1944 was a tumultuous year, with the events of World War II casting a dark cloud over daily life. Under this cloud, rather ironically, it was also the year that Benjamin Green seared his name in history with the invention of sunscreen (he was attempting to help protect soldiers from sunburn). The passing of the Education Act into English law lifted the ban on women teachers marrying, which was very fortunate, as Dorothy was a primary school teacher. And further advancements included the introduction of renal dialysis – something Jim would be very grateful for 52 years later when he contracted chronic kidney disease and spent every Tuesday and Friday hooked up to this machine at Briar’s Brook General Hospital.

It was on May 14th, 1944, with this backdrop, a homemade floral frock and cheap suit, that Dorothy and Jim got hitched in a very simple ceremony at Warburton Baptist Church. They weren’t to know of future galactic repercussions, as this was also the day that Star Wars creator George Lucas poked his head into the world. Their honeymoon consisted of two nights in Margaret Anthill’s quaint cottage while she went to stay with her sister. The newlyweds were ceremoniously driven to the cottage in the back of Jim’s tractor-trailer, garnished with garish ribbon and trailing tin cans.

Fate had caused Jim go blind in one eye when he was twelve years old. ‘Fate’ in this case took the form of a point-blank arrow shot by his brother Michael when they were out in the woods playing cowboys and injuns. It was an accident of course, and Michael was plagued with guilt for the rest of his life, which was all too short as he was shot down with fatal consequences during a 1941 RAF bombing raid of Cologne.

Life hadn’t been easy for Jim. But, as with so many of his generation, he kept a stoical outlook and always managed to see a sunnier side to life. Because of his partial blindness he was exempt from the draft and resolved to plough his war efforts quite literally into his farm’s fields. He channelled his shame of not being on the front line and ignored the village post office talk of fallen friends by working every day God gave him, from dawn until dusk, at which point he would carry on in his barn under candlelight.

Dorothy was a striking young woman with a magnetic personality, always ready with a smile and a twinkle that rarely left her eyes. She had a sharp wit and even sharper elbows, honed by growing up with seven brothers. She was an equal match for Jim’s endless enthusiasm and they were to enjoy many years of happy companionship together.

Jim was now 88 years old and Dorothy 82. More than half a century had passed, entwining their lives into a rich and complex tapestry. Although his love remained undying, Jim’s health was not so steadfast. The kidney disease had attacked with a stealth and ferociousness that surprised even the doctors. His unquenchable optimism had slowed to a trickle and clothes hung off his now six-stone body. He had been given a maximum of three months, but no one, including himself, thought he would make it that long.

In contrast, Dorothy was in far better spirits, acting as the perfect host to regular visits from their children and continuing to enjoy her lifelong love of baking. She delighted in watching the many birds in their garden and would often make trips to the coast with the caravan, as they had done every summer.

Or at least she thought so.

For Dorothy had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease three years earlier. In the face of her husband’s tragic condition she existed in blissful ignorance. The signs had been there for a while, but Jim had stubbornly chalked them up as mere forgetfulness. It was only after Dorothy had taken the bus by herself to their old house and demanded to be let in that he realised things could not carry on without some intervention.

It is a bittersweet element that in Alzheimer’s Disease the patient doesn’t suffer, not in the traditional sense at least, for they are oblivious. Close friends and family on the other hand, have to watch the person they love slipping away like sand through their fingers. It is a gut–wrenching experience.

One evening, rather poignantly, the summer sun was setting outside, casting long shadows in the garden. The birds Dorothy loved so much were noisily beginning to roost in the hedge next to the open window of the nursing home room where she now spent her days. The door swung open and Jim, barely recognisable with hollowed-out cheeks and a stick-thin frame, was wheeled into the room. The care home assistant pushed him next to Dorothy’s bed, locked the wheels and left without breaking the silence.

Jim hadn’t seen his dear, sweet wife in more than two months, having been confined to a hospital bed. She looked at him blankly, not recognising her husband of 55 years. He reached out a thin, almost translucent hand and rested it on hers. He knew this would be the last time he would ever see her, and the thought was too much to bear. His weakened body hunched over in the wheelchair and he struggled to fight back the escaping sobs. Racked with grief, there was a squeeze on his hand and he looked up – Dorothy was gazing at him, with that familiar twinkle in her eyes and a smile playing on her lips. Nothing was said. And a moment later the impenetrable fog of Alzheimer’s returned, destroying any flicker of recognition.

But Jim knew. And in the midst of endless pain and torment he was handed a profound moment of release that was able to set him free.