MY husband, Barry, was a military man (RAF) and wanted to live for a century.

Sadly, he acquired Parkinson's disease, and had to go into a home.

I visited daily to hold hands, and the family joined in – happy times.

Then lockdown arrived and Barry became totally confused. For the best thing he'd held dear was to be with his family.

One day he shouted out: "Come on in! Open the door!"

We faltered, so he added: "Well, I guess I'm a prisoner of war!"

Barry deteriorated and was moved to be nursed.

With masks on and over high fences, he was wheeled out for inspection.

"I'm not talking to you anymore!" he shouted. "I'm keeping my mouth shut!"

And he would sit comfy while his eyes stayed closed.

The staff said Barry wasn't talking anymore and refused to be fed.

Then, that phone call came: "Come quickly! Barry's fading!"

The 'compassion' from these frontline heroes was overwhelming!

We went in and laughed about happier times.

Barry attempted to smile as we kissed and hugged him, then told him we'd leave and return in a bit.

Suddenly, all was calm in the room, and months of depression left his face.

Bodine Höft