I am holding in my hands an oval-shaped photo frame. A typical 1950s family portrait. From left to right: a girl standing – she is twelve years old; then a boy, almost four years old – also standing. Then seated, the mother: she is elegant and beautiful, thirty seven years old. On her knee, a baby of fifteen months. Furthest right, another boy standing, thirteen years old. The mood of the photograph is formal: a staged moment in time. Where is the father? Perhaps the photographer? No. The father was a professional man with many strings to his bow – but he certainly wasn’t a photographer. I am the baby, the little girl sitting on my mother’s knee; the other children are my siblings. My elder brother, the boy standing on the right, is now seventy five years old. His once thick, dark, curly hair is now thin. His bright eyes are sad. He is physically frail, a shadow of his former self. He has Alzheimer’s, in Stage Five of this cruel, insidious disease – the ‘moderately severe cognitive decline’ stage.

As there were twelve years between us, I only vaguely remember him when he was living at home. But I do remember my mother asking me, as I was on my way out to school, to go upstairs and tell him to get out of bed and get ready for work. I remember going with my parents to London, to collect him on his return from Australia (he brought me a life-size koala bear!) I remember him teasing me and cracking jokes, his quick-fire repartee. I remember him leading the singing, making our Passover table fun and lively. I remember him dancing and singing to The Night Has A Thousand Eyes by Bobby Vee. I remember him smoking and drinking whisky. I remember him always being in trouble and at odds with our father.

The other boy in the photo is the brother I grew up with. We shared, laughed, played, fought, spent time with our parents, without our two elder siblings. My two brothers and I are all in Leeds now. Who would have thought, when looking at this photo that the second youngest sibling would end up caring for the eldest? For that is what he has done for his elder brother for several years now – and not just since the diagnosis of Alzheimer’s. He has always been there, advising him, supporting him, assisting him, caring for him. He is, in every way, his carer. If it hadn’t been for him, it is unlikely our elder brother would have survived even this long. Our elder brother’s lifestyle has certainly contributed to his own demise. And seeing him how he is now – makes the memories even more poignant.