Dame Barbara Windsor died last Thursday.
If anyone was plugged into the make-the-most-of-life socket, it was Babs.
Always glamorous, always with that huge, wide smile for everyone, that saucy laugh, that accommodating heart… until Alzheimer’s started savagely dragging them – and her – away.
I recall the last time I saw Barbara. It was a good while ago, but I’ve never forgotten it. She was, as always, with her gorgeous, doting husband, Scott, at a theatre do.
I can’t recall what we saw, nor which theatre we attended, but I’ve never forgotten seeing Barbara and thinking she was not herself that night.
The smile was there for everyone, as always, but definitely watered down. And it didn’t reach her eyes.
Those big blue eyes were smudged with held-back tears. She appeared timid, and unsure.
An image of her when she spotted me has stayed in my mind; she looked, waved, came towards me and tearfully and said “Oh Fiona” as though we had some shared knowledge of a horrible event.
There was pain in her eyes – almost a pleading for me to say “Yes, I know”.
Yes I know you have Alzheimer’s and I know it is one of the cruellest diseases a human being can have the misfortune to suffer, robbing you, as it does, of the person you were.
In Barbara’s case, that, of course, was someone with a huge heart, who, despite some rocky periods – and dodgy partners – along the way, loved life, made the most of it and never failed to share her warmth with strangers.
She didn’t think she was a big star. She was always one of us. The big-hearted lady who’d experienced hard times and some even harder relationships.
I have often thought about our encounter that night and the more I think about it, the more I see her face, smiling for others, but beyond terrified for herself. I can see now that she might have already known that night that something was terribly wrong with her. May she truly rest in peace.
