Room number 3

Love, loss and learning disabilities.

Room number 3 has been a part of my life for over twenty years. It’s always been a safe space. I laughed and cried in there. I took my newborn babies there. It was the room where I used to see Dr Wright - his consulting room. This week - Monday 13th Jan 2025 - we lost him suddenly, and unexpectedly. Room number 3 won’t feel the same again.

I met Dr Keith Wright twenty years ago when I changed surgeries and my instant impression of him was that he was funny and that we would get on! He had a glorious Welsh accent and had the ability to put you at ease almost instantly. I was pregnant with my first child, and I was scared and anxious. But he made me relax and as my family grew, he became our family doctor and friend. Keith was kind, caring and professional, and he also told bad jokes – something he would do just as I was leaving his room, and this continued over the years. The jokes just got worse! But what was special about him, was that he looked after my Harry with such dedication and care, and I’m left feeling fearful that he will never receive that level of care again.

Harry was born with Down’s syndrome and has learning disabilities.  I clearly remember introducing him to Keith when he was a few days old (Harry is 17 now). He cooed over him, telling me how lovely he was but then he told me not to be afraid, that I was a brilliant mum – I already had a two-year-old at this point – and that he would be there to support me. He was true to his word.

Friday would be the last time we would see Keith in room number 3. Just writing those words has brought tears to my eyes again. It was my appointment, but Harry had to come along as there was no-one around to look after him. Keith called us a double act, but joking aside, he knew that carers were poorly supported, and that Harry would accompany me everywhere. Even during what was my appointment, Keith took the time to ask about the transport issue we were dealing with. He had recently written letters to the appeals committee at the council when they removed Harry’s home to school transport. We spoke about Harry going to residential college and the battle we would likely face in securing funding. He told me to keep fighting and he promised to help. He had helped me so many times. Writing letters to the council, finding a Consultant in Manchester who would eventually operate on Harry and ultimately change his life. He would chase appointments for us – the dreaded orthotics department was a particular favourite – and he would make sure Harry received the best possible care. He would have long conversations with me about the importance of letting Harry have some independence. He guided and supported me, and I will miss his reassuring presence.

Would it be right to say that he was unique? I think it would. The care that Harry received was outstanding. Keith looked beyond Harry’s diagnosis and treated him as a human being who happened to have a set of particular needs. Harry was just Harry to him. I recall Keith recently telling my son that he was now a man and not to let anyone call him a boy. Harry, of course, has absolutely stuck to this and demands that we call him a man! Keith would always give him a high five and tell him how brilliant he was. He listened to me when I told him that the annual health checks needed to be better. He worked with us when it became clear that Harry was afraid of invasive treatments. Slowly but surely, Harry became less fearful and now attends his annual blood tests without hesitation. Harry adored him and most importantly, trusted him. We have told him that Keith is no longer with us, but I don’t think he will really understand this until he has to meet a new GP. This feels like a genuinely scary moment for us.

Keith’s ability to communicate with my son, to listen and to treat him as a human, did not come from a training manual. It came from the goodness within him. It came from a place of love, respect and kindness towards us all. It didn’t matter if you had a learning disability or not, he cared for you and about you in the same way. I want other medical professionals to learn from him. Prof Sara Ryan has so often written about seeking out ‘pockets of brilliance’ within the NHS, well Keith had bags and bags of brilliance. In a world where people with learning disabilities are rarely afforded the best care, Keith was providing exceptional care. When doctors like him treat my son as a fellow human, often going beyond what would be expected of a GP, it allows people like Harry to thrive. Harry’s life might have been very different had he not received the care that he did from Keith. And for that I will always be grateful.

Keith’s death has shocked us to the core, and we are struggling to comprehend it. We will miss him so much. But we will hold on to the memories we have of him. And they are joyous ones, of a man who brought love, laughter and friendship to our lives.

We have lost our GP, a guide and ally but most of all, a friend. We are privileged to have known Keith and will honour him by sharing his brilliance with the world.

I hope that whoever moves into room number 3 will aspire to be as brilliant a doctor as our beloved friend Keith.