This piece contains reflections on terminal illness and death.

Because love endures, promises matter and small acts of kindness can bring peace.

 

His stories began in a warm living room chair, with laughter about his childhood and tears for the wife he had lost.

I didn’t realise then, that his story would become part of my own – that a single sunflower and a simple promise, would bloom with love and rest in peace. 

Between working in a children’s home and joining the emergency services, I had a seven-month job as a home carer with the council. 

I cared for a man for six months. He had Parkinson’s disease.

I felt like I wasn’t a normal home carer because instead of just rushing about, getting all my tasks done as quickly as possible and then leaving, I was different. I still worked quickly and efficiently but I used the extra time I saved to sit and talk with the clients. With Davie, those extra minutes mattered. 

He shared so many childhood stories. He spoke about his dad and how he had lost his leg in the war.

He remembered sitting by the fireplace, unclipping his dad’s artificial leg and having a giggle with it. His memories of his father were full of fondness and love.

At times, he would get emotional and cry when he reminisced about the man he held so dearly. 

He told me about a time when his dad came back from the war with a small gift for him and his brother, a wooden house with a slot cut in the roof, so it could be used as a money box “I’ll show you next time,” he promised.

And he did.

It took pride of place in his bedroom. 

Davie also spoke about his love of gardening, especially dwarf sunflowers, his wife’s favourite flower. He showed me photos in his albums of his garden in full bloom, bursting with colour. His pride shone through and warmed my heart.

Then his mood would change as he turned the page to photos of his beloved wife, Suzie. Losing her had been the hardest blow of his life. 

He told me how, when she died, he wanted to scatter her ashes on top of a hill overlooking our small town. Because of his illness, he couldn’t climb the hill himself, so his brother went up in his place.

Still, Davie held onto the dream of going there one day, with sunflower seeds in his pocket, to plant them in her memory. Deep down he knew it wasn’t possible but he clung to the hope anyway. 

It was heartbreaking to see a once-strong man, beaten by such a cruel disease, left with the torment of what was and what could never be. 

One evening, when I came to prepare his tea and tend to his needs, I told him something. 

“Davie, I hope you don’t mind, but I went up the hill. I took a bunch of sunflowers and laid them down for Suzie, on your behalf.” 

He paused, quiet, processing my words.

I showed him a photo of the flowers in their bright, colourful glory, with the town stretched out in the background below.

He didn’t speak, he just listened, watching as I placed the photo in his hands. 

Then I said, “Wait here, I’ll be right back.” 

Earlier that day, I had left something on the porch. I brought it inside, knelt down by his chair and from behind my back I revealed a single, perfect sunflower.

Placing it in his hands, I said softly,

“This one is yours. I picked it from the bunch before I laid them down.” 

His eyes filled, but he didn’t cry. He didn’t need to. He was lost for words but at peace.

He just held the flower gently, as if he were holding her hand again. 

What he did say was this:

“In the spring, will you go up and plant sunflower seeds for her? Scatter them on the hill, and they’ll find a way to grow.” 

I promised him I would. 

On my next visit, I opened the door and called out a hello. But the house was silent. I searched each room, but Davie wasn’t there.

He had passed away the previous day. 

I like to think he left this world knowing Suzie had her sunflowers and that he could finally let go, to be with her once more. 

I kept my promise. 

This post reflects personal experience and reflection, not medical or professional advice.