On a walk through the squares of Leeds, we entered the one named Woodhouse.
Circular, unspectacular, empty, except for the woman sat on a bench with a child in a buggy.
I was for walking through, on the other side. But Kate set off towards the woman.
As we neared, I recognised the pump that hung from the buggy.
The woman, arms exposed, tattooed. ‘Ben’ on one arm, ‘Harry,’ the other.
We nodded, smiled, stopped.
The boy sat still, staring.
“And what’s your name,” I said.
“This is Ben.” “Hello Ben,” and I touched his arm.
No response.
The woman, we did not get her name, wanted to talk.
Ben, her son, 3 years old, rare genetic disorder, only six hundred in the world.
Can’t walk, cannot talk, cannot eat, often unhappy.
Twin, Harry, walking, talking, eating, laughing at home.
Seven tortuous months Ben had been in hospital, mum with him, every day, every night.
Dad and Harry at home in a Leeds suburb.
He unable to deal with the situation, grieving.
In that park by the Clarendon Wing,
momentous heart-breaking issues were discussed.
Would it be better if Ben’s inevitably shortened life
was allowed to be even shorter, rather than medically lengthened?
For whose sake was Ben being kept alive? Mum asked.
We left, issues unresolved, wishing Mum well.
Heading for Hanover Square,
our lives, once again, put firmly into perspective.
Malcolm Henshall