The Courage of Commitment: Belgrade
I packed my things. Tears streamed down as I said goodbye to Richard’s family. We promised to stay in touch. It broke my heart not to stay for his funeral. Back home, it’s over in two days. Here, they wait up to two months. I had to accept that my role made attending client funerals near impossible. I told myself there were other, profound ways to honour those who shaped my life in the UK. I headed to London with mixed feelings. Fear gripped me—I might not see my mum in time. Death had brushed me through Richard’s passing. His words still echoed: 'You’ll see your mum, Cherry. I know it. You’ll make it.' Stepping off the train, my foot hit the ground. For the first time, I wanted to stay. My first year in the UK was brutal, full of pain. Yet, it brought wonderful people and unforgettable moments. The hardest part? Living like a nomad. Everything I owned fit in one big suitcase, dragged behind me. I yearned for more than that. I walked to the exit, through a sloping tunnel. At the end, I stopped. I lifted my head and gazed at the sky. The same sky I’d seen landing in London. The sky over Southampton, Oxfordshire, Bath. The sky my children see. A shiver of excitement ran through me—I’d see them soon. I stared at the station’s rooftops, ancient trees like a film scene. London glowed in the sun. Some say London’s the top of the world.Still watching, I grabbed my phone. I rang my youngest daughter swiftly. 'Kristina, I want to live in London. What do you think?' 'Mum, I’ve no doubt you will if you want to.' My Kristina always made me laugh with her belief that anything’s possible. I can’t tell you now what stirred in me. What clicked into place that moment. Was it grief for Richard’s death? Exhaustion from nomad life? Or the longing to settle, to seize each day like a jewel, not let it slip? Strength awoke in me. A hunger for life and all it could bring. I knew I could—and must—do more than lug my life house to house in a suitcase. I wanted life. Joy. Song. Gin and tonic. Good company. Laughter. A moment’s escape from death lurking even in my own family. I knew I’d find a way to one day stand in London and say: 'This time, I’ve come to stay. Right here.' My thoughts cleared. I knew what I had to aim for.I travelled to see my mum. That very day, she had a heart attack. I rushed straight to the hospital. The plan was a week with her in Serbia, then a week with family in Croatia. But her condition changed everything. I knew I wouldn’t make it to Croatia, and called my kids to explain. They said, 'Mum, we’re coming to see her.' My sister was on her last legs, stretched to the limit. The doctor said her body was in a pre-infarct state. Mum was saved by some miracle. Yet, the hospitals in Serbia were so bad I was terrified. What would happen to her? Where would they send her from A&E? They openly dismissed her as old, past help. Their silence screamed that caring for the elderly was a scandalous waste of time, money, and resources. We’d seen it before. Three years ago, after a fall broke her hip and shoulder, they sent her home straight away. I knew this time would be a proper challenge too. The doctor promised she’d go to cardiology. I told my sister to see a doctor and rest—I’d stay with mum wherever she went. After admitting her at another hospital’s reception, they said she’d move to a ward. I could go too if I wanted. They loaded us into a van. It reeked of rotten food, strewn messily with unhygienic food packages. The stretcher wouldn’t lock. No oxygen stand. I held mum’s hand with one hand. With the other, I gripped the heavy oxygen bottle on my lap. When we arrived, the driver flung the doors open. 'Get out now,' he snapped. Before me stood a crumbling building, like a horror film set. Coming straight from the UK as a carer to a Serbian hospital—words can’t capture the sheer brutality of that contrast and shock. I asked, 'Is this cardiology?' He sneered, 'That’s what they told you,' then turned to light a cigarette behind a tree. We hadn’t reached cardiology—I knew it. I had no choice. Mum needed care; she was still at risk. I settled her in a room. A nurse came, struggled to take blood. Mum’s blood soaked the bed. I stopped her, begged for a doctor. Soon, I learned mum was sent to geriatrics—for the dying. The nurses there had a questionable course in Bosnia. I stepped outside to calm down, to think. Someone called my name. It was a school friend I hadn’t seen in fifteen years. She confirmed my fears. 'Višnja, they’re closing the ward to visitors on Monday due to a flu outbreak. If you don’t get her out now, you won’t see her again.' I rang my nephew, explained. I said, 'We’ll get mum out by Monday, back to the care home. We need the doctor’s support and oxygen.' He said, 'Auntie, okay. I’ll call about oxygen, see how to get it.' Five minutes later, he rang back. 'Auntie, you need a hospital note proving grandma needs oxygen. How do I get that? Only a pulmonologist who checks her can give it.' 'Right,' I said. 'I’ll find the ward head.' The receptionist said, 'I’ll try to find the doctor.' I replied, 'I’ll wait in mum’s room.' Mum lay on the bed, scared, confused. Her eyes met mine over the oxygen mask. I sat down. 'Mum, we need to talk. From Monday, all wards close to visitors because of the flu pandemic.' Her eyes widened with fear. I calmed her. 'Here’s the plan. I’m doing everything to get you out. But tell me, do you want to leave? Or feel safer here?' She tried to lift her hand to remove the mask. I helped. 'Take me away, Višnja,' she whispered. My throat tightened—I knew her terror. I leaned in, kissed her cheek before replacing the mask. I whispered, 'This isn’t a place for you. Not for anyone, sadly.' She nodded. I went on, 'Mum, Daki and I are sorting oxygen. I need a pulmonologist. I’m waiting for the ward head to help find one. It’s the weekend, so I need to know more.' The door opened. A woman in a white coat entered. After introductions, she said, 'The nurse said you asked for me.' 'Yes,' I said. 'I heard the ward closes Monday. I want to take mum out by then.' She replied, 'You’ll need to sign. She can’t return to any hospital.' 'I understand. We’ll sign. But I need a pulmonologist.' 'Why?' she asked, raising an eyebrow. 'To confirm she needs oxygen. We can’t get it without proof.' She approached mum, took the chart from the bed. 'I haven’t reviewed your mum’s diagnosis yet, but I’m a pulmonologist.' I leaned against the wall, weak. 'What a coincidence,' I said. She replied, 'I don’t believe in coincidences.' Then to mum: 'You’ve heard your daughter. What do you want?' She removed mum’s mask. Mum looked her in the eye. 'I agree with my daughter. I want out of this hospital. If it’s my time to die, I won’t die here.' The doctor replaced the mask, gently squeezed her hand, turned to me. 'I’ll need tests to confirm the oxygen note. I’m on duty this weekend. You can take her Monday morning.' I thanked her, voice cracking. 'Nor do I believe in coincidences.' I hugged mum. 'Rest now. It’ll be okay.' I called my nephew with the good news: 'We did it. Grandma’s going home Monday.' That afternoon, my family arrived from Croatia, straight to the hospital. My ex-husband came too. Mum didn’t know we’d divorced—I never had the heart to tell her, especially now. But Mirko was always there when needed, never let us down. My sister and her family joined. We all entered her room. She was steadier, mask off. Her joy at seeing her grandchildren was indescribable. 'Only Kristina’s missing,' she said. I handed her my phone. 'She’s not. Mum, she’s on video from England, all along.' We placed it on the bed. Mum and her five grandkids chatted, joked, recalled childhood memories in her house. I stood in the corridor, watching, soaking in every detail, every sound, every moment forever. I looked at my sister. Life hadn’t spared us, either of us. I’d moved 700 km away; she stayed near our parents. Her care, devotion, sacrifice were immense. All I could do was call, visit, be on the phone for her. When they decided mum should live with her, I said, 'Whatever you choose.' When the house sold, I told her, 'It’s all yours. You were always there for our parents.' I took nothing. Her sacrifice deserves a reward. It’s the least I could do. After mum’s tragic fall down stairs at my sister’s, the hospital refused treatment—too old at 80. We placed her in a care home by the river Dunav in Banovci. I visited, sat with her to adjust. She was happy there, saying, 'I have good company, nurses, carers who look after me.' That was enough for her happiness. I hoped she’d feel that again when we got her back there. She improved visibly in those two days. Monday, we took her out. The doctor said, 'Your mum’s better, likely because you were all here this weekend. But her condition’s serious. Be prepared for the worst.' Those words echoed in my head. Still, I convinced myself she’d overcome this crisis. I was ready to fight for Mum’s recovery. My UK experience helped now, just when I needed it. Back at the care home, we resumed her routine. I told my sister I’d stay indefinitely, be with mum, let her rest. My family returned to Croatia, saying, 'Don’t worry, mum, about not coming. Grandma’s priority now.' I was grateful for them. I slept in a flat near the care home, visited mum each morning, brought optimism, joked with her and her roommate she adored. TV news reported a new dangerous virus at Belgrade airport. Mum asked, 'Višnja, will you get back to England?' 'Don’t worry, mum, I will, when you’re better.' Her condition had ups and downs. One thing was sure—she couldn’t manage without oxygen. The care home staff did brilliantly, nursing, feeding, bathing, joking, checking at night, encouraging. One morning, tucking her in after her routine, she grabbed my hand. 'Višnja, you must let me go,' she said. Confused, I asked, 'Mum, what do you mean?' She replied, 'My time’s come. Time to join your dad. Let me go. Stop saving me. Call your sister, I want to talk to her.' I tried to speak, but she stopped me. 'Call her, please.' I kissed her cheek. 'I will, mum.' When my sister arrived, she said, 'I’m a happy woman with you two. You’ve always cared for me. You have wonderful families, healthy kids, happiness. My time’s come. I’m going to your dad. Stop saving me. Accept it’s my time. Fulfil my wish to speak to all my grandkids.' She wanted to talk to each of us alone. To me, she said, 'Višnja, my dear, I know how hard it is in England, how you feel. I left my mum long ago, like you left me. Don’t think I don’t understand your pain—our fates are the same. I know you’re thinking of divorce. I’d love you to reconsider if it’s best. You’re a good person, Višnja. Promise you’ll return to England soon for Kristina, for your job.' Choking back tears, I asked, 'How can I leave you, mum?' She said, 'I was far when my mum died. I know it’s hard, but you must go back to work, help your kids. Promise me.' I said, 'I didn’t know it’d be this hard.' I gave her a wooden angel from my aunt, who’d bought two in Jerusalem for me. I’d carried them in my wallet. That day, deep down, I knew one was for mum. A week later, I returned to England. I’d promised. Two weeks later, the pandemic hit. Airports closed. Nothing’s coincidence, I told myself. If mum hadn’t pushed me to promise and return, I’d have lost my job in England and been stuck in Serbia with no solution. My new placement with Betty was just what I needed. Her daughter Lucy was a balm for my wounded soul, like an angel, loving her mum as I did mine—kind, understanding. Betty was a lovely client, sadly with dementia, but from day one we had a connection that helped us weather the pandemic together for 16 months. Mum grew worse. The care home closed to visitors. No one could see her. The staff told me she slept constantly, wouldn’t wake, breathed slowly but calmly, no pain. The pandemic trapped us all—each in our bubble, our grief. Talking to my sister again, we realised mum breathed only with oxygen. The doctor suggested turning it off. My sister couldn’t decide. It fell to me. I called my aunt. She said, 'Remember, Višnja, she begged to be let go. You’ve done more than enough, especially these last three years. I’m proud of you both. She was too. Let her go in peace, happy with her life. Turn off the oxygen, honour her wish.' That afternoon, I arranged it. My night was sleepless, riddled with doubts. Had I the right to decide? Just after 5 a.m., my sister rang. 'She’s gone.' That morning, I took Betty to the garden, made us a cuppa. It was a glorious spring day. I couldn’t tell Betty my mum had died that morning. I wasn’t sure what she remembered. Did she recall what I’d said about mum? Reading her favourite Cinderella, I heard rustling from a tree. Betty said, 'Look, Robin!' Before I could turn, a robin perched on my shoulder. She stared, mesmerised. Seconds later, it flew off. She watched it, then looked at me. 'How’s your mum, Cherry?' That broke me. I said, 'Oh, Betty, she died this morning.' I knew the folklore: the Robin appears when a loved one is near. It was Mum’s final, perfect embrace, sent across the 2,000 kilometres. 'Don’t be sad, Cherry,' she said. Two days later, mum’s funeral was held. Lucy covered for me. Colleagues and the agency sent flowers, condolences. It meant a lot. I went to the churchyard in Stalham, laid flowers for mum, waited for her service in Serbia to light a candle. My mother’s last wish was my marching order: 'Go back. Work. Fulfill your promise.' That devastating choice to turn off the oxygen was, in fact, an act of supreme courage—the courage of commitment. I couldn’t save her, but I saved my future, and the future of my daughters, just as she asked. The horrors I saw in Serbia confirmed what the NHS and the kindness of strangers had taught me: my fight for justice, dignity, and a better life belongs in Britain. Losing a mother while living 2,000 kilometres away is the highest price I will ever pay. It is the final receipt for the life I am building. With the British spirit anchoring me, I am no longer Foreign; I am a Citizen who has earned her place through sacrifice, and I will not stop now.
