She's in her late eighties, she has arthritis, sores covering her body and brain cancer.
Every movement causes her pain.
She's been moved from one hospital to another – all for her own benefit, but she only seems to stay in one place for a few weeks before going to somewhere more suitable.
She's getting good care, people are looking out for her, the place where we pick her up from is a nice unit – she's going back to the local hospital because of a new symptom that is causing her pain.
We put her on our trolley and wrap her up in our one remaining blanket, I 'borrow' a pillow from the unit. We don't have pillows, neither does A&E.
She worries that she has left something in one of the cupboards so, before we go, I make a point of opening all the doors and showing her that they are empty.
She's a little forgetful, but otherwise has insight into her condition. She's a 'proper' old East End girl. Good natured mild swearing, a little joke here, a little ribbing there.
I instantly like her.
We wheel her out into the cold but, once the ambulance doors are shut, she soon warms up.
I sit in the back of the ambulance and chat with her, she tells me about her son and how he works shifts, so he can't visit as often as she'd like.
She tells me that she really wants to go home but can't because there is no one there to look after her.
I'm holding her hand as she turns her head to me and looks at me with blue eyes.
'I'm eighty nine, I've had enough, I'm tired', she tells me.
I blink the moisture forming in my eyes away.
I know what she means.
She knows that I know what she means.