[Oldmanmatt]

We tracked him down.


Or at least his family (the wonders of Farcebuck).
We were concerned about his seizures and tremens, last night as we waited for the blues and twos, and it looks like a serious TBI. He's in Derriford still in a Coma, apparently partially  paralysed down his right hand side.
He turned out to be  the boyfriend of a friend.
A woman who we meet everyday in the school playground.
So we might be able to help.

I will never cease to be amazed how close you always turn out to be to apparently complete strangers...

One of our sponsored climbers, completely Un-expectedly, turned out to be the step brother of the girlfriend of my fiancées brother. So, if thing go as expected, he'll be my brother In-law within a year or so...

 

[Oldmanmatt]

Why?


Why does my life revolve around bloody hospitals?


My father continues his Radiotherapy...



Burned...

Sore...

So, so, unhappy.



A brief moment of happiness, as the lads at the wall mess around...

The end of a busy half term day.

Bat hangs on the big blue jug of the 30 degree wall.


I tried to say, it might not be such a good idea.


Should have just said stop.



Maybe, I thought, I'm just getting timid in my old age...



No.


I was bloody right.



Collars...


Blocks...


Inconclusive X-rays.



A CT scan.



I had to all-but force him to phone his parents.



Five hours later...


We both walked out of A and E.


I hope he walked out a few years older, mentally, than than the 18 years he carried in.


I felt about sixty and slightly unsteady.



We didn't even manage forty eight hours of respite.


By Friday evening, another member of staff was rushed to hospital, with suspected Meningitis...


I've been a boss, one way or another for so many years; but I've never felt so Paternal.



Never felt so old.



I thought running a climbing wall would be fun.



We just heard. The Meningitis was a false alarm.



Still.



The Till broke down.



So not all good.



Reassuringly normal...

[Oldmanmatt]

Last night.

I went and watched the Banff film festival tour.

One of the films,
surprisingly,
left me choked up.

Stifling a tear, even.

You see, there was a short film called "Into the Empty Quarter".

The Rub' Al Khali.

One of the last big adventures before the Mountain girl died.

Crossing the largest sand desert outside of the Sahara, in a Hummer, with a two and a half year old  and a (not that we realised) pregnant Mountain girl.

The place burns into your memory.

Twists your perception.

Changes you.

You are small.

Very, very small.



It's a big 'ol bus of a vehicle.

Right?



Wrong.



Very wrong.

Actually, even more wrong than that.



Still.

Silent.

Humbling.

Deadly.

Desolate.

The only way to survive this crushing, dwarfing, hellish purgatory is...

Act like a two year old.



It's strange how these things set your mind wandering off down unexpected paths.

I began to wonder if the Mountain girl would be be there in that two year olds face, she is after all responsible for 50% of her genes.

So I tried a little prognostication.

That little girl is 9 now.

Starting to look grown, but still childish.

So, I decided to have a stab at imagining her in her teens, her mother 2.0, with a trace of me.

Maybe, something like this.




Maybe.


Sent from my iPad using Tapatalk

[Traian]

Hi Matt. I used to know her. I found out about a week ago. Thank you for standing by her side the way you stood.

[JohnM]

I'll have to check that out. I remember crossing the The Rub' Al Khali as a child with my parents. There is something quite special about such a vast expanse of nothingness. However, even in such a desolate place there is evidence of ancient human settlements; ancient fire pits and flint arrow heads scattered along the shores of shallow (now dry) lake beds.

[Oldmanmatt]

I'll have to check that out. I remember crossing the The Rub' Al Khali as a child with my parents. There is something quite special about such a vast expanse of nothingness. However, even in such a desolate place there is evidence of ancient human settlements; ancient fire pits and flint arrow heads scattered along the shores of shallow (now dry) lake beds.

That’s one of those dry lakes to the left of the Hummer at the base of the dune. They look so firm and inviting after a few hours battling the sliding, axle swallowing sand...

Look firm.
Oops.

Hi Traian, from Câmpulung?

Funny, I’ve not visited this blog in such a long time; but my daughter is just about to become a teen and almost at the age of the sketched prediction above:



Not so far off, really.

[Traian]

Yes, Matt. Sorry to bring that up after such a long time. Hope you are ok.

Pretty close, indeed.

[Oldmanmatt]

At 5:30 am, this morning, I woke up.
Shaking, tears on my cheeks, the dream still echoing in my head. A dream of pain, anguish, loss.
I fought to drag myself out of bed, then couldn’t leave the apartment. The tears wouldn’t stop. Each time I thought I’d got control, the lump in my chest would force it’s way back up, my mind would be overwhelmed with feelings too strong to be suppressed, too primal, too raw.

By the time I realised I should have been at work two hours ago, I felt like I had some modicum of control; so in a partial daze, I got in the car and set off to work.

I didn’t get there.

I don’t remember making a decision or changing direction, I just found myself, sat in the car, in the parking lot of a church, crying like a baby.

So, I wiped my face, blew my nose, dragged my sunglasses down over my eyes and went inside.

I sat in the back.

Just me and a small man, sweeping the floor in silence.

Then it really hit and i cried like I haven’t cried for many, many years.

Eventually, it passed and awareness forced it’s way back into my consciousnesses.

I hate churches.

It’s been twenty years, to the day, almost to the hour, since I sat in this church. Stood at that altar. Promised to love and care for her, till death do us part.

I couldn’t keep that promise, because I still love her.

[SA Chris]

Hand in there Matt. Message if you need to.

[Monkeygirl23]

Hi.
I can’t say that I have spent any time trying to understand how this specific platform works, and nothing formats that well on a phone so I will preface this with an apology if this shows up incorrectly.
I don’t know how many people will see this, if anyone who once read the whole story will read this.

My name is Stacy. You will know me as Matt’s daughter, and have seen a few photos of me from when I was younger. I’m now 17, I’ll be taking my alevels next summer (super fun definitely looking forward to it…).
I’ve spent this evening reading my dad’s blog, properly. Don’t ask me why, but I’m sure many of you understand the randomness of melancholy and how it’s almost impossible to ignore.

I have not had half the adventure that my dad wrote about, but I found that I understand a lot of the internal monologue. What I did realise, is how I have not changed at all. One passage especially (again, I don’t know how this platform works so I can’t add in a link)

“Later, my sister leads the children away with Mamaia; exchanging kisses. hiding moist eyes. My daughter sheds some tears and from her wheelchair she asks "Why?"
For a moment, I thought that it would come rushing out. That little girl, understands all too well what is happening, but refuses to show it.
She paused, for a heartbeat...
And lied.
She told some fairy tale about a game at school.”

That one.
I write as well. Poetry, is my chosen method of torture. And this passage reminded me of a poem I wrote for an English class (who else has written their most traumatic memories to be marked by an English teacher?). It was prompted by a poem we were studying, we were told to write a poem in the same format, ie as a story told by someone else.
This is the poem: entitles ‘She Said’

She sat down with her children
They shouted and giggled and laughed
Then one of them said — with a curious look-
“Mama?”
Both of them looked and waited
For the first one had asked
About her parents
.
My father, she said,
Would leave when I was young
He went away to build ships
For months at a time
Then one day, I remember
He told me that he had to stay home
That mother was sick
.
Now you see, she said,
I wasn’t quite sure what he meant
But very soon she had to leave
For the hospital
And she stayed there for a while
Getting darker and greyer
Before finally she came home
All back to normal
.
They never really told me, she said,
About what happened
If they did, I forgot- since it didn’t make sense
The normality returned, but not for long
Back to the hospital she went
But she didn’t return
.
The last thing I remember, she said,
Is thinking ‘is she pregnant?’
Then lots of crying and hugs and kisses
.
I didn’t have to go to school, she said,
‘it’s ok you just have some fun’
Someone said there’d be a funeral
I wondered what that meant
.
But anyway, she said,
Years passed and I grew
One day my father left
He joined my mother, an old man
Reunited with his love
.
The children hummed and ahhed
And said-
“That’s cool” then she put them to bed
.
But once they left, she sat quietly to think
She realised that she knew
All the way through
What was going on but instead
She pretended she didn’t because
It hurt her too much
.
So she sat
And she blinked
But she never said
What she was thinking
Or how she felt


I wrote that a long time ago, and my style and skill has improved. But I thought maybe it could be appreciated by people on this blog.

So this is hello, I suppose. From someone you’ve heard about but never from.

If you’re reading this, I love you dad I know I’m a pain but I do love you (and please ignore the time this was posted I was in fact asleep I promise) xx

[Monkeygirl23]

Oh, and thank you for at least choosing a nice photo of me for the latest one (though was was a good few years ago now).
He is not quite so considerate with his Facebook posts…

[edshakey]

I've only discovered this thread since the post last week, but I read every message. This makes a beautiful addition. You both share a wonderful way with words, and a bravery to bare your feelings that is rare to come across. Good luck with your a-levels, and know that (as I'm sure your dad does) there will always be people here to read whatever you wish to share.