CAN you imagine being abandoned by your own children in old age?

It happened to a friend of ours not long after his retirement.

What is worse about Henry's story is that he raised his three sons virtually single-handed after his wife deserted them.

It was testament to his resilience that he continued to forge a successful career as well as putting food on the table and paying for their education.

In a nutshell, his boys turned their back on him when he stopped work in his mid-seventies and suffered health and financial problems.

They displayed a complete lack of compassion for his plight, each refusing to accommodate him or even ensure he had the basic means with which to live. Henry, (not his real name) who lived abroad at the time, relied on food and cash handouts from friends, and was on the verge of being forced on to the street when his rent money finally ran out.

A former colleague was his saviour in the end. He arranged a flight back to the United Kingdom and called in some favours to secure him a room at a nursing home run by Roman Catholic nuns.

Henry, now 82, is full of excuses for his sons: they have busy lives, he was too much of a burden, he brought the situation on himself etc.

They send him the occasional card and photograph of his grandchildren, but still haven't visited him seven years later. Far too busy.

What a contrast to some of the extraordinary folk I read about during Carers' Rights Day last week. There was Brian Duckels, of Selby, who has looked after his severely-disabled wife, Gina, full-time for most of their 45-year marriage.

Now 67, he does everything around the house: cooking, cleaning, washing, even helping his wife get dressed in the morning.

I also know a couple who care for their daughter virtually round the clock. Zoe was born with brain damage and, now in her late 20s, has the mental age of a two-year-old.

Understandably her parents have low periods, but in the main they cope with her condition with dedication that, to the outsider, is humbling. They draw strength from the moments we might take for granted, like when Zoe smiles unexpectedly or shows recognition. I'm the world's worst carer.

My friend Henry's problems are far from over. I've invited him to stay at Christmas.

His last visit, during Easter week, was an ordeal. In truth, I hadn't appreciated the skill involved in caring for a frail elderly person.

Henry does everything at a snail's pace, from putting on a pair of trousers to getting in and out of a car. Forget that quick bite to eat, I've never seen food chewed so slowly. I was ordering coffee while Henry was still on his starter.

It took enormous self control that week not to scream "hurry up!" or words to that effect.

Then there was the constant worry. Has he taken his medication? Is he just asleep on the couch, or worse? Will he be offended if I mention the tomato soup dribbling down his chin?

I was a nervous wreck.

The toilet was our biggest issue during Henry's stay.

His water works have seen better days so he needs to go often - and quickly - several times during the night.

That is a major headache when you consider that our guest room is at the top of a treacherously steep staircase.

Anticipating the problem, I did buy a hand-held cardboard pee pot they use in hospitals, but Henry just couldn't get on with it. Something to do with the splash back, apparently.

In the end my wife and I stayed awake in shifts and, at the faintest sound, were in his room to help him downstairs. That won't be a problem over Christmas, thank goodness. We've borrowed a commode.

I've also sought some tips from a wonderful lady who devotes many hours to caring for the elderly.

"Patience is the key," she told me.

"Don't exert him too much. His mind will be willing, but his body may not."

Great advice. I've scrapped the visit to the ice-rink.

Updated: 11:02 Friday, December 09, 2005