Blue Tits

I'm reading a book right now, Tuesdays with Morrie. It's ok, if a little sentimental, about a man coming to terms with dying and a younger mans record of the journey to the end. I've just read a chapter in the book where Morrie talks about waves travelling across the ocean, bobbing along happily until they see the shoreline, one wave is terrified that he is about to crash to certain death but the wave behind him reassures him, he says "you're not just a wave, you're part of the ocean".

When I read it I was reminded of something we shared in the spring, when the blue tits came to call. They had wintered in our garden, a pair of them and we watched them and fed them through the winter and into the spring. One day you were tidying the garden and called me, the blue tits appeared to be building a nest in the bird box, in direct line of sight from our patio doors.

The weeks passed and we were looking forward to summer, watching the blue tits every day, first building the nest, then lining it all, then sitting on the eggs, back and fore from morning to night they continued. Eventually our patience was rewarded, especially the children's as in late May last year we saw the first fledglings peering out of the box. Jessica's 6th birthday was rolling around and the tiny morsels of birds, after much constant attention from who must have been by then two very exhausted parents chose that day to fly the nest. As you can imagine we were all very excited about the event, took many pictures and felt almost as proud as the parents must have.

Next morning, I got up and you were already up, out in the garden, out I wandered in my slippers and your dressing gown to see what you were up to. Two of the three fledglings were dead, you were removing them from the garden before the children woke. I was heartbroken and actually have a lump in my throat typing this, all day I watched the third bird hop around the garden, it's parents dismissing the fact that the other two had died and just getting on with things.

You reassured me, death is part of nature and we are part of nature too you said. We mourn it and make a big deal of things because we think we are above nature but we are not and what happened to those birds could happen to any one of us and most of us would do well to remember it. We are born, we live our lives busying ourselves with things that probably aren't important, and then we die and it's over.

There endeth the most important lesson you ever taught me.

However, you were wrong to an extent, as much as I hate to disagree with you now that you are gone because we are above nature. In every thing you did for me, in every way you touched my life, in every way you touched heart and in everything you are to me. Death ends life, not relationships and that's what sets us apart from nature, because you Geoff will live on, in every heart you touched forever, where those blue tits will only live on in us.

That last fledgling? It's never gone far and we've seen a lot of it over the cold weather, let's see what the spring brings this year. Everything that lives must die.

Is this a normal way to feel?

Death's suitcase

I've learned a lot in the last few weeks but it still doesn't cease to amaze me how someone as wonderful, charasmatic and larger than life as you could be gone without trace. And without trace it is, as it seems that as we come to the end of our lives we pack a case for our final journey, we put in death's suitcase all the things that are the essence of us.

These things are the unimportant things that we put no value on in life, your smell, your voice (although that was something I could never get enough of), the way your face creases up in expression, the little things you did, your mannerisms. All the things that made you, you all packed up to be taken in an instant like you were.

Thank goodness for photos, audio clips and old film, the memories we make along the way and the things we steal from death's suitcase to help us on our journey in grief.

These are the thoughts I had while watching an old film of us in Paris last year. I wish we'd had time to steal more from death's suitcase but the time to leave came too soon.

Is this a normal way to feel?

Hindsight

I keep replaying that last weekend in my head, isn't hindsight a wonderful thing? It's not just that last weekend either. Every second of every day is filled with thoughts of you, of things we did in the last five years, conversations we had and mostly signs that were there for so long telling us something was wrong.

Thursday night you had a night out planned with the boys. I didn't want you to go, after the results, the hospital, I was so worried but you were adamant. Off to the Claude you went with the boys from work, a pub you spent many a wild night night in during your younger days and you had a fantastic night. I picked you up early, you were tired but in good spirits.

The weekend went from bad to worse. Friday you were not so good but had planned to go and watch Wales play Samoa at the stadium with some of your family. It was to be a first for you and you were absolutely not going to miss is. Ten minutes before your lift arrived you collapsed, you recovered fairly quickly but you clearly were not going out. All I saw was a bad turn and knocked confidence, hindsight is screaming other things. Now I can see you were fading fast.

The night improved when your son visited, it was to be a night of fun and frivolity, the last ever, although we didn't know it then. You were positively glowing, it was clear how much it meant to you to have him here and say the things you had wanted so long to say. It was pleasant and fun, a few drinks and an incredibly upbeat evening.

Sunday we were supposed to be heading to Amsterdam for a few days, one of the many things we had planned but by Saturday it was clear we weren't going to make it. You needed help and the wheelchair just to get to the bathroom and you were far too ill to go up the stairs. The doctor came and the most useful thing he could offer you was a hospice place, we asked him to leave. You struggled through the day and it become clear your illness had moved to the next stage. Hindsight doesn't agree though, hindsight tells me you were dying before my very eyes.

Sunday morning and we should have been heading off for our next adventure. Instead my parents visited and helped me turn the dining room into a bedroom. You were so distant all day, hardly said a word. Your son was coming and you were waiting for his call, when it came it was to say he couldn't make it, you didn't show it but it was clear how upset you were. Throughout the day after the call you kept asking when he was coming, you had forgotten that he had called to say he couldn't make it and kept forgetting over and over. I made a mental note to buy you a notepad, it became clear that your thinking and remembering abilities were really being affected by the tumour yet still I didn't think I was about to lose you.

You slept well on Sunday night, I came and checked on you several times and it was nice to see you so peaceful after weeks of being unable to sleep. Hindsight, of course sees things differently.

Monday the doctor came, you told him you'd rather be dead than in the pain you were in. He prescribed morphine. Simple, you'd think but then I had to leave you to collect the prescription and hindsight knows that you spent your last two waking hours alone while I tried to find a pharmacy that stocked it, what a nightmare.

You took the morphine and slept, it was nice to see you so peaceful. I kept thinking that if the pain was under control and you could sleep, even if you weren't well enough to be up and about we could bring the fun to you. I told myself that tomorrow would be a better day.

I checked on you several times throughout the evening and at midnight when you still hadn't woken I sat with you for a while, just stroking your hand, I was hoping you would wake, we always said "I love you" and kissed goodnight but you never woke. I decided to sleep on the sofa so I was close to you if you needed me. I only thank God I didn't leave you that night.

I don't know if this is a normal way to feel, in fact I don't know anything for sure any more.

11 weeks and 5 days

11 weeks and 5 days we knew you had cancer for and then you were gone. Just like that, you held my hand, your breathing slowed and in a moment you were gone.

There were no fireworks or explosions, the world didn't end. The clock kept ticking and the sun rose.

The only true gentleman I ever knew has gone forever.

Geoff Addicott
27th February 1944 - 17th November 2009

This blog will continue however, in what format I'm not sure yet but I'm not leaving you just yet.