04/01/2026
“Today I Want to Go to the Garden”
(the story of Mr Harold)
With Mr Harold, my lifelong adventurer after a stroke, I never quite knew what the day would bring.
One morning, I walked into his room and before I could even say good morning, he announced:
“Today I want to go to the garden. I want to be outside. My wheelchair is there.”
And in that moment, I knew this would not be a simple day.
Whenever he started a sentence with “Today I want…”, it usually ended in what my colleagues called a minor
disaster, and what I quietly added to my collection of care stories.
“That sounds lovely,” I said carefully. “I’m just not sure we can manage it on our own today.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” he waved his hand. “It’s easy.”
The tone told me everything.
It was never easy.
The plan
I went to look for the keys to his electric wheelchair, which was standing in the garden like a small tank ready for
action.
Wheelchair found.
Key found.
I turned it.
Nothing happened.
No sound. No movement.
“The battery must be flat,” I told him.
At that exact moment, Mr Harold started getting out of bed.
“Please wait,” I said quickly. “I’ll bring the wheelchair to you.”
“No,” he replied. “I’ve been exercising. I’m stronger now. I can walk those few metres.”
By “a few metres”, he meant four.
For him, that was a marathon.
He stood up before I could stop him.
I stayed right behind him, ready to catch him, because experience had taught me how these ideas usually ended.
When reality intervenes
We reached the garden door.
And at that exact moment, his legs simply stopped working.
As if someone had switched them off.
To stop him from collapsing, I slid my knee underneath him.
In that instant, I became a human stool.
He settled onto my knee as comfortably as if he were sitting on a park bench, enjoying the fresh air.
And then he started laughing.
“You’ve got a very sharp knee,” I said, trying to breathe while my knee was slowly being crushed.
“That’s not your knee,” he replied between laughs.
“That’s me. I’ve got a sharp bottom.”
That reminder of one of our earlier incidents sent him into another fit of laughter.
I laughed too.
There we were, both crying with laughter in the doorway.
Me, twisted on one leg.
Him, sitting proudly like a king on a throne.
Stuck
Then reality returned.
We were stuck.
My phone was in the living room.
He was balanced on my knee like a very heavy backpack.
There was no one else around.
The wheelchair was just within reach.
Close enough to see, but not quite close enough to grab.
So I started Operation: Wheelchair.
Slowly, centimetre by centimetre, I carefully shifted Mr Harold lower so I could finally reach it.
He held on, breathing heavily, laughing in between.
I silently prayed he wouldn’t slip, because lifting him from the floor would have required machinery.
“Use all your strength, Mr Harold,” I whispered.
“You’ve been sitting here like on a garden bench for five minutes. That’s enough garden for today.”
Surprisingly, it worked.
I pulled the wheelchair closer and, with a lot of effort, managed to get him seated safely.
I immediately took him back to bed.
Afterwards
“Next time, I’m not falling for this,” I said firmly.
“Of course,” he replied with an innocent smile.
And we both knew that wasn’t true.
For weeks afterwards, he proudly told my colleagues about his “sharp bottom” and my unfortunate knee.
Every time, he laughed so hard he had to hold onto the bed rail.
That was Mr Harold.
Care with him was unpredictable, physical and exhausting.
But it was also full of humour, trust and very human moments.
