SHE’S a big girl – immaculate white uniform, hair pulled back into bunches – and a wry kindness seeps from her.

Before starting work here as a nursing aide, sometimes as early as 7am, she’s seen to her two children, one only 18 months, and left them in the care of either a childminder or her mother.

Her husband works similar shifts in a security job but it seems they rarely get similar holidays.

Some days her tiredness is obvious in her gait; feet not lifting with a will but few patients would notice that. I do but then I observed her and her colleagues for almost a year and now I’m briefly back.

It’s 11am and she stands opposite my bed. ‘Madame Cook – today you’re getting up and walking.’

‘Later maybe,’ I mumble. ‘I’m so tired – I just want to sleep.’

‘No, the doctor says it’s time you were up.’

She goes to the wardrobe and holds up a top and trousers.'These?’ I point to the chair, totally disinterested, ‘No, those’ll do, the clothes I came in.’

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She gives me a speculative look and puts the fresh ones back. And where’s Mimi?’ she asks.

‘Sleeping in the wardrobe somewhere,’ I tell her.

‘It’s time she was sleeping on your head again.’ She eyes the fine cashmere pull-on I usually stick on my now totally bald head instead of Mimi, which is what I’ve called the wig. That’s become too much trouble.

She finds Mimi and as she helps prepare me with a half-bed bath – all dignity and vanity long gone – she asks me what it was like at home.

I tell her, not missing out on any of the lonely misery or the lack of care.

I tell her of the awful, awful emptiness of a house with no dog, no César to love and care for and grumble about – no soft paw shuffle from sofa to my side; no coat to reach down and gently stroke, feeling the strong heart pulsing.

As I do I see his handsome face so clearly and pain of loss twists my insides and of course the tears flow on. But then I see him every day in my mind’s eye and fight back the tears.

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This young woman continues to look at me with quiet wisdom as I tell my self-pitying tales.

I tell her I miss my freedom to roam my house and parc, handicapped by my weak legs, Zimmer and overwhelming constant fear of falling; confined to three rooms not even my own bedroom but the stepless guest room.

I miss just grabbing my car keys and roaming.

I tell her I miss people and intelligent conversation and yet find it too painful to speak to friends abroad. And I don’t know why. Good, good friends who understand more than I do and simply write to say ‘here at any time – when you’re ready.’

I miss my language and my fluency in it, not this stumbling mish mash I use which seems to be getting worse. I fear the brain radiation has frazzled my French memory – selectively cruel given where I am.

And I miss my home, yes Las Molieres and what it was when I was. Life has gone and is going from it and living in the moment gets harder each day for there are no moments to give me joy.

I miss my fiercely fought for independence above all. I finally stop, consumed by my situation. The wise young eyes look at me. ‘Madame Cook,’ she pronounces. ‘You’ve lost your motivation. This is not you and not good and we have to find it again.’

She’s right – I have but then I’ve always been a sprinter, a bolter, not a stayer. Done things quickly, turned the page and on to the next thing. But my thoughts have turned more negative now and the daily world news makes any positivity hard as you all know yourselves.

You may not be terminally ill like me but you too have lost your freedom to roam and live in constant fear and loneliness.

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You too have probably lost your motivation and like me are wondering how the hell to get it back.

I just want to feel well and strong again and not so lost and alone. I want, I want….I want.

Just now two of the nurses came in for a quick chat. One brought me a family sized bag of mini-Mars bars as she knows they’re a weakness.

They’re only wearing masks not PPE for I’m out of isolation after 15 days. I am not infectious they say but I’d probably still test positive for the virus.

So, so far, I’ve survived it. I’m lucky. My guardian angel didn’t desert me after all.

Time to stop whining and feeling sorry for myself. I have a feeling that between him and my old soul young aide, my motivation may well be found.

And Mimi is sleeping on my head again. Upwards and onwards.