You Can Tell A Man By The Gifts He Receives.

O.K., it’s not a famous quote , that I know of ,but it does well enough to explain my recent events.

My birthday, as you must know by now, is the day before Christmas Eve, the 23rd. That means I generally either get last minute gifts plucked from the seasonally inspired ranges available, or something in the middle of Summer because it’ll be more useful then. Sitting opening cards with the vocal reminder that ‘Remember we got you that trowel set/greenhouse/bike for your birthday in June/August/May’ isn’t quite the same as unwrapping amusingly pointless novelties on the day itself, but the idea was full of good intent and very helpful at the time.

This year, as if to remind me of my faults, I received a thick tome entitled ‘1001 Beers To Try Before You Die’ as a random gift three weeks early because my lovely wife had spotted it while shopping. It’s a great read, a little bit akin to a Train Spotting Guide book for alcoholics and I can rightly claim to have already tried 30+ before opening it.

In balance, I also had a Starbucks gift set of a large mug, coffee and hot chocolate plus a small glass chocolate powder shaker from one offspring and a Whittards of Chelsea coffee collection consisting of nine different coffee blends, each with a potted description and history from my eldest and his future wife. My daughter and son in law however, hit top form with a case come Bluetooth keyboard for my tablet and a brace of seasonal beers, tying in neatly my online obsession with my C.A.M.R.A. membership (renewed by my wife as a Christmas gift)

It’s seems petty to complain so I won’t but I am lucky in the sense that I am old enough to have survived to a ripe old age and birthdays merely serve as a reminder that I’ve managed to avoid death for another year but for my new grandson, celebrating  his first birthday on Christmas day itself, it may be a confusing issues for a while yet.

So, having had my own character clearly defined for me, what does it say?

Did anyone think of a gardening present? Not really no. Does that mean I am no longer associated with horticulture? Again, no. It means I have all I could ask for in that area. I supplied parsnips for the big meal, which were well received by all those who ate them. I have had new garden items during the year, not as early birthday gifts but because I wanted or needed them or just because, well, because they were really nice. The thing is, I have achieved a type of karmic plateau whereby I am the garden enthusiast but all my close family have absorbed my garden love to the point that they garden themselves without thinking of it as a hobby, more as a part of life as normal as cleaning shoes or taking out the recycling bins.

My nephews send me pictures of their carrots or runner beans, my sisters compare tomato crops on my Facebook page and my daughter talk of taking her one year old to ‘Bumpy’s’ allotment as soon as he can walk, to help me plant potatoes. He has been visiting in his pram since he was allowed to leave the house.

All this tells me I have successfully achieved what my parents and grandparents did for me, I have made gardening and fresh ,home grown produce, a way of life for all my cherished ones.

That’s the Christmas present nothing can beat.

Now to tackle the rest of the population…

The End Of A Chapter

Today concluded a very difficult chapter for me,and no doubt for my loved ones too.

It was my Fathers funeral.

I realized yesterday that the build up to an imagined pressure day was worrying me more than the actual event itself. In a way, thinking about the funeral, and the emotional trauma that it could possibly bring, was upsetting me more than the event itself could.  So, today was the day to deal with it and get past it all. And do it we did.

I sat around most of the morning, after a much delayed start. I didn’t specifically plan on a lie in but I was resisting rushing about and panicking. I had a leisurely breakfast and sat watching tv, whilst internally worrying that I hadn’t done anything to get ready yet. I kept asking my good lady if there was anything to do but every question was answered with the news that all concerned in our house were already doing anything that was needed and all things were on schedule. Not that it stopped me fretting.

The morning wore on and I kept thinking about putting my suit on but knowing we had to get through a quick lunch before heading off, I delayed it.I m not some child that needs a constant bib but I know irony and it loves me. I was almost honour bound to spill something down my new, clean,pressed white shirt today if never again.  I was pleasingly surprised to see all my offspring taking a turn in polishing their shoes, although two at least needed a quick teach.

When we all left, walking the twenty minutes to Mum’s home, I felt so very proud. My children, our babes, all grown up and doing us proud. Looking very dignified and smart, we arrived early at Mum’s, had our introductions to friends and relatives we’ve never met or haven’t seen in decades before then waited for the cars to arrive. That was when the wobbles started. Mum went from bubbly and light hearted to pale and quiet as the cars crept silently into view. I took my moment to do my duty for my Dad and grabbed Mum as she wobbled, thrust her hand through my arm and steadied her towards the waiting car. The journey there was painfully long but respectfully sombre. The girls, my siblings, in the back seat took turns to sob loudly and Mum soon joined them as we pulled up outside the crematorium. I accompanied Mum to the vestibule, following the casket in and took her to her seat, staying with her, holding her hand, holding her when it got rough.

They had chosen a Humanist service some time ago, not being at all religious or hypocritical. I was very impressed with the professionalism and the sobriety of something that didn’t have the dignity of the Church to fall back on.

The ceremony over,we greeted and spoke with those who wanted to give personal condolences,pay tribute or just share a story about Dad from their time associated with him. My Father, you should understand, was a social animal. He was a member of several groups over his lifetime and a loyal friend to anyone who had the pleasure to meet him. Having been a Railwayman all his working life,a fisherman on and off for most of his adult years and a major player in his local social club after retiring early, plus a keen, award winning in fact, Country and Western dancer (NOT line dancing!), the queue of well wishers took an hour to pass by. Over 150 people turned up to celebrate his life, with as many again joining us at the same social club afterwards.

Once the ceremony itself was over and the most emotionally moving dedications had been made, the worst of it was over and Mum relaxed and started to look healthy and happy again. Maybe for the first time in months. The stress of it all had been taking its toll on an already poorly woman. It was noticeable but we didn’t let her worry about us worrying. That’s what parents do isn’t it? They don’t want you worrying about them, then you worry that they are worried. Then, as you become the carer,you worry that they are worrying about you.

As we left, having introduced my children and wife to the rest of my very extended family, including the auntie who informed them she still had pictures of my cousin and I dressed in nothing more than our pants and Christmas stick on ribbon bows, Mum was at ease. She had friends and family jostling for her attention, all wanting to share memories and the latest news.

It is an end to a chapter, a major chapter,but it is not the end of the book. Now Mum can begin to build the rest of her life. Dad will be with us forever, in spirit and in our hearts and he will always be part of Mums day to day life. That will never change but now she can stop worrying about him, preparing herself for the worst to come and fearing a future watching her childhood sweetheart, the only man she ever loved and the man she shared every night with, until his cancer was diagnosed, slowly and painfully crumbling away into ill health and drug dependency.

Dad is at peace now. Mum is happier. We live on. We don’t move on, we carry on. One of our family has left us but the family is stronger thanks to his being part of it.

 

 

A Dark Time Beckons.

My father has worked all his life. Sometimes, when we were kids,he worked more than one job, taking on an evening shift to supplement his income. He never rested long when he wasn’t working, either maintaining or fixing or extending or just changing the house, the garden, our car/van/minibus, whichever we were being transported around in at the time. My Dad didn’t stand still for long.

He took early retirement to time in with my parents Ruby Wedding Anniversary. It was a combined Anniversary,joint birthdays and retirement party. Both my parents birthdays fall within a week of their wedding date. Typical of our family, it made economic sense to have a joint party.

Anyway, my big, strong Dad has recently been hit by a big problem even he can’t fix.

Last year, mid autumn, he had been experiencing some problems with his bowel. He consulted his doctor and was sent for tests. The tests revealed, eventually, that he had the dreaded C word.

He had bowel cancer. The most prolific form amongst men. The light in the dar was the fact that we all knew someone who had survived. We heard encouraging stories of friends who had been given a few months to live and were still found in the pub each Sunday playing cards and buying drinks some two or three years later.

He had an operation to remove part of his bowel and to rejoin the ends at a later date. All looked promising. The surgeon said it was a common procedure and he did them almost daily now. But it didn’t go smoothly afterwards. There were complications resulting in more visits to the wards.

Dad finally got home, to stay in the New Year. He was booked for a post op scan in Bristol a couple of weeks later, to check everything had been removed and to find out whether any chemotherapy would be necessary.  We all thought, hoped, that it would be a formality, as the surgeon had indicated. When the results came, it was almost the worst news possible; the cancer was still there,larger and more prevalent than ever expected. A lot in the bowel so the rejoining couldn’t happen, a tumor, more in the belly and chest. Inoperable, that vile word. Inoperable, dug in there and refusing to move. Something previously unseen had crept into my perfect fathers body and defiled it. Some disgusting pointless growth, some imperfect organism was going to slowly spread through his system, taking over part after part until it killed him.

Yes, the obvious devastation hit. It hit my Mother, it hit her hardest. Dad was expecting something, after all he knew how he felt inside. He knew something wasn’t right. The results meant he now had a death sentence. We wouldn’t find out until he saw the chemotherapy guys later the next week. They were as positive as they could be. The most aggressive course of treatment available would be tried. He is still young enough and healthy enough to withstand it. The benefit would be an extra eighteen month to two years of life. Time to prepare, to plan, to tie up loose ends.

Dad started chemotherapy yesterday. From here it feels like a slow , tortuous countdown to me but he is taking each day as it is, a bonus. He doesn’t moan, he comments if he has had a bad day or a sleepless pain riddled night but he doesn’t expect or tolerate pity. We can’ change things, we can’t fix them so he is just looking for the positives.

For all this and more, I love my Father. For this and more I hate our world and the putrid evil that is Cancer.

For all my Father has is and will always be, I will live each day and never worry about the small things that really don’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

I hate Cancer but I know things never stay the same for ever. One day we will beat it. My Father, the fixer, the worker, the repairer of all things, won’t know.