My Auntie Gillian is the bravest person I know. Now 85 and in declining health, she spends much of her time shuffling between two rooms holding on to her walking frame. Bent double with osteoporosis, she has not been out of her tiny house for three years. A widow for more than a decade since my uncle died, she has no children and is now completely reliant on carers to change her clothes and put her on the toilet. Over Christmas, they are the only people she will see, apart from me.
My aunt lives over an hour away, which makes “popping over” difficult. Like so many people, I have countless calls on my time. So I have to make a really special effort to visit her and too often I find excuses not to bother. But when I do finally make the trip I’m always surprised how much I get out of our encounter. When I arrive my head is crammed with all the things I need to do at home or at work, yet by the time I leave many of these things will have been forgotten.
Entering her house is a humbling experience. Although I have a key, she always insists on coming to the door to meet me. That means waiting patiently while she struggles out of her chair and shuffles slowly over. When you go in she can’t look you in the eye because she cannot stand up straight. So I give her a kiss and put my arm around her, saying it’s nice to see her. Through her cardigan you can feel her brittle bones jutting out of her paper-thin skin.
We always sit in the same chairs. I remember her house vividly from my childhood. Then it seemed huge and it was always an adventure to come here. Now there are holes in the carpet and her bed, moved down five years ago when the stairs became too much for her, takes up most of the space in the tiny living room. But it’s still an adventure to come here.
I talk about my childhood and she listens. I talk about my family and she listens. I talk about my work and she listens. And that’s the great beauty of my aunt. She listens. While her body may be failing, her mind is still sharp. And while many of us in her position would be tempted to feel sorry for ourselves, I have never heard her complain.
Like other people who have had difficulties in their life, I’ve had some counselling. But none of them compares to my aunt. Like all good counsellors, she encourages you to talk by asking the right questions, but she rarely offers an opinion. So you come to your own conclusions. Sometimes we laugh out loud and sometimes we have a little cry. And unlike a professional counsellor who watches the clock, she is free and listens because she loves you.
When talking to her, I try never to forget that the old lady with white hair was not always like that. Evacuated in the second world war, she had a long career as a bookkeeper for an electronics company working on everything from televisions to Harrier jump-jets. She never had much but then she never wanted much either.
Once she was elegant and carefree, enjoying a great social life with her three elder sisters. Like so many of her generation, she never travelled much, only going abroad once. Today she still lives in the same house that she bought with my uncle when they got married over 50 years ago. But unlike most of us she is genuinely happy with her lot.
After visiting, I never fail to be moved by her plight but I also stand in awe of her courage. Whatever problems I have in life are put in context. And whenever I’m tempted to feel sorry for myself I remember her.
If there is one thing that I would encourage everyone to do this Christmas, it is to visit an elderly relative living on their own. Rather than being a chore, it could change your life. It has certainly transformed mine.
• Nicholas Milton is a freelance journalist
