keep calm, keep calm," I said to myself, "Try and show some concern. He has had a very traumatic experience."

But all the time my mind was screaming, "You're lucky, you're lucky. You don't know how damned lucky you are."

And I sat on the couch and smiled.

Once back in the car my nerve almost broke. My eyes were blinded with tears and my hands shaking as I drove like a mad woman back to Barnton. I know for certain I drove through red lights at least once and had several other narrow escapes as I rushed home to where I could give way to my grief. When I drew up at Barnton I sat quietly in the car before getting out and walking calmly into the house as if nothing had happened. Once more the shutter had come down.

                          * * * * *
 

Douglas had come back to Barntongate to stay about six weeks after Ernie's death so that was a great help but still the feeling of isolation remained. In the midst of a happy cheerful crowd I would suddenly feel alone and always at night I had to withdraw to an empty bedroom and lonely bed. Worst of all perhaps was my preoccupation with death. I could not help thinking about it and how fleeting is our span of life. I was not concerned about my own but about death in general. Everyone seemed to be ageing in front of me. If I noticed a pretty young girl crossing the road I would say to myself: "In a few years time she will be wrinkled and grey and in a few more years she will be dead."

My mind would dwell on death in all its many aspects for hours at a time, sometimes totally unexpectedly and disconcertingly. For example, I would be talking to someone quite happily when into my mind would pop the thought: "She'll be dead soon. In a few years she'll be dead. The years go past so quickly it'll seem like a few days. She'll soon be dead." This could apply to anyone, young and old alike, even children. It was a really horrible experience and it shows that it is just as well that we can not read each other's thoughts.

Equally depressing, or equally a symptom of depression, which ever way you like to put it, was the sense of failure. I felt I had achieved nothing. I had worked hard all my life - for what? I was a second-rate GP with little in the way of academic achievement. And worst by far was the feeling that I had not done much good, that I had not really helped anyone, that I was useless. Trying to look at these statements dispassionately after an interval of three years, the only one that stands up to inspection is the fact that I have not achieved my full potential academically. But then life is full of choices and I chose to marry and have a family, and once the choice is made there is no use having regrets - which I don't. And if I had not had children I would not have had grandchildren and they are such fun. They help to keep you young and cheerful and give you hope for the future.

Anyway these morbid thoughts lasted a long time, occasionally even now they will recur - very infrequently I'm glad to say - but the months pass and you adapt, almost against your own wishes, to a different, lonelier life, although in fact I am seldom alone for long - one or other of the family are always visiting, either in Barntongate or at the cottage. Young Nick came to stay with us more and more frequently, and as often as they could Viv and Alan and the girls would visit and the house would be filled with chatter and giggles and young Nick would (and still does) come in for a lot of teasing as the Nicky White Adoration Society comes into action. The girls climb all over him and he ends up with Katie on one knee, Sheona on the other, both demanding his attention and both gazing up at him with an expression of reverent love on their young and innocent faces.

A year passed and the summer of 1988 came round. As usual I intended to spend my 2-3 weeks holiday at the cottage. Anne and Susie were to join me for the first half and then Viv and Alan and the girls were to come for the second half. Young Nick had as usual gone to America for the summer holidays. A few days before I was due to go up North, Lesley came to see me and asked if I could look after her cat Jasper as she was moving into a new flat and pets would not be allowed in the new one.

"Sure," I said, "that will be no problem but I'll have to take him to the cottage with me. Is that OK?"

"Yes," says Lesley, "but he is a bad traveller."

I bought the biggest cat basket I could find as Jasper is a large ginger neutered tom, half Persian, with a long fluffy coat and a delightful personality. The first time I had seen him he was a small kitten shadow boxing his own reflection in a mirror.

What a journey that was - never to be forgotten. Lesley did not tell me just how bad a traveller he was. He cried and meowed incessantly on the three hour journey. He vomited twice and even emptied his bowels once. I really thought the journey would never end as I drove down the winding road with all the windows open. I don't know who was the most exhausted, Jasper or I.

The next day Anne and Susie arrived and that presented another problem because Anne has two dogs: Dolly, a springer spaniel and Tammy, a Papignon. Tammy is well behaved and so is Dolly about most things, but show her a cat and she is away, barking and yelping, frightening the poor feline out of its wits. The first two days were uneventful as we kept Dolly on a lead in the house and Jasper spent most of his time skulking upstairs, either in my bedroom or the little bunk bedroom above the sitting room.

On the third day, as we arrived back from a shopping trip to Loch Gilphead, Anne said to me: "I think we could let Dolly off the lead now, don't you?" "Yes I think so."

What a pair of idiots we were.

As I opened the front door and entered with the shopping Jasper came down the stairs to greet us and at that moment Anne came in behind with Dolly. The next minute all hell was let loose. With loud yelps Dolly was up the stairs chasing Jasper, into my bedroom, on the dressing table, onto my bed, round the room, down the stairs again, out the front door, over the rockery, across the gravel drive, through the garden and into a nearby wood. When Dolly gave up and came back wagging her tail I could have killed her.

We did not worry unduly to begin with, occasionally going out into the garden and shouting "Jasper, Jasper".

But there was no reply. By evening when there was still no sign of him I was beginning to feel really worried. I had been entrusted with his care and here was I, a responsible person or so I thought, and I had lost him and apart from that I was fond of the fat old thing. Before going to bed that night the three of us went on a Jasper hunt in different directions, one down the lane, one up the lane and along the burn, and the other in and around the wood which I may add was surrounded by a barbed wire fence and was full of thick undergrowth. Each of us was calling "Jasper, Jasper" but it was to no avail. No answering "Meow, Meow" was to be heard.

"Never mind Mum," Anne said, "he'll be alright. We'll leave a window open and he'll probably come home in the night."

But he did not and now our searches took us further afield. We started calling at the neighbouring cottages.

"Please have you seen our cat? A big ginger tom answering to Jasper." But no one had. So that afternoon we set off once more to Loch Gilphead and put an advertisement in the local paper.

"Lost, stolen or strayed. A large ginger tom called Jasper."

At least we felt we were doing something. That night it rained and the wind blew and the trees rocked but even that did not bring Jasper home.

The next day was bright and sunny most of the time and certainly all the conversation centred around Jasper. In the evening the three of us were sitting in the living room when I said "You two stay here and keep Dolly shut up. I'm going out to look for Jasper and I'm not coming back till I find him."

I climbed over the stile into the field, walked the few yards to the edge of the wood and then I got down onto my hands and knees and called "Jasper, Jasper."

I waited a few minutes, listening intensely, and then crawled a few more feet -

"Jasper, Jasper."

Pause, and then I crawled another few feet.

"Jasper, Jasper."

Again waiting and listening intensely. Was that a faint Meow?

"Jasper, Jasper", could it be? I crawled forward another few feet.

"Jasper, Jasper". Yes it must be, but where was he?

I stood up and looked up into the trees but I could not see him. I climbed over the fence into the wood and scrambled through the undergrowth and managed to crawl under the over-crowded fir trees.

"Jasper," I called again and this time the answering cry was louder. Although I still could not see him I knew he was there. I hurried to the fence, leapt over it catching my wedding ring on one of the barbs and, briefly looking at my hand to see if my finger was still there, ran as fast as I could up the lane to the cottage shouting "I've found him. Come quickly I've found him."

So shutting Dolly in the house we ran into the field and looked up at the tall trees. Suddenly Anne called out:

"There he is! Look. Right at the top of that tree." It was the tallest of a group of tall fir trees.

So we ran back once again to the cottage to fetch the extending ladder. But that was in no way long enough.

"There is an old wooden ladder beside the shed" I said, but that also was too short.

"Go to the farm cottage for help" I said to Anne and Susie as I climbed once more over the fence and scrambled underneath Jasper's tree. As I saw them walking away I shouted: "Don't walk. Run!" and they obediently set off at a canter.

In a very short time they were back with a young man and a very long ladder. He propped it up against the tall thin tree and began to climb cautiously up.

"For goodness sake don't fall" I cried from underneath the tree.

"Well you can catch me if I do."

As he reached the top Jasper was waiting for him, only too willing to be rescued, and offered no resistance to being picked up and dropped into a sack. Soon he was down the ladder. I took the sack and rushed back to the cottage and up into the bunk-bedroom. As he poked his head out of the sack he gave himself a mighty shake, went straight to the cat litter box and had a long, long pee with a look of great relief and satisfaction on his face.

For the rest of the holiday he was pampered and fussed over and very gradually he regained his confidence, daring slowly to make his way down the stairs to the sitting room very cautiously and retreating upstairs rapidly if he heard Anne's voice in the distance. To this day he runs and hides if he hears "that woman's voice".

His escape made front page news in the "Squeak", the local newspaper. "PET SPENDS FIFTY SIX HOURS IN ARBOREAL PERCH" was the headline.

For the rest of the holiday if he was out of sight for more than half an hour the children and I would be out in the garden, looking under bushes and in the long grass shouting "Jasper, Jasper". Such was our anxiety but he never again went missing and after Anne went home became quite adept at catching his morning mouse.

All too soon I was back in Edinburgh and immersed in my work, trying to catch up with the backlog of correspondence and seeing the patients who had been waiting for my return before coming to the surgery for help or advice. I was in the middle of a busy surgery when Lesley came bursting in: "Oh Pam! I'm very sorry but I don't know what to do. You're the only one I could turn to."

"Whatever is the matter Lesley?" I said, "Calm down and try to tell me."

"We've got to move again and we've no where to go. We're homeless. Could we stay a few days with you till we find somewhere to live? And can we store our things in your garage? We've nowhere to keep anything."

"Yes," I said thoughtfully, "but you know, I can't have Nicky tossed from pillar to post like this. I think when he returns from America he should come and stay with me on a permanent basis."

Her eyes filled with tears but she did not demur. "I'm sorry Lesley, I really am but you know it would be for the best and you can come and see him whenever you like and he can visit you."

"Yes Pam. I know you're right, I'll see you tomorrow."

She gave me a quick hug and went slowly and sadly down the stairs. And so it was that from then on there were four of us at Barntongate - myself, Douglas, young Nick and Jasper the cat.

Now I was into my last year as a GP as I had decided to retire in May 1989. The main reason for this decision was because that was when the lease of 14 Rankeillor Street ran out. The landlords had already given me a three year extension to the lease and would not extend it further. I could have bought the property but only at full market value and somehow it did not seem worth all the hassle for another year or two's work. Also I knew the government reforms were coming in and that would mean a lot of re-organisation and extra work, and as I was beginning to feel constantly tired it seemed that all the signs showed that May 1989 would be an auspicious time to retire from full time work. I was still healthy and young enough to adapt to a new life style, to do all the things I had been promising myself for years. So I made up my mind to retire and once my mind was made up began to look forward to the day with eagerness and anticipation. And so did all my family. So much so that I began to feel a little guilty and wondered if I had been neglecting them over the years, especially when Viv, so mature and independent, said "Mum I can't wait for you to retire."

As the chosen day came nearer I became aware of hurriedly interrupted conversations and strange one-sided telephone calls, both at home and at the surgery. I became suspicious that a plot was hatching but what kind of plot I could not at first be sure, though I sensed it was something to do with my retirement. I knew my son Nicolas was planning to come over from the USA for a short holiday and it did not take much intuition to guess that he was behind whatever plan was a-foot. I knew I was not meant to be aware of plans and arrangements being made around me, so obligingly became partially deaf and partially blind as well. I had more than enough to do with the routine practice work and feeding two constantly hungry young men. Also there was another problem with some of my more difficult patients. Some of them were beginning to panic.

"What will I do doctor? What will I do when you're gone?"

"Well," I would reply, "you will be allocated to another doctor by the Health Board; you know you won't be left without a doctor."

"Ye-es but," they invariably replied, "who will that be? I might not like them. They won't understand my case like you do."

In a very few cases the thought of parting from the patient brought an inner sigh of relief and lifted an enormous weight from my back, but mostly I was genuinely concerned for their future and did my best, albeit not that often successfully, to suggest a suitable doctor for them, whom they could visit to see if they could be taken on when I finally retired. The addicts proved less of a problem than they would have done a year or two previously because by now there were various clinics willing to treat and, if necessary, supply them with prescibed medication. To the majority of patients I blithely reassured them:

"Don't worry, You'll be allocated a doctor as soon as I retire and if you don't like them you can always change to another."

I am sorry to say my blind faith in the Health Board was not vindicated and many a patient was bewildered and hurt when they received no official notice of my retirement or the name of the practice to which they were allocated. They felt lost and bewildered as they were left with no doctor to whom they could turn in an emergency. I believe the Health Board had its own problems in redistributing my practice, which was broken up between several different practices, as some of the original applicants challenged the Health Board's first decisions and an appeal had to be held. This did not leave the Board sufficient time to notify all the doctors and patients concerned before I retired. Hence chaos reigned for a while. Luckily the kind doctors at Bernard Terrace came to the rescue and agreed to see any patients who as yet had no doctor, doing their best to calm the sometimes emotional patients and explaining as best they could why there was such a muddle and that it was truly not Dr White's fault. It does seem strange that after thirty years' work in the practice, twenty-one as sole principal, I should have absolutely no say in what happens to the practice or where the patients should go. In fact I found it remarkably easy to let go but trying to explain this state of affairs to the patients with credibility was extremely difficult. Sometimes I felt they just did not really believe me.

The last few weeks were extremely busy as, apart from the routine work, so many old friends came to see me to say goodbye and to wish me luck and a happy retirement. I received many wonderful presents and many a farewell ended in tears and mutual hugs. I tried to visit all my housebound patients to say goodbye and I only hope I did not miss anyone out.

The evening before the great day I was sitting alone at Barntongate. Douglas was out and young Nick had gone to a party so I decided to have a bath and was sitting in my dressing gown on a stool in front of the fire when there was a ring at the front door and who should come bursting in with a flurry and a gush of words but Auld Nick, as we now call him. He was so excited and pleased to see me I could hardly get a word in edgewise. We talked and laughed, or rather he talked and I laughed into the wee small hours when I eventually managed to persuade him to go to bed and get some rest after his long journey.

The next morning I went to surgery as usual and was almost finished - indeed I was talking to a patient on the phone and the patient, a young man called Peter, was trying to persuade me to write a book when in came the two Nicks, Auld Nick still talking. And the subject matter of his conversation?  To try and persuade his hard pressed mother to write a book. The one thing I was always sure I could not possibly do. I had not even hung up my stethoscope and it seemed as if everyone was finding me things to do. At that time I just laughed and said, "Oh I don't know. What could I say? I don't think I could."

With Nick still talking, the three of us went out for a nice lunch. Somehow I think the reason for this was to keep me out of the way while preparations for the evening's celebrations were under way. Arriving back at the house around four o'clock we found it a hive of activity and almost bursting at the seams. Viv and Alan were there with the two girls, Anne and Susie, Douglas, the two Nicks, myself, and somewhere around were Dawn with Jim, her husband, but I can't remember when they came and went. Vivienne and I, as is our wont, ended up in the kitchen chatting and putting finishing touches to some delicious looking desserts and making and drinking tea. Soon, or so it seemed, people began disappearing along with numerous mysterious packages and cardboard boxes. I was left alone with the two Nicks and told to dress up in all my finery and be ready to leave at 7.30. Nick by this time was becoming very nervous and kept murmuring long sentences under his breath. I presumed he was rehearsing a speech he proposed to make at the gathering. Suddenly the phone rang. Nick answered the phone.

"Hey, it's Jim here. We're in a fix. The girls have miscalculated. They have forgotten about the wine glasses. What shall we do?"

"See if you can hire some," answered Nick.

"OK I'll phone round and then I'll go malling."

"Right, let me know how you get on."

Just as we were ready to leave, Jim arrived at the house, breathless and anxious and carrying some empty cardboard boxes.

"It was no use. We were far too late. Everywhere was closed. If we had been in the USA there would have been no problem. The girls say we have to bring all the glasses you've got from here."

So finery and all, we set to, reaching the glasses down from the high shelves, wiping them quickly and then packing them into the boxes all at double quick time. Jim loaded the boxes into his car and drove off. Twenty minutes or so later the two Nicks and I got into Nick's car and we drove off to the "surprise" destination. We arrived at Rankeillor Street to find the door wide open and all the lights blazing. I made my way upstairs and as I opened the door to the waiting room found it completely transformed. It was full of people with happy, smiling faces, people from every age group and from every walk of life, from five years to seventy-five, from a Peer of the Realm to the long-term unemployed, staff, patients, family, but all of them friends, and happy to see me. Flowers filled the room in every available corner and there was even a tree at one end. The table was loaded with the most attractive looking dishes but I had only time to say a quick hello to a few people when someone grabbed me by the arm and, guiding me out of the room and into the house next door, said, "We want to take your photo."

"Who are you?" I asked.

"We are from the Evening News and we hope to do an article on you. We would like a photograph of you alone and also in a group with your family."

"OK then," I said, "but couldn't you wait a wee while? Douglas hasn't arrived yet. He was at a wedding in the afternoon and is coming along here later. He shouldn't be long."

But they could not wait and that is why Douglas is not in the group photograph, although he arrived a short time later.

When the photographers had finished we trouped back into the surgery and the party really began. There was plenty of wine to drink and a great variety of food to eat. All prepared by Anne and Vivienne, urged on from a distance by their brother Nicolas who wielded an invisible whip from America, but I hope they were willing slaves. I'm sure they were. I had almost managed to circulate and talk to everyone when somebody called for a hush and Nicolas made a short speech in my honour. At that point Sheona sat on a glass and started to cry so Nick asked everyone to raise their glasses - "To Doctor White. To my Mum."

Everyone then set to, to do their best to demolish the delicious food, talking and drinking at the same time. Poor little Sheona got very tired so Alan took her home to Barnton but Katie stayed on and was very self-possessed, conversing politely with the other guests.

And then I had to open the presents. This took a long time as they were so numerous and so imaginative, including a food processor, porcelain, a tree, season tickets for the Scottish National Orchestra and many others. I was overwhelmed with everyone's kindness and generosity. I left a certain large cardboard box to the end. It was from the four children, Anne, Nicolas, Vivienne and Douglas and as I unpacked it slowly I saw first a silver sugar bowl, then a silver milk jug, followed by a silver tea pot and a silver coffee or hot water jug. A most beautiful and thoughtful present and I said to myself: "They're not so bad, my family. They are not bad at all. The two beautiful girls and, dare I say it, two handsome sons. I'm proud of them. They may be somewhat unconventional but they are all affectionate and caring and I love them."

All too soon it was time for people to disperse and go their various ways. There were hugs and kisses and more than a few tears as we said our farewells. I was tired but happy and a little wistful when we finally arrived home. It was the end of the longest period of my life, the end of a constant endeavour, of hard work and at times, it seemed, of a struggle just to keep going. I had done my best to give all I could to everyone, to my patients, my mother, my husband each in turn, my family - all equally. At times it had been well-nigh impossible but I survived and now I was reaping the reward - love and affection from all sides. And it had not all been struggle - no there had been many happy and interesting times and luckily I have been blessed with a quiet sense of humour and can often see the funny side of things even at the most tense, dramatic or frightening moments.

So now I was free, free to start again and to make a new life for myself and I was looking forward to it. I had no regrets.
 

The End