Lessons about life from the terminally sick

Help. Help. Help… Kill me. Kill me. Kill me… the words repeat again and again and again, mingling with the medical beeps and clashing sound of televisions and radios blasting up and down the corridor.  I swore I’d never just walk past a room where someone was screaming, but after 3 months working in a…

Looking out for Len

‘Len?’ I said, blowing gently on the teacup pressed against my chin, ‘shall I write an article about you?’ I’d been visiting him for a few months by then, blustering in a couple of times a week to boil the kettle and take the edge off of his lonely days. Len is 89. I started…