Back in August, I published a post about a very special phone call. When cleaning out the condo of my schizophrenia- and dementia-addled Mum last summer, I found a letter from her old friend, Bunty. The letter was from 2001; the two of them met in 1953 at nursing school (psychiatric nursing, to be exact.)

I called Bunty in August to let her know that Mum had gone into a care home and had little memory of anything or anyone. What transpired was a warm conversation with a delightful and caring woman and I hung up the phone feeling exponentially better than I did before the call—better about my mum’s health, better because I knew more about her younger years, and better because I felt like I might have made a new friend of my own, the friendship even more meaningful given her connection to my mum.Continue Reading