[Oldmanmatt]

Moments...

I am eight years old. Don takes the rest of the group away and Ron continues coaxing me towards the edge. It takes an hour, but I make the thirty foot abseil.

I am changed...

I am nine years old, my fingers brush the granite. Above me rears El Capitan, behind me looms the Half Dome.

I am changed...

A few weeks later. I stand upon a mountain top. Around me, as far as I can see in any direction, the mighty forest has been laid flat; like tooth picks. The eruption only weeks ago.

I am changed...

I am fourteen. I feel the cornice crumble beneath my feet, weightless for a moment.

I am changed...

I am sixteen. I carry the coffin of my best friend into the church. Later, I lower him into the ground. I will never learn to ride a motorbike.

I am changed...

I am eighteen. I walk through the gates of HMS Raleigh.

I am changed...

I stand before the crevasse.

I am changed...

I look up from the menu, she smiles.

I am changed...

I hear my baby cry.

I am changed...

I see the look in the doctor’s eye, the look behind the smile.

I am changed...

I can’t remember who I was...

I’m not sure who I will be...

Tomorrow...

[Oldmanmatt]

Mamia...
Mamia (Mam-eye-ya).    Trans. Romanian diminutive for Grandma (not Grandmother (Bunica)), familiar form, informal.

She’s always there. She gets on with things. Always cleaning something, tidying somewhere.

She doesn’t speak much English, understands a fair bit, but doesn’t speak much.

To my shame, even after a Decade, I still don’t speak much Romanian.

She arrived around the same time I returned from Spain. I don’t know what I would do without her.

Who, would ever imagine, that they would one day have to comfort their Mother-in-law....
 When the tears come, when it’s all just too much...

We try to keep things as normal as possible. Try not to worry the children.

I take my little girl to the wall on Friday evenings, after school. Friday is the day the “Regulars” seem to congregate and I’m always a little worried that she’s going to “Get in the way” or annoy people (a five year old can be.... difficult).
This time (unusually), she latched on to a young woman. Much more interesting than Daddy... I smiled to myself as she tried so hard to impress her new friend, even throwing in a few heel hooks on the overhang!

It’s good to see, right now, how caring people can be...

Nice to be able to smile...

Sometimes...

 

[Oldmanmatt]

I read the news today. Oh Boy...

A thousand tiny holes on a Nordic Island.

And though the holes were rather large...

The Media want to count them all.

Now they know many holes it takes to fill a thousand lives...


Why?

[Oldmanmatt]

Fluoxetine rising...

There’s no doubt...

It helps.

Yesterday was a “DAY”...

Another “DAY”, one of many.

“DAYS” are those that stick out, in my memory; the moments that come back at four AM.
Now the four AM moments last till six, when I give up and get up...

We sat in the Oncologists office, She and I; holding hands.

Two weeks, every day; Radiotherapy.

It’s not enough...

It won’t remove the tumour, only shrink it.

They can’t do any more.

More would damage her bowel too much.
Kill it, really.

There will be Chemo, later...

There are new drugs to try...

Always, the look behind the smile...

“Stringing out...” says the voice.

She cries...

I hold her...

Tight.

[Oldmanmatt]

She is asleep...

Beside me on the sofa.

Exhausted.

They warned us of the nausea; although; we’d thought it would take more than two sessions to bring it on.
The radiotherapy is going right into her bowels, the effect immediate.
It hurts her, to lie in the required position, even for the few seconds it takes.
Soon the burns will appear, even before the scars of last years’ irradiation fade.
I was surprised by the burning then, now I dread it.

Outside, the sun shines...

Birds sing...

The children play quietly (“Shhh! Mummy’s sleeping”)...

Mamia, quietly, busying herself, tidying something...

We wait for her to wake...

I write.

To try and keep the voice quiet...

[Oldmanmatt]

Let’s have a tea party...

The thing, about this situation, is that now I have to do those things we did together; alone.

This gives far too much time for...
 Thinking.

Thinking is not good, thinking is allowing the voice free reign.

Sometimes, Pooh like; I compose little ditties and sing them under my breath (or better, whistle it and sing the lyrics in my head. Slightly less likely to be taken for a nutter that way).

Let’s have a tea party...
Wouldn’t it be fun?
Let’s have a tea party...
Where the lunatics can run.

Let’s have a tea party...
Let Sarah lead the way.
Let’s have a tea party...
If you’re different, go away.

Let’s have a tea party...
Wouldn’t it be swell?
Let’s have a tea party...
And drag us all to hell...

[Oldmanmatt]

Melancholia...
1.   Lit. Totally hacked off with life the universe and everything.
2.   The feeling that dominates most waking moments (and quite a few non-waking ones too).
3.   Prob. Derived... Melanoma (or some other cancer related word, like... (Shudder).... Squamous cell carcinoma...Arrghh).

I don’t, in fact, live in a world of melancholia.

Some days, at least, some parts of some days; we feel quite happy.
Sometimes, she is her old self; laughing, joking, playing with the kids.

It’s because, sometimes, we forget...

When we remember...

The Tsunami strikes...

The problem, with going every day, to her radiotherapy; is not being able to forget.
We are always conscious of being the youngest in the waiting room (it’s so sad, when we are not)...
Today, we were not.
There was another young couple, waiting with their little boy.
When “Dad” got up, to go for treatment; I avoided “Mum’s” glance...
My kids were there, playing with the toy box.
I couldn’t do it, I would have lost it; I choked as it was.

It would have been too hard to explain, to their anxious faces; why Daddy was crying.

Let the myth persist...

Please?

Somebody?

[Oldmanmatt]

Reality bites...

 “Be content with what you have, for God has said, “Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.” So say with confidence. “The lord is my helper; I will not be afraid.”
Hebrews 13:56

Right...
So we can expect him to round later, to help with the kids...
Or maybe, a bit of the old miracle stuff; laying on of hands...

No?

Thought not.

“Do not dwell in the past; do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.”
Buddha

Well...

That’s fine...

As far as it goes.

“He, who knows, does not say. He who says, does not know”
Lau Tzu

Ok.
And that helps how, exactly?
(And, if true, why did you say it in the first place? Surely, by your own logic; if you said it, you didn’t know what you were talking about.... My head hurts...)

You know, in the end; we’re on our own.

There’s no quick fix, no obvious path.

Just the best we can do at the time.

The only thing that helps is the kindness of others.

“Be excellent to each other!!”
Bill and Ted

Now,
That one,
I get.

[GCW]

In these times when we are the carers, we feel alone.  We serve no purpose but to to be there.  The dying party thinks their own thoughts, of which we see some.   When death is in inevibitable you value everything. The way birds tweet, the quitness of being alone with your thoughts.  Getting away is a pleasure, and yet a pain.

There is a line in the sand between love and death/ release.  Where does that line lie?

What to do?  But can you live with it?

[Oldmanmatt]

When the sun sets in the morning...

When the sun sets in the morning.
Long before the day is done.
Sorrow, the only dawning.
A shadow, on the sun.

Hold on, for tomorrow,
A day that’s yet to come.
Let go of the sorrow,
And in the dark light, run.

[Oldmanmatt]

Time...

There isn’t any...

Every day we head off to the Hospital.

Then, there are the blood tests at the GP’s (to monitor INR (and, yes, I wish I did not know what that meant)).

Then, the painkillers...

Enough to put a smile on any junkies face. They too take quite a bit of monitoring and have some... Complicated; side effects.
So, there are more drugs to deal with those...

And, drugs to deal with the Nausea from the Radiotherapy; creams for the burns...

And so...

It goes on...

And on...

And, then...

Relief.

Saturday brought a beautiful summers evening and an invitation.

A barbecue.

She looks fantastic, her smile genuine and warm.

Our friends have a farm and it is everything a farm should be.

There is good company.

There are hoards of giggling, screaming, crying, laughing, children; running like lunatics in all directions.

(Funny, how they revel in the Cow crap...)

There is food, good artery clogging stuff...

There is beer...

As the sun sets, the sky turns a vivid lilac...

Late, we head for home (leaving our daughter, in a tent with her aunt and the older children, to “Help” with the milking in the morning); our two year old babbling excitedly (if drowsily) from his car seat.

There is...

Peace.

[Oldmanmatt]

A difficult place to be...

Today, the radiotherapy is over.

Nothing to do now, but wait and see.

Six weeks of waiting.

That, is a difficult place to be...


“What” says my Father “has happened to your face?”

There is an edge to his voice and I realise, as I look back at him across the dinner table; that there is no avoiding it.

I am in trouble...

And it’s a big one...

My Father was a hero (still is, in his quiet way).
There were medals, commendations, even; reporters and news articles.
It happened more than once, and although he never displayed the certificates and gongs...

I knew they were there.

That is a difficult place, for a teenage boy, to be.

I would be well into my twenties and pretty scarred myself, before I came to realise the toll it had taken on him. That he, viewed himself, as a man with a bad habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time...

I did some pretty stupid things...

Trying to be brave...

Trying to be him.

That day, at the table...

I had no eyebrows.

We had borrowed some tents from the local Scout troop, good old twelve man ridge tents.
The local kids, boys and girls, camping in a farmer’s field.
There was a campfire...
In the tents, the older kids (who were supposed to be in charge) were, well; doing things that I did not yet understand. They were busy.
In a corner of the field, were the remains of an old wooden barn that had not survived the winter gales.

The campfire grew larger...

We didn’t notice, but some of the guy-ropes, were almost in the fire.

We (the young lads), thought it might impress the girls; if we put the old barn door on the fire and then run up it; to jump through the flames. But the wood was damp and the flames not so impressive.
There was a bottle of Diesel that the older boys had used to get the fire going...
I thought, “I’ll just throw some on, that will look a bit better”...

Have you ever seen an old canvass tent burn?

It was a “Tom and Jerry” moment.

The fire ball was huge, blinding.

Even as my eyebrows, fringe and the front of my jacket vanished; I remember watching the tents disappear in a puff of smoke. I remember how, bizarrely, only a blackened skeleton of the tents remained. The seams and ropes, like a pencil drawing in the air.

The surprise, on the (unhurt) faces of the couples inside...

And...

“You’re in the crap” said the voice.

That, is a difficult place to be.

[rich d]

Only know you through your writing, my wife just had a breast lump scare, luckily for us it was just a scare. I only got the smallest glimpse of what you've been through and are still going through - good luck fella.
Rich

[Oldmanmatt]

Stories...

“You couldn’t say: It’s not my fault. You couldn’t say: It’s not my responsibility.
You could say: I will deal with this.
You didn’t have to want to. But you had to do it.”
T. Pratchett, A hat full of sky.

I read, each night, to my (nearly) six year old daughter. Somehow, I hear the things I need to hear.
Somehow, in these tales of witches, magic and fantastic creatures; I see more truth than a thousand religious texts could ever deliver.

She thinks they’re great.

And...

There are worse role models, for young girl, than Tiffany Aching...

Saturday, was another DAY...

Finishing the radiotherapy, was a wrench.
While it lasted, we were “Doing something”; we were fighting...

Now we wait...

“Nothing” is the hardest thing to do.

Just to keep me amused, stop me getting bored; HMRC sent me a letter.

I have hardly slept since...

They want us to repay all the Tax credits they paid us.

They want five thousand pounds.

Now...

Why?

Because we emigrated, they say.

What!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“But we’ve already been through this!” I say “A month ago!”

You see, I went (Last November) to work on a ship (just like thousands of others). I was gone for five months. I have to pay tax on my income (you need to be out for 183 days in any tax year to claim back income tax). My wife and children, stayed in England, went to school, paid the rent. They did not just vanish. I haven’t worked since May. We have just enough money to get through to the end of this month. This was explained a month ago.

“That was a different department, if you don’t like it; you can appeal...”

Screw you, HMRC!

Thank you, CAB.

Two hours with one irate CAB advisor and...

Sleep.

 

[Nibile]

matt, my uncle has been fighting with cancer for more than 3 years now. there have been moments of hope and of despair. he keeps fighting. we keep hoping. i am with you all and i wish us all the best.

[Oldmanmatt]

Black days...

We’re in the car.

On our way into the city.

I don’t want to, I want to hide in a dark room and cry.

Our daughter does not have a single pair of trousers, that are not two inches too short; school will start soon. Uniform must be acquired, shoes bought.

Life does not stop because you don’t feel like it today.

“Mummy, can we sing?”

I don’t want to sing, my mind is reeling with dark thoughts; dread.

“Ok” says Mummy.

“Let’s sing ‘Frere Jacque’, I’ll do it in French. Mummy, you do it in Romanian and Daddy can do it in English.”

I can’t say no.

She’s been learning French at school, she is proud of what she’s done.

She sings.

Her brother giggles, tries to join in.

It’s Mummy’s turn...

“Frate Ion, Frate Ion...”

I can’t do this...

“Daddy, your turn.”

Deep breath...

Swallow the lump...

I sing.

“Hairy Pasta,
Hairy Pasta,
Five rotten eggs,
Five rotten eggs,
It’s what I had for dinner,
What I had for dinner;
I threw up,
I threw up.”

They’re laughing.

Another day.

Made it.

On to the next.

[Oldmanmatt]

In the dark light...

She has gone to rest.

She tried to take our Son swimming, tried to swim herself.

Two lengths.

Two lengths and the pain stopped her.

For a swimming instructor, this is a hard thing.

There are tears, in her eyes, as she tells me.

She says, she is disgusted with herself. I try to argue, try to tell her, two today, three tomorrow; keep trying.

I don’t think she heard me.

In the dark light...

Here the light is blue.
Red, ceased to have meaning, many meters above me.
The water is surprisingly warm and clear as gin.
We move down the line, the vague shape below resolves into an un-mistakable form.
My heart pounds in my ears, the hiss and bubble of my breathing quickens.
Ahead, Dwight reaches out and touches the decaying metal.
Check depth; 120 meters.
Check back gas; good.
Check buddies kit; good.
Let him check me; good.
Try to calm down; trying.
Exchange OKs.
We look at each other, grins obvious behind regulators and masks.
It’s here!
Two years of searching, research; so many attempts to get a hook on the distant echo.
Waiting for the right currents, the right weather; the Iranians to give us the nod.

The U533.

We don’t know it yet, but the last survivor had died the night before. We had wanted to fly him out, to be on the boat when we reached her, he was not well enough. Connection and coincidence, circles, ever circles. There were only two survivors; they swam over 25 Nm to the Omani coast...
Bottom time done, we reluctantly begin the ascent. There will be over 120 minutes of stops and gas changes before we break the surface.
Somewhere around 50 meters, a school of Yellow fin tuna appear out of the gloom and circle us; close enough to touch. Their bright, massive, bodies flashing and shimmering as they dart around us. So the ocean blessed our passage.
21 meters, switch to 50% O2.
A tap on my shoulder.
She is there.
The concern behind the mask, wiped away by my manic grin and excited hand signals.
She grins as we bump regs and hug.
She takes our empty cylinders of travel gas, blows a kiss and starts back for the surface.
I watch her go.
I forget the submarine.
Lost in my love of the mountain girl at sea.

In the dark light...

Here the light is grey.

Check depth; 90 meters.
Check Ahmeds’ kit; good.
Check gas; good.
Pissed off; yes.
All we’ve hooked it a tangled mass of old fishing pots, it’s not the Anita.

I untangle the kedge, fold it up and begin the slow ascent.
We must do the full deco; pay the full price, for a pile of pots.
As we rise, the line, the boat and we below; drift away with wind and tide.

21 meters. Change to 50% O2.
I have a problem.
As I crack the valve, an o-ring on the pressure gauge of my 50 mix blows.
Shut it back down.
No problem, we’ve trained for this.
I begin to change the o-ring, I have tools, spare rings; no worries.
But, it would be easier to do with two hands.
Ahmed tries to help shinning his HID on the reg while I work.
The lamp blows.
Then we make the most boneheaded, basic, mistakes possible.
Ahmed pulls out his reserve torch, and slips the cord over his wrist.
I clip my John line on to my scooter ring, at my waist.

There is no warning.
We are concentrating on fixing the reg, when...

The line goes tight.

I’m flung back, star fish, pinioned by the John line at my waist and the water rushing past as we are dragged towards the surface.
Ahmeds’ torch is wrapped around my John line and around his wrist. Up we shoot, together.
As my mask is dragged askew on my face, the voice begins to scream...
“Un-clip! Un-clip! Un-clip! Un-clip!”
I force my arm around against the water pressure, grab the karabiner, force it open and desperately drag it free.
I’m free, as I watch Ahmed being dragged away...
He waves to me.

I’m still rising.

Fast.

Shit! My buoyancy!

Desperately, I reach behind me and grab the dump valve on my wing.

The voice screams, “Embolism! Embolism! Embolism!”

I reach 6 meters, before I arrest my ballistic rise.

Split second decision.

I can’t go up; for sure I’ll be bent.

Down it is.

“Think heavy! Think heavy! Think heavy!” shouts the voice.

Back at 21, almost out of back gas, I force down the voice and finish the repair. Switch to 50% and take stock.

I am alone.
I am adrift.
I might be bent already.

I shoot my SMB, watching the spool dance in the water before my eyes as my slim hope of contact with the surface races away.
I tack an extra three minutes to my 21 meter stop time, an extra minute to the all the stops to 6 meters (every 3 meters).
At six meters, I switch to pure O2.
I have a dilemma.

The longer I spend under water, on pure O2, the less likely I am to be bent.

But, I’m drifting further and further from the boat and I don’t know if they saw my bag.

I double my 6 meter stop to 20 minutes.

I will leave the other bridges for later.

Three meters.

I see the bottom of the boat, the ladder.

Relief brings exhaustion.

Hands grab me as I climb the slippery rungs.

Pete, the man driving the boat, has a perfect, red, imprint of my wife’s’ right hand on his left cheek.

He’d screwed up, panicked. When we’d loosed the boat from the pots below, he’d realised the boat was adrift. He thought we were still on the wreck below and tried to race back up tide to the dive site.
He forgot to cast off the line, on its' buoy, before moving.
Seconds later Ahmeds’ flailing body broke the surface.
The truth dawned too late.
The throttles were pulled back.

She hit him.

Hard.

The boat is pounding, flat out, for the shore.

Ahmed lies quietly beside me, face obscured by the O2 mask; eyes closed.

She cradles my head in her lap, muttering soft things; unheard against the hiss of the O2.
Exhausted...

I close my eyes.

Here, the light is black.

[Oldmanmatt]

Oh wall, who art mine haven...
Hallowed be thy holds.
Thy patrons come,
To have their fun.
On rope,
 as it is over crash mat...

Two mornings a week.
I leave her to sleep.
I drop the children at school and pre-school and drive down to the wall.
For two or three hours, I can forget it all.
Usually alone, only my grunting for company; I throw myself into training.

But...

I’m having a problem...

With problems.

I get frustrated.

I keep trying, until I cannot hold on anymore.

“Rest” says the voice.

In anger, I charge the Campus board; trying to tear it (or me) to pieces...

The pressure is building.

The money gets tighter.

We have no choice, we have to apply for this benefit and that benefit; I find myself repeating the same old lines a thousand times to uncaring jobsworths.
Don’t they understand it hurts to talk about these things?

She managed six lengths on Monday...

It was so good to see her happy, proud.
Is she getting stronger? Is she getting better...?

Then on Thursday...

On Thursday, she only managed two.

And, I remember.

Crash.

Oh Campus board...

Hurt me, please!

At least, that’s a pain I can understand...

[Oldmanmatt]

Daydreams...

“Where are we?” she asks, sleepily.

“Denial” I reply.

“Oh, how did we get here?”

“You were resting, so I was driving and I didn’t know where else to go...”

“Oh... It looks nice here.”

“Yes, the views are always nice; in Denial.”

The CT scan was today.
Next Thursday, we see the Oncologist.
Next Thursday, we find out.
Next Thursday, a century away.

“Why aren’t you stopping?”

“There’s nowhere to park... In Denial.”

[Oldmanmatt]

It was mid June...

When it happened.

At two in the morning, the Grasshopper woke; drenched in sweat. In his dream it had been late November, the first snows thick upon the frozen ground. The hunger in his gut had gnawed away his soul; the cold had stiffened his limbs and frozen the very thoughts in his mind.
In his dream, he had been dying.
The rest of the night had been haunted by the ghost of the dream, fitful, restless.
In the morning, as the warm summer sun rose over the meadow; he lifted his Fiddle and tried to play.
But...
The dream still echoed.
The music from his Fiddle died away in a melancholy sigh.
He lay the Fiddle down, on the floor of the hollow.

“Winter is coming” he muttered, “I must be ready”.

Each day, he rose with the sun and began to gather food for the winter. Muttering the chant, under his breath, “Winter is coming, Winter is coming”
Each night, he collapsed, exhausted as the sun set; the chant still upon his lips.
He murmured in his sleep.

The summer passed.

The hollow filled with food and the Fiddle gathered dust.

In late September, the jibbering, muttering Grasshopper; stepped back to view his hoard.
It was vast. Even in his addled mind; a satisfaction spread.
He didn’t see the Toad.

“Hmmm” said the Toad, as he licked his lips “A few more Grasshoppers like that and I’ll be ready for a wee winter snooze...”

It was a week later, when the Ants found the hoard.

“Leave it!”said the Queen “Gods sake! There isn’t room to swing an Aphid in the bloody nest as it is!”
She turned away.
“Right” she said clapping her hands, “Any of you Buggers know how to get a tune out of that Fiddle over there? I swear, if I have to spend the whole winter listening to you dull sods going on about Quotas, Rotas and bloody Efficiency ratios; I’m gonna murder someone!”

The rain began to fall.

[Oldmanmatt]

Today...

Just.

Don't.

Ask.

LAH! LAH! LAH! LAH! LAH! LAH! NOT LISTENING!

[Oldmanmatt]

Yesterday...

The sun shone...

“Well...”
Says the oncologist.
“The tumour is bigger, than it was in May, but smaller than it was in July... So it is shrinking”

There it is, again.  The look behind the smile.
The sympathetic tilt of the head.

“But...”

We knew the “but” was coming.

There is always a “but”.

The day began, with another letter from the Department of work and pensions.

“Your application for Income support has been delayed”.

Uh, why?

“Please explain why you have come to the UK”.

Uh, I’m British. I have always lived here. I just went to work on a ship for 7 months...

“Did you bring your children with you to the UK”

Uh, they never left...

“Did you bring your spouse to the UK?”

Uh, arrggghh! What part of “they never left” are you having difficulty with?

“Do you have any connection with the UK?”

I AM BRITISH! I have never been anything else, I have always lived here, and I am not an Immigrant!

“Are you joining Family in the UK? Please detail these family members and their relationship to you”.

I AM BRITISH! I was born here; I have lived here all my life. My parents, their parents and their parents; for many generations; were born and lived here. At least back to 1066AD!!!!

“How long do you intend to stay in the UK?”

God’s sake!!

“How do you intend to support yourself, during your stay?”

WHAT!

“Have you ever visited the UK before and how did you support yourself?”

Pages and pages and pages of this rubbish.

I will have to leave it, for later; we have to get to the hospital...

The oncologist clasps her hands; in the corner the nurse studies the back of her hands.

Do we always look to our hands, when we feel helpless?

“The scan has picked up enlarged lymph nodes, right across your abdomen. This means the cancer is a... bit, more... active, than we would like”.

She will begin Chemo, next Friday.

“We can only slow it down, we can’t cure it”.

The smile is looking very strained, now.

Helen, the nurse, has turned her face away; for a moment.

The sun still shines...

We take the children to the beach.

I watch her play with them, in the sand.

We put the children to bed...

We stand in the garden, in tight embrace.

We cry.

I go back to the damned forms and work late into the evening.

“Do you have any connections overseas and what do you intend to do about them?”

My sister paid our rent.

Our Tesco’s tokens bought our food.

35 pages and they’ve given me an A5 envelope to put it in.

Around 10, the cramps started. It took half an hour to get her leg out of it’s contorted state.

It made her scream.

I can’t remember...

Who I was.

[Oldmanmatt]

Good morning Worm, your honour...

Friday afternoon, brought some relief.

Three months of back dated Carers Allowance and confirmation that backed dated Housing benefit would be paid on Monday.

Fortunate, as the Income support might be a problem...

I lost my temper.

When they read my answers to their questions...

I took my little girl to the wall. I hadn’t thought we be able to go. I was worried how I could tell her.

But...

I had an eye infection; she didn’t feel well; we left early. Poor little tyke, threw up.

Not the relief we’d needed.

Then...

The sun shone.

The weekend, brought messages and help from Friends and Family.
We played on the beach, took the children swimming.

On Sunday, we headed off to Bone Hill, Niece and Nephew in tow; to Boulder in the autumn sun.
She felt good, the morning pain had passed.

And then...

The wall came down.

She’d forgotten her midday dose, left the box of pills at home.

Without the pain killers, she can’t function. Within an hour, she would be in agony.

We leave the children with their Aunt and Uncle and race the pain, to get the drugs. Forty minutes away.

It is the flake that starts the avalanche.

Racked with sobbing, she stammers out.

“I want to be with them”

I grip the wheel.

“I... I...”

I slow down.

“I might not be here, next summer”.

I pull off the road.


Morphiates refreshed, we return to the Tor.

She is in control again.

She refuses to use her crutches, to climb the short steep slope to the boulders; chases away my, mother hen like, fussing.

We fix our smiles.

But I can’t climb, I just feel weak.

There are many other climbers watching.

I mumble some excuse (better to enjoy the kid’s enthusiasm).

I sentence you...

To be exposed...

Before your peers.

Tear.

Down.

The Wall.

[Oldmanmatt]

“There will be an After...”

It is said gently, Alessandro’s soft Italian accent, covering any harshness; in his limited vocabulary.

“Good or bad, there is always... An After...”

I resist, for weeks I prevaricate; refuse to commit.

Not yet.

Last week, he called again.
“Check your email. I bought the ticket and booked the hotel”.
I start to protest, he cuts me off.
“You’ll be back in time for her Chemo. This is the only way that I can help you.”
I choke, a little.
“I need to help you, both.”

The Taxi races through the twisting tunnels, over improbable bridges, past crazy buildings; far too tall on narrow foundations. Growing out of, or perching precariously on; rocky cliffs.
Gothic, Baroque, modern; crammed together. Leaning on each other. Roads balanced on struts, clinging to the rocky faces.
The product of the fevered mind of some, deranged; Disney animator.

But, up close, Genova is decaying.
Rust streaks, peeling paint, broken windows.
Post apocalyptic...
(Did I miss it? I have been distracted... Surely, someone, would have said?)

The boat show, has shrunk; withered. Three years ago, at the start of the troubles, it was packed; oversubscribed.
Now, there are suspicious spaces between the stands...

Behind the glitzy signs and polished hulls.

Behind, the smiles and exaggerated greetings.

Jacket elbows are worn.

Shoes, are a little too scuffed.

Buttons, are missing.

Everywhere, the look behind the smile...

I flew home.

The ghost of a plan, echoing in my mind. The hint, of a possible After...

That was yesterday...

Today, I sit, drinking tea; waiting for her Chemo to finish.
Two hours of pre-hydration, three hours of Chemo, two hours of post-hydration.
With the inevitable waits and delays, at least eight hours.
They struggle to get the cannula in her arm.
It will get worse, as the Chemo progresses and the veins collapse.
There will have to be a PIC line (Inserted, through the vein in her upper arm and fed into her chest).
Finally, the nurse manages to find a vein and the PIC will wait a couple of weeks.

The PIC is another blow.

There are piles of tablets, to deal with the Chemo side effects.

Those side effects, will not be fun.

There are tears...

Maybe...

I’m not ready.

For After.

After all...

[Oldmanmatt]

Letter to the Right Honerable Hugo Swires MP (Well, his PA, at least..)

Dear Ms Laverock,

My Father (xxxxxxxxxxxxx) contacted you today, regarding the situation we have found ourselves in.
My name is:
Matthxxxxxx   DOB xxxxxx    NI: xxxxxxxxx
Address:  xxxxxxxxxx, Exmouth, Devon xxxxxx.
My Wife’s name:
xxxxxxx      DOB xxxxxxx   NI: xxxxxxxxx
Of the same address.

I will try to keep it brief.

In Feb. 2010, my wife was diagnosed with cancer (Squamous cell carcinoma). She was treated for this. The nature of the treatment meant it was difficult for me to work during 2010. We have two children, then aged one and four (now two and six). Although I had been shore based for many years (in shipyard management and marine surveying), I am a DOT Chief engineer and for most of my working life; I have worked at sea on ships. We survived the first bout of cancer, by living on the savings we had accrued over the preceding years of our marriage. By October 2010, these savings were exhausted; so I took a job at sea. I must make clear at this point, my wife and children, remained in the UK. We lived in a rented house in Exmouth (25 Durham close), we paid council tax, the children attended school. I worked on the ship from 03/11/2010 until 30/05/2011.
Our problems began in March 2011, when it was discovered my wife’s cancer had metastasised. She has a large tumour in her abdomen and it has spread to her lymphatic system. The tumour has severely restricted the blood supply to her right leg and rendered her quite badly disabled. An operation on June 28, to remove the tumour, was unsuccessful and the next day; we were informed the cancer would be terminal. I returned to the UK in June 2011, to care for my wife and children.
We applied for Tax credits, for the first time, in the summer of 2010. We did this because we rapidly running out of savings. I have never received anything other than Child Benefit, prior to that.
In December 2010, my wife informed HMRC, about my new job.

In March 2011, our tax credits stopped arriving. I just assumed this meant our income was now too high. We received no communication from HMRC and by now we were concentrating on my wife’s illness. We did not receive a renewal form for 2011. Then on 15/08/2011, we received a demand for repayment of all the tax credits paid during 2010/11, totalling £5800.00. Very scared we contacted the CAB, who spoke to HMRC on our behalf. HMRC informed them that we had emigrated. This is not true. CAB organised our appeal against the decision and completed the forms for us. The appeal was submitted on 02/09/2011. We have had no response from HMRC, although we received a letter, dated 26/08/2011; saying we are no-longer entitled to tax credits (not even Child credits).
We have been living on the earnings I made during my time on board ship, up to today. However, I was not paid for May 2011. So we have had no income since April 2011. We made no attempt to claim anything until it was clear the cancer was terminal.
At the beginning of Sept. 2011, the Royal British Legion appointed an advisor to assist with our case (I am a Royal Navy Veteran). I have applied for and received Carers Allowance (£55.55 per week) and my wife has been awarded Disability Living Allowance at the highest rate (£125 per week). Our rent stands at £850 per month, of which we now receive £794 per month in Housing benefit. The advisor applied for a new Tax credits claim pack, on 28th Sept, as even their advice line (HMRC) agreed we should still be receiving Child Tax Credits. We have had no response and the pack has not arrived.

We applied for Income support in mid Aug. We attended the interview, in Exeter Job Centre Plus, on the 21st Aug. Here we gave all the information we could not provide with the initial (Telephone) application. This included bank statements. We were told that the claim would take no more than ten days from the interview.
On the day we were given the results of my wife’s post radiotherapy scans (which showed the cancer is aggressive), we received another letter and more forms from DWP. The letter was dated 27th Sept.
I have enclosed a copy of that letter and the forms, they asked us/me to complete and my response. This was posted to DWP, in the provided pre-paid envelope on 02/09/2011.

We heard nothing more, so yesterday, Monday the 10th Oct; I phoned the number provided to ask the progress of the claim. I was on hold for twenty minutes and then told they would call back.
Eventually, they returned my call and informed me they had lost or not received the forms and information requested. I told them I have proof of posting from Post office counters (I do). They said they would look for it tomorrow, but the person I was speaking to was not on “New Claims” tomorrow, so I should call again, to remind them. I explained our situation.
One hour later, we received a second call, this time they said that they had received the papers, but that it had been transferred to a “senior decision maker” in another office and that they no longer had access to my claim on their system, which is why they thought it was lost. I was told again, to call again this morning, for the same reason. It is now, nearly a month and we cannot even find out what the progress or problem is.

My wife began Palliative Chemotherapy on Friday; she is very sick and weak. We cannot hide it from the children and they are scared. Yesterday, I broke down, after the phone calls. This prompted my Father to contact you. We have nowhere else to turn.
Matt Glover.