Loneliness: it's something that we can each do something about...

I’ve found that the best things in life aren’t tangible. Often, they are simply moments. Moments of love, moments of tranquility, moments of doing the things you enjoy, moments of connection… and some of these moments change the course of our lives.

It was an average day, I arrived at my local train station to travel into London for a meeting. But that day failed to turn out as I planned.

Services were cancelled as someone was ‘on the track’. There would be a considerable delay, so I hastily rescheduled my appointment and headed for Starbucks. I grabbed my coffee and sat outside the station.

An older gentleman sat on the bench beside me.  Naturally, I said “hello”, and he smiled back.

“Are you caught up in the train delay?” I asked.

“God, no! I’ve not been on a train for years.” He said with a smile. “I walk here most mornings from my village, and then I catch the bus back.”

We chatted for about 20 minutes. We covered the weather, how things were constantly changing and his life in general, and sensing I was about to leave he said, “I reckon this is the first conversation I’ve had with a bloke since… well… at least, the start of this year.” 

It was now October.

I needed to check on the train situation, so I stood and said, “It’s been nice meeting you.” I turned to walk away but hesitated for a moment. Had I heard correctly? He had not had a conversation for 10 months? Then I said the words that would change my life, “Ken, give me your phone number. I will give you a call sometime.”   

And so, began my relationship with Ken.

Ken was 83. He’d lived alone since his wife Joan had died 4 years earlier. He’d been her carer, and they had lived with her dementia for 8 years before she moved into a home. “I couldn’t cope. She’d gotten so bad.”

Now, he had no family, aside from a niece “somewhere in Surrey”.

I befriended Ken with the support of a local charity, and I visited him on Saturday afternoons. He talked to me about how lonely he was when Joan first developed dementia, how he’d become her carer, and then living alone with his grief after her death.

Occasionally, we’d walk to the pub. As he sipped his half a bitter, he would say almost absent-mindedly, “The times I’ve been in here…” and he’d recall his wedding reception in the very bar we were sat in. The seat in the corner is where his dad always sat. But now he would only go inside if I was with him.  

At the war memorial, we’d stop, and he’d say, “I know these are just names to you, but I remember them all at school. I played football with most of them. This one was the milkman’s son, he had bright red hair, that one lived over there, he was the brother of my first sweetheart.”I’ve never looked at a war memorial quite the same since.

Ken had been born in this village but now hardly anyone recognised him. And if they did, his failing eyesight and hearing limited communication, but by-and-large nobody approached him. However, occasionally someone did nod and Ken momentarily connected. The new builds had changed the balance of the community, the village shop had become a Tesco Express, pensions weren’t paid out at the post office on a Thursday anymore, and it had eventually closed. As the world had changed around Ken, he had become more and more isolated and extremely lonely.

I began to understand his experience, and I did what I could to support him. Yes, it was not always easy. I’d borrow books from the library about his era so I could make conversation with him. Sometimes, we’d watch a video together, and he’d talk all the way through it! But we shared much laughter, and I learnt a lot about later life isolation and loneliness, and we both found mutual companionship and a sense of connection.

Occasionally, I’d take Ken out for a drive to the local aerodrome. We’d watch the light aircraft coming and going while we had a cuppa. He’d been in the RAF during the war and later worked in the aeronautical industry. His passion was aeroplanes. God, he’d found the wrong guy to befriend him! I knew nothing about aircraft. But he needed to tell someone his story, as Maya Angelou said, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” Ken needed to share his story, how he’d worked on this aircraft or that one. It was clear that he was proud of his life’s achievements. I must have heard the same tales 40 or 50 times, but he always enjoyed telling me, and I always feigned surprise and nodded along to the punchline, “They don’t make them like that anymore.”

And then, gradually Ken started to change. Just as it had taken his wife, dementia also started to take Ken.  He began to forget my name, or when I was visiting him. Or even who I was. Soon, our excursions would end. The aerodrome was closed to the public and became a ‘private club’. Ken went to live in a residential care home. I’d visit on Sundays despite it being difficult to accommodate as I had family commitments. One day, the home’s manager called to tell me Ken had fallen. I went to the hospital – poor Ken was battered and bruised all over and very confused. The staff knew nothing about him, so a nurse took down a few notes.

From here he was moved to another hospital… and then another. For three months, I followed Ken around the various geriatric hospitals in the area. When we met up, he no longer recognised me at all. But I’d sit and talk about aeroplanes and recount the stories he’d told me so many times before. And then I got a call. My good friend Ken had died peacefully in his sleep. 

After telling Ken’s story some people say it's very sad. But my friendship with Ken brought a huge amount of laughter and understanding into both of our lives. I hope Ken found a true sense of connection with me – I certainly did with him.

Ken’s legacy to me, from the moment I asked his number at the station that day, is this. I went on to commission services for older people in his area, became an ambassador for and then later the Campaign Manager at the Campaign to End Loneliness. Since meeting Ken, I must have met thousands of older people and used their stories and lived experiences to shape my actions as well as those of the organisations I have worked for.

And so, Ken's life, and that of the young man who tragically took his life on the rail tracks that morning, have brought me to this place. Both had shaken hands with loneliness. Both deserved better.

Loneliness can invade a person’s life – insidious, often unnoticed, yet always corrosive. When I’ve recognised this in someone before me, I’ve always found it hard to stand back. But you must seize the moment and step forward and reach out. On this occasion, Ken’s life was changed. So was mine. When you see the opportunity, and along the way, most of us will do, please think hard before you walk away. Your actions might not change the course of your life – but they can change someone else’s day, week, month or, indeed, life. 

If there’s just one takeaway from this Mental Health Awareness Week, I hope it’s that everyone recognises that loneliness is something we can each do something about. But we must seize the moment!