<p>It all started when my daughter Kimmy sent me a text message saying: &ldquo;Grampa (my father) is back in hospital. I don&rsquo;t know how bad it is, I&rsquo;m trying to find out. It was Helen (Dads wife) who phoned me and of course she&rsquo;s frantic. If I find out more I&rsquo;ll let you know, love Kim&rdquo;.&lsquo;Hell&rsquo;, I know what this means. For now though I&rsquo;m going to do my best to resist as I have been there before. But in my heart of hearts I know that I must go back to Australia and do what must be done. I arrived in South Africa only three weeks earlier on a two-month visit to my family and also to house-sit my son&rsquo;s place whilst he and his family were on holiday in Europe. I SMSed Kim back and said that &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll phone Helen and see how she is.&rdquo; I knew Kim was not going to be happy, as she would have liked me to have said, &ldquo;OK, I&rsquo;m on my way to take control&rdquo;, but for now it will have to do. The minute Helen picked up the phone I knew that I could not unduly delay my return but I needed to until Lance and his family returned in another four days&rsquo; time. As I talk to her, I know of old, the quivering voice and could imagine her hands shaking, claw-like as she works through a panic attack. As a result of her illness she has virtually no body fat, I could see her face with the shrunken-skin stretched drum tight, accentuating the protruding, pointed cheekbones, with her hazel eyes &ndash; small coffee beans in their large sockets. I know the despairing stare and the pain that those eyes contain. I could hear the tears in her eyes and I shudder. Her words were incongruous with this memory as she says, &ldquo;It&rsquo;s okay, ...I can... cope&rdquo;. We both know that she can&rsquo;t. I promised to phone back the next day and monitor her.</p>