The Courage of Commitment: Belgrade

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I packed my things in silence. Tears streamed down my face as I said goodbye to Richard’s family. We promised to stay in touch, but my heart broke knowing I could not stay for his funeral. Back home, funerals are over in two days. Here, they wait up to two weeks, sometimes months. I had to accept the harsh reality of my vocation: as a Live-in Carer, attending client funerals is nearly 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—a sudden, irrational panic that I might not see my mum in time. Death had brushed against me through Richard’s passing, and it left a mark. It made me acutely aware of how fragile time is. Richard’s words still echoed in my mind: 'You’ll see your mum, Cherry. I know it. You’ll make it.'

Stepping off the train at Paddington, my foot hit the platform with a solid thud. For the first time since arriving in this country, I felt a pull to stay. My first year in the UK had been brutal, filled with struggle. Yet, it brought wonderful people and unforgettable moments. The hardest part? Living like a nomad. Everything I owned fit in one big suitcase, which I dragged behind me like a heavy anchor. I yearned for more than that.

I walked to the exit, through the sloping tunnel. At the end, I stopped. I lifted my head and gazed at the sky. It was the same sky I’d seen landing in London seven years ago. The same sky over Southampton, Oxfordshire, Bath. The same sky my children see. A shiver of excitement ran through me—I’d see them soon. I stared at the station’s rooftops; the ancient trees looked like a scene from a classic British film. London glowed in the sun. Some say London is the top of the world. In that moment, I believed them.

Still watching the clouds, I grabbed my phone. I rang my youngest daughter. 'Kristina, I want to live in London. What do you think?' 'Mum, I have no doubt you will if you want to.' My Kristina always made me laugh with her unwavering belief that anything is possible.

I can’t tell you now exactly what stirred in me. What clicked into place at that precise moment? Was it the lingering grief for Richard? The exhaustion from the nomad life? Or was it the sudden realisation that life is finite? Richard’s death had taught me that we don't have forever. I felt a sudden, fierce longing to settle, to seize each day like a jewel, not let it slip through my fingers.

Strength awoke in me. A hunger for life and all it could bring. I knew I could—and must—do more than haul my life from house to house in a suitcase. I wanted life. Joy. Song. A proper Gin and Tonic. Good company. Laughter. A moment’s escape from the shadow of mortality. 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 finally felt ready to embrace life. But life, it seemed, had one final, brutal test waiting for me.

I travelled to Serbia to see my mum. That very day, she had a heart attack.

I rushed straight to the hospital. The plan had been simple: 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, so I called my kids to explain. They didn't hesitate: 'Mum, we’re coming to see her.'

My sister was exhausted, stretched to her limit. The doctor said Mum’s body was in a pre-infarct state. She was saved by some miracle. Yet, the hospitals in Serbia were in such a state that I was terrified. What would happen to her? Where would they send her from A&E? They openly dismissed her as "old," as if being eighty meant she was past help. Their silence screamed that caring for the elderly was a waste of time, money, and resources.

We had seen it before. Three years ago, after a fall broke her hip and shoulder, they sent her home immediately. No rehabilitation, no care plan. Just 'take her home'. I knew this time would be a battle.

The doctor promised she’d go to cardiology. I told my sister to go see a doctor for herself and rest—I would stay with Mum wherever she went. After admitting her, they told us she’d move to a ward and that I could accompany her. They loaded us into a transport van.

The smell hit me first. It reeked of rotten food; the floor was strewn with unhygienic wrappers and debris. The stretcher wouldn’t lock into place. There was no oxygen stand. I held Mum’s hand with one hand. With the other, I gripped the heavy oxygen bottle on my lap, my knuckles white, trying to act as the safety equipment that was missing. Coming straight from the UK, where I was trained to treat every client like royalty, where Risk Assessments and Dignity in Care are sacred, this was a physical shock. It felt like a horror film.

When we arrived, the driver flung the doors open. 'Get out now,' he snapped. Before me stood a crumbling building. I asked, 'Is this cardiology?' He sneered, 'That’s what they told you,' then turned his back to light a cigarette behind a tree.

We hadn’t reached cardiology—I knew it in my gut. But I had no choice. Mum needed care; she was still critical. I settled her in a room. A nurse came in and struggled to take blood. She was rough, unskilled. Mum’s blood soaked the bedsheets. I stopped her, my voice trembling with rage, and begged for a doctor.

Soon, I learned the truth: Mum was sent to geriatrics—the waiting room for death. The staff seemed to have minimal training. 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 worst 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 the situation. 'We get Mum out by Monday. Back to the care home. But we need oxygen.' He rang back five minutes later. 'Auntie, you need a hospital note proving Grandma needs oxygen. Only a pulmonologist who examines her can give it.' 'Right,' I said, the adrenaline of the UK carer kicking in. 'I’ll find the doctor.'

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 do you feel safer here?' She tried to lift her hand to remove the mask. I helped her. 'Take me away, Višnja,' she whispered. My throat tightened. I leaned in, kissed her cheek before replacing the mask. 'This isn’t a place for you. Not for anyone, sadly.'

The door opened. A woman in a white coat entered. '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 a discharge form against medical advice. 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 happen to be a pulmonologist.'

I leaned against the wall, my legs suddenly weak. 'What a coincidence,' I breathed. She replied, 'I don’t believe in coincidences.' Then she turned to Mum: 'You’ve heard your daughter. What do you want?' She removed Mum’s mask. Mum looked her in the eye with a dignity that defied the crumbling room. '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, and 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, coming 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 not now. But Mirko was always there when needed, never letting 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 call from England, she's been here all along.' We placed it on the bed. Mum and her five grandkids chatted, joked, and recalled childhood memories in her house. I stood in the corridor, watching, soaking in every detail, every sound, sealing every moment into my memory forever.

I looked at my sister. Life hadn’t spared either of us. I’d moved 2,000 kilometres away; she stayed near our parents. Her care, devotion, and 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 was sold, I told her, 'It’s all yours. You were always there for our parents.' I wanted nothing material. Her sacrifice deserved a reward. It was the least I could do.

On Monday, we took her out. Back at the care home by the River Danube in Banovci, we resumed her routine. She improved visibly. I told my sister I’d stay indefinitely. My family returned to Croatia. I slept in a flat near the care home, visiting Mum each morning, bringing optimism, joking with her and her roommate. But then, 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.'

One morning, after tucking her in, she grabbed my hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong. 'Višnja, you must let me go,' she said clearly. Confused, I asked, 'Mum, what do you mean?' She replied, 'My time has come. It is time to join your dad. Let me go. Stop saving me. Call your sister, I want to talk to her.'

When my sister arrived, Mum spoke with a clarity that pierced our hearts. 'I am a happy woman with you two. You have wonderful families. My time has come. Stop saving me. Accept it.' She asked to speak to me alone. 'Višnja, my dear, I know how hard it is in England. I left my mum long ago, just as you left me. Don’t think I don’t understand your pain—our fates are the same. I know you’re thinking of divorce. Reconsider if you can. But promise me one thing: You will 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 away when my mum died. I know it’s hard, but you must go back to work, help your kids. Promise me.'

I gave her a small wooden angel from Jerusalem that I had carried in my wallet for years. I reached into my wallet and took out a small wooden angel. Years ago, my aunt had brought me two of them from Jerusalem. I used to wonder, 'Why two?' In that moment, placing it in her palm, I finally knew. One was always intended for her, for this very journey. I knew now that it belonged to her. A week later, I returned to England. I had promised. Two weeks later, the pandemic hit. Airports closed. Nothing is a coincidence. If Mum hasn't pushed me to return, I would have been trapped, jobless, and helpless.

My new placement with Betty was a balm for my wounded soul. Betty, sadly with dementia, and her daughter Lucy, helped me weather the pandemic. But Mum grew worse. The care home closed to visitors. My sister called; Mum was breathing only with oxygen. The doctor suggested turning it off. My sister couldn’t make the decision. It fell to me. My aunt told me: 'Remember, Višnja, she begged to be let go. 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. It was a glorious spring day. I couldn’t tell Betty my mum had died. Reading her favourite story, Cinderella, I heard rustling. Betty said, 'Look, a Robin!' A robin perched on my shoulder. She stared, mesmerised. It looked at me, then flew off. Betty looked at me. 'How’s your mum, Cherry?' That broke me. I said, 'Oh, Betty, she died this morning.' 'Don’t be sad, Cherry,' she said softly. I knew the folklore: When a Robin appears, loved ones are near. It was Mum’s final embrace, sent across 2,000 kilometres.

Two days later, Mum’s funeral was held in Serbia. I laid flowers in a churchyard in Stalham, Norfolk. My mother’s last wish was my marching order: 'Go back. Work. Fulfil 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 that Serbian hospital confirmed what the NHS and the kindness of British strangers had taught me: my fight for justice, dignity, and a better life belongs here, 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.