Stevie has been gone a while now. 18th March 2017 he died. His
funeral was a brilliant celebration.
He wanted me to
publish this, so here it is:
“Hello?” tap, tap, is this thing on?
Oh, Yeah. It is.
I best bring you up to speed
with how far along this journey I have travelled, I guess, but first I had
better refresh myself to my last entry.
Right, so I got quite a bit
of typing to do but that’s okay, I was starting to get bored you know there is
not a lot to do when you’re waiting around to die. There, I said it, waiting around to die,
especially when you decide to move yourself into a hospice to do it.
I know why I moved in here,
it’s because I got scared.
I did have reason to worry as whilst resting
up at home, some five or six weeks ago, during a visit from some good friends
my tongue tumour decided to erupt and then split open, ejecting some form of
thick, jellified blood. Lots of it, which I had to scoop from my mouth into a
bucket as I feared it was going to suffocate me if I didn’t clear my airway.
Once cleared (the most of it), my tongue bled, lots, an unknown amount but I
believe it was over a pint before I stopped bleeding. I don’t remember fully what happened next in
which order but there was ambulance (1 or 2), aunties, mum, brother, doctor,
district nurses and of course my Beautiful Wife. There was fear, kitchen sink, cushions,
dressing gowns, sofa, sleep….
(When the ambulance teams arrived, we were told he would die, so we
waited up, him in a semi-sedated state all night…The stubborn bugger got up of
the sofa the next morning and took himself upstairs to bed)
A little bit messed up in my
head by then to say the least. I tried a couple of times to restart this form
of blog-therapy in a vain attempt to help myself be stronger and I am sure
there maybe some words worth copying here, more refreshing required from note
pads with torn out pages and PC notepad printouts containing volumes of
inspirational self-motivation.
Or not. Just more questions
(The next part was a hand written note I found in his bags. It was not
easy to type up..It must have been written just before he died. I read it first
on his Birthday 22nd March)
Who will cut the grass when
I’m gone?
When you are a 43 year old
dad of 2, faced with your own mortality. You have to wonder- why does this
question plague me?
There are far more pressing
questions that could be filling my time and mind. Questions about the kid’s
future, what will they become? Will they behave? Who will they love? How long will
it take for their memories of me to fade?
Maybe it is because of the
distant relationship my father had with me, when I was growing up puts these
questions at ease.
“why won’t my Suzuki ER50 START?” or “How to I
wire up my bedroom to emulate the Blackpool
illuminations?” Maybe it was his lack of
his input then, that helps me to realise that my kids, if they want to, will
find a way without me to fix their bikes or create their own environment that
suits them. Something makes me know that will be ok. After all, I turned out
alright in the end even if the end has turned up too soon.
So, I am at ease when I think
about my kids and what little time I have had to parent, nurture and shape my
children for their lives ahead. I believe has set them on a great path.
I also helps to know that,
like me, they have the guidance of a beautiful and caring mother..
Who will look after her?
She will, that woman I fell
in love with all those years ago….
Have a week!
