This morning I did something wildly impulsive and vaguely responsible:
I went to the doctor’s. I’m terrible at booking appointments—phones are the devil, and I have the executive function of a deflated balloon—so the fact that I stopped in person on a whim was a big deal.
The catalyst? A two-hour ordeal dropping my son at school. His anxiety is heightened right now with the looming change of ending primary school and moving to a school where he knows only one other child, and yesterday, it took 90 minutes before he was able to let me go after dropping him to school. This morning, two hours. That’s a whole feature-length movie of trying to reassure someone that everything’s going to be okay when I don’t feel that way myself.
This all impacts on real life. I had to cancel the class I teach at the last minute. Felt terrible. Wanted something—anything—to ground myself. And all I could think was: I really need to do something about this ADHD thing.
I’ve been on a waiting list for nearly three years. Classic ADHD move: avoid the admin hellscape that would get me any closer to help. But today, I thought—maybe if I can just speak to my GP, I can move this forward.
So I walked into the practice. Asked to make an appointment with the doctor who knows me best.
And the receptionist said,
“Haven’t you heard the news?”
My doctor had died. In January. It’s May now.
At first, I was stunned. Then I felt this quiet, sickening shift—like my foundations had moved, just a little. Enough to notice.
He wasn’t a friend. I didn’t know much about him beyond his accent (Irish), his warmth, and his gloriously unprofessional ability to swear fluently. But he knew me. He knew the undercurrent of my life: the griefs, the parenting struggles, the mental health spirals. He knew without me having to re-explain. And now—just like that—he’s gone.
That’s the thing about losing someone who’s witnessed your life: it’s like losing a piece of your story. Another person who held a bit of your timeline with care.
He and my husband, Andy, were the only people who’d seen me in full chaos mode. And while Andy is the main witness to my life, my doctor had been this kind of quiet, professional co-pilot. Never judging. Just… listening. Swearing occasionally. Giving me a space to be real, to be the absolute mess I needed to be in those 10-minute bursts that always stretched to 25.
Over the years of having him as my doctor, I don’t even know if I spent a total of one full day in his presence, added up. But what he gave me in those snippets of time mattered.
He made it okay to show up a mess.
He made it okay to swear.
He made it okay to be me.
And I didn’t realize how much I relied on that until I couldn’t have it anymore.
He also supported me through some of the most terrifying parts of losing Andy. When Andy was diagnosed, my brain shattered into instinct and panic. One of the first things I did, in a state of pure emotional flailing, was suggest we get married.
After 25 years together, we’d never done the wedding thing. Too much fuss. But now? It suddenly felt urgent. Deeply important. Like the only language I had left to say: You’re my everything.
But it backfired. Spectacularly. Andy was just trying to wrap his head around the fact that he was dying, and here I was waving a marriage proposal like a white flag of surrender. It hurt him. It made him feel like the end was already decided.
And I felt like I’d ruined everything.
Later—probably turning up at the doctor’s for yet another sick note or nervous breakdown—I told Dr. Frank about the whole disaster. How I’d blurted it out. How it had made Andy upset. How I’d dropped it immediately, because of course I did. All I wanted was to make things better, and instead I made them worse.
And Dr. Frank, bless him, just looked at me and said:
“Write him a letter.”
At the time, I thought it was a daft idea. Too simple. Too slow. But a week or so later, I did it.
I wrote the letter. I poured everything into it—the apology, the love, the mess of it all. Then one day, heart hammering, I brought it to the hospice and handed it to Andy.
He read it, looked up, smiled, and said: “Let’s do it.”
We got married. Right there in the hospice.
And yes, maybe I’ll write about that day another time. Because it was radiant. One of the happiest, most love-soaked days of my life, tucked inside the darkest week I’ve ever lived. Andy died eight days later.
But because of Dr. Frank—because of that one, simple, profoundly human suggestion—I got to say what I needed to say. Andy got to hear it. And we got that day. That us.
So yes, I’m grieving him. This man I barely knew and deeply depended on. Who gave me sick notes, swore alongside me, and handed me back a piece of my relationship when I thought I’d ruined it for good.
I miss him. I’m so sad his life ended at 62. And I’m so grateful I got to sit across from him in that tiny, sweary room and be seen.
Rest well, Dr. Frank.
And thank you.
P.S.
I’m painfully aware that the sadness I feel is just a drop in the ocean of grief his family must be holding right now. I don’t know them, and they don’t know me. I wish they knew the impact he had on my life, on Andy’s life, and even on our son’s—who got to witness his parents marry in a hospice room, and carry that memory with him forever.
I did get to tell Dr. Frank that his suggestion—the letter—made all the difference. I’m so glad I got that moment. He mattered so much.
If this story resonates with you, I have other blogs that explore grief, parenting, love, and the chaos of being human. You can read more here, or if you’re looking for something gentle to hold you right now, download my free guided meditation here.
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