[tomtom]

Keep writing Matt.

[systema_ian]

we know the enemy Matt and it's not you.

Hang in there

[Oldmanmatt]

The sun burned....               16 May 2012

The sun burned.

I cannot remember my name.

The still air, unbearably hot.

I stumble in my blindness, hand upon the shoulder of an unseen slave.


Behind...

Behind, the sound of battle.

The sound of Bronze on wood.

The cries and grunts of brave men dying.

I cannot remember my name.


Behind...

Behind, a king will die.

Ahead...

Shame.

I cannot remember my name.


Even as the battle crescendos, even as I realise the depth of my shame and cowardice; of my helplessness and weakness.

A lone violin fills the air with soaring music, and...


Lifts me to consciousness.

Lifts me to life.

Lifts me to a bed of tortured bed sheets.

To a brow, swathed in sweat.

As I lie there, the violin drowning out the echoes of the dream...


I remember my name.

My name is.


Aristodemus

[Nibile]

I don't want to be rude Matt, but if you please I'd like to know why did you choose Aristodemus. His story is quite peculiar, isn't it?
To be brutally honest Matt, I can't see any shame in your future, nor Betrayal, in fact now we know that Aristodemus wasn't a traitor.

[Oldmanmatt]

Thanks Lore.
I didn't choose it.
It was a real dream/nightmare.

I first heard his story as a young teenager and It always struck me as revealing the true nature of the Spartans; not the heroic rhetoric I'd heard before...

I think, perhaps, there will always be guilt.

Have I done enough?

Do I feel bad enough?

Why her, not me?

And other thoughts and feelings too dark and confusing to admit.

I had a bit of a moment, a few days ago.

Drinking tea, in the hospice cafe, with my sister.
Suddenly, I was being gently led to the "Quiet" room; by one of the nurses.

It just hit me, all at once.

What it means and how long we, the children and I, will have to carry it.

That it will never be over.

No Plaeatea for Matt.

[Oldmanmatt]

Tired...                     25 May 2012


Tuesday.

Tuesday is Daddy and Mini OMM 2 climbing day.

As I rush to get the two Minis out the door, one to school and one to the climbing wall; the phone rings.

Blocked number...

I hate blocked numbers.

They fill me with fear.

They never bring good news.

Each time, it could be; THE call...




This time it is the Hospice Doctor and I shiver as I recognise her voice.


"We have had a meeting, the Oncologist, the Surgeon and myself... " She says.
"We're going to send her up to the Hospital, for another scan and review by the Surgeon;  we might be able to find a way to get her eating again."
With one hand, I hold the phone; with the other, I fasten my little boy's shoes...
"It will take some time to set up, so I'll call you when I know the arrangements..."

I drop my little girl off at school and head off to the wall.
Behind, my little boy chatters away and my head is full of conflicting, arguing, raging, thoughts...

Suddenly, I'm in a Maelstrom of speeding vehicles; swerving, heart pounding, screeching.

Scared.

Confused.

"You idiot!" says the Voice,
"You just drove through a red light!"





Mid morning, when he's had enough of being "Spider Monkey", I pull my phone from the rucksack.

There is a voice mail.

"We're putting her in the ambulance in a few minutes, she'll be going in to Mere ward..."

Shit! The message is twenty minutes old...



I let the Voice take control for the drive back. I let it force the worried, timid, Me; deep into myself. I let the cold, calculating, heartless, Me; take the reigns.

It's safer that way.


At the Hospital, my sister takes the little man and I head to the ward.



There are endless Doctors, for more opinions, for fresh perspective; searching for some glimmer of hope.

There is pain.

Always, pain.

Every move is agony.

Every examination is torture.

The Voice struggles to keep control, each time she cries out...

Around six PM, she is taken down for a CT scan, for X-rays.

Then we wait.

We wait for the images to be up-loaded to the system.


At the Nurses' station, on the ward, The Surgeon, the Registrar, the Ward Doctor, the Specialist nurse, wait in silence.

Was it seven thirty? Was it eight? When the images became available?

I don't remember.

They cluster around the screen.

In other parts of the Hospital, others are looking at the same images, discussing by phone with the Doctors on the ward.

I can hear enough.

She appears to be asleep.

I am glad.


It is nine thirty, when the Surgeon comes over.


I saw him pause.

I saw him take a breath.

The others looked to their hands.



There is nothing.




As darkness fell, the ambulance came to return her to the Hospice, the crew eager to help and handling her like glass.

I saw the flash in her eye.

At the hospice, she will not ride in on the stretcher.

She sits and waits in the ambulance until I return with her crutches and will only accept one and an elbow.

The Nurses and the ambulance crew fret and worry.

But she will only accept her Mothers arm.

Inside, she slowly crosses the Foyer, through the doors, into the corridor.


Finally, out of sight of the ambulance crew, she turns to me.


"Get a bloody wheel chair... Now!"



I do as I'm told...

[Oldmanmatt]

One night...                  26 May 2012

The first in an age.




The Quay was hot.

The Bouldering rooms like a sauna.

It drove us quickly out to the ropes, but still I gasped.

My Daughter and her Cousin, made a desultory, feeble attempt at leading; before going to play on the auto belays.

I tried to play on the new 7a+...

After the fourth, sweaty, slip from the pinch and in desperate need of one of those '70s head bands; I gave up.

Friday night.

The sun shone, the birds sang, the Tors called.

We ignored the call, stopped to pick up a take-away and headed to the hospice.



The serenity of the Hospice garden is shattered by the giggling, bickering children; chasing each other and climbing trees. Poking at spiders and chasing butterflies.
We dine on fried chicken, pulled, sticky fingered from the bucket and I watch her face.

she tastes a little chicken, a solitary bite of corn from the cob.
 
A memory of flavour.

She smiles slightly, sleepy eyes drifting across our two children, their cousins, Mamaia, my sister.

She catches me watching her and pokes out her tongue...

I return the gesture and try to stifle the sob...




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.



Alone in the dusk, for the first time in such a long time, we held hands.

I help her to wash.

Dress for bed.

Settle her her in.

As she drifts off into the arms of Morpheus, I lie beside her and watch the shadows cross the ceiling.

One night...

The first in an age.


How many more?

[Oldmanmatt]

A Floydian slip...            28 May 2012


We spoke, last night.

Every night, since she went into the hospice, we say goodnight via Skype.

Last night...

Last night, she was only half there.

Her head kept drooping, her eyes closing; her pauses dragging.

Drowsy...

Weary...

Drugged.



Hello...

Is there anybody in there?

Just nod if you can hear me.



I couldn't rest.

Mind racing, thoughts darting; fears looming.

I couldn't read.

Mind wandering, words jumbling, echoes  intruding.

I couldn't...

Think.



I tapped iPlayer.

It was a mistake.

An hour of Pink Floyd.

A night of haunting dreams and confused memories...




I became a fan by accident.

There was a war.

I'd been given tickets and it would have been rude not to go.

I'd returned from a Honeymoon (wife number one) and left the next day (surprised it lasted ten years, really).

I packed in a hurry.

I packed my Walkman.

I didn't pack a single tape.




The Souk in Izmir, seemed to have everything.

Everything except western music less than ten years old.

The only thing that caught my eye, was a pirate copy of Pink Floyd's "The Final Cut".

For the next few months, it was my only retreat.




This would not be our war.

To the East, the fighting raged.

We hung around, peripheral, spare.

Just close enough to feel the tension.

Later, I would be glad.

Later, I would come to understand.

Later, I would see.


Later, that album would come to have meaning.



Long ago.


Now?

Now, I have become...


Un-comfortably numb.
 

[GCW]

Two Suns in the Sunset is an amazing song.

[Oldmanmatt]

Two Suns in the Sunset is an amazing song.

Yes, it is.

If, though, we ever become a republic; how's this for a constitution...

"A place to stay.
Enough to eat.
Somewhere old heros,
Shuffle safely down the street.

Where you can speak out loud,
About your doubts and fears,
and what's more;
no-one ever disappears.
You never hear their standard issue,
kicking in your door.

You can relax,
on both sides of the tracks.
And maniacs,
Don't blow holes,
In bandsmen by remote control.

And everyone has recourse to the law,
And no one kills the children,
Anymore.

[Oldmanmatt]

68 Sitting here...                   30 May 2012

Again.

Watching her sleep.

TV burbling to drown out the peace of the hospice.

Sometimes,

there can be too much peace...





I keep writing.

But I don't write about Her.

Not directly.

When I try, my mind scitters off.




She is always there, strangely, even in the memories of things that happened years before I met her.
A presence, a rock, a foundation and reason.
At the centre.
The point of everything.
My destination.



I've been staying at the Hospice.
The children have been staying with their Grandparents.
I miss them.
I see them everyday.
But I miss them.



I miss Her.

She is right here beside me.

And I miss her...



She, is feisty.

That sounds as though it should be followed by " an' I likes a Gurl wi' spirit!" and a lewd laugh.
But think about it.

I have never seen her back down from anything or anyone.



Yesterday, we wheeled her bed out into the garden, so she could lay in the sun; the wheel chair was becoming uncomfortable.

Later, she tried to move back to the wheel chair.

She couldn't do it.

Pain and exhaustion drove her back.

Her legs no longer work, she can't move them, but they hurt to touch.

Enough to make her scream, if I catch her wrong whilst moving her.



I was sure she would not leave the bed again.

I though I had seen her backdown...




I was wrong.


She got out of bed this morning.


There were a few false starts.


I was roundly insulted for being too "Bloody rough"!


But...

She made it to the wheelchair.




It cost so much.
And her account must be so close to empty.


She,

will,

spend,

every,

last,

Cent...

[Jaspersharpe]

A lot is spoken about strength on this website (and rightly so). But I've never witnessed a feat of strength as impressive as the writing of this blog. Or rather I thought that until the last entry. Perhaps your wife wins on that one. They always do eh.

I'm so sorry Matt. I feel pathetic that your words make me cry when it's you that's living them. Keep fucking going. 

[andy popp]

Even as someone who has had to walk this same path I am humbled. I am sure you are all in all our thoughts.

[Duma]

A lot is spoken about strength on this website (and rightly so). But I've never witnessed a feat of strength as impressive as the writing of this blog. Or rather I thought that until the last entry. Perhaps your wife wins on that one. They always do eh.

I'm so sorry Matt. I feel pathetic that your words make me cry when it's you that's living them. Keep fucking going. 

^ this. Stay strong Matt.

[SA Chris]

I can only echo the sentiments above. Stay strong and keep writing if it helps. I sometimes wish I was a bit closer so I could offer you a shoulder, give you a spot or buy you a pint.

[BenF]

Very well put Jasper. 

I don't spend much time on this site these days and to be honest I find it really hard to read this blog; it moves me to tears just reading it so fuck knows how you manage to live through it Matt.  However, I just wanted to add my trivial words of support but also say thanks for writing with such heart and eloquence.  You are a very good man.

[jimdar]

Matt,
What can be said???
Just keep going and be brave for your kids.
Marion & Jim

[biscuit]

Matt,

you don't know me and i don't know you but i have been reading your blog without commenting for a while now.

I feel privileged to read it. I cry every time and i just wanted to say thank you and to also add my virtual support for what good it does. I don't think i have ever read such powerful words.

Keep strong you, and your family, are truly amazing.

[iain]

Jasper has the words I don't.

Keep fucking going. 

[Oldmanmatt]

There is...               06 June 2012







Anger.





Overwhelming.

But...

Unfocused.

Unaimed.



Pointless...



11:00 pm.

I left the Hospice.

The howling wind a mirror of my whirling anger.

The driving rain, an echo of my sorrow.



I had to strain to hear her muttered "I love you".

The Butterfly of her concentration, alighting for a moment on my face.

The faint lift of a smile.

The gentle return of a kiss.

She closed her eyes.

And slept.



The wind roared.

Dodging fallen branches, anxiously scanning for toppling trees; I make my way to any empty house.

An empty bed...


"I remember the wind..."

Says the Voice.

As I drive, the plastic in my hand becomes the wooden spoked wheel of another life.



I remember the wind.


A sixteen year old boy.

Scared.

Sat astride the box and holding the wheel of the Donald Searle.

Trying to pretend the mountainous sea and raging Hurricane were not there.

Trying to pretend that the Minquiers were not there.

To the north...

Seven Oaks became one.



I wonder where she goes?

In her mind.

She doesn't seem troubled.

Sometimes, a smile touches her lips.

But, her mind is rarely here.

She talks to people who are not there.



I remember the wind.



A young man of twenty one.

Arriving at the back of the bridge, in time to see the Juggernaut arrive.

To understand, firsthand; the might of a Southern Ocean Rouge.

A thirty meter high lesson in mortality.

To hear the rending of metal.

To feel a hand, colder than the icy water; wrap around my heart and squeeze.






I wonder where she goes?

Does the sun shine?

Do the children laugh?

Do birds sing?



Or does the wind howl?




I remember the wind. 




A young man of twenty six.

A first command.

A replica of an 1850 American schooner.

Close hauled, joyfully beating into a thirty five Knot Meltem.

Too young.

Too close to the towering island.

Too slow to see the tell tale ruffling of the water, that heralded the fist of a Katabatic; funnelled down a rocky gorge and hurled across the water, to slam her to her beam ends.

Too late to stop the knock down.

Eighty tons of ship lying on it's side.

Four thousand square feet of sail, Submerged...

The panicked guests.

The eternity of waiting to see if she would right.

The weight of...



Responsibility...





I am sitting in the car.

Parked outside the house.

I don't remember driving.





I wonder where she goes?

[Oldmanmatt]

05:30                     12 June 2012


We held her hands.


I on one side, Mamaia on the other.


Her chest rose.


Fell.


And fell again...




My Father drove us home.


Children in pyjamas, getting ready for school.

Laughing.

Playing with my parents dog.

So pleased to see me after so many nights away.



Cries of "DADDY!!" as they rushed to hug me.





I broke their hearts.


Stilled their smiles.


One sentence.


That's all it took.



Three days.


Since I heard her voice.

Since I felt her fluttered kiss.


Three days.

Sat beside her bed.

Sleeping in the chair.

Watching her struggle.

Waiting for peace.


Holding her hand and whispering comfort.



All for one sentence.


Three words.



"Mummy... is gone".



"And"

Says the Voice.

Echoing deep inside.


"There's not much of Daddy left..."

[Will Hunt]

We're so sorry, Matt. Stay strong for them. We're thinking of you.

[nik at work]

Matt the power of your words is incredible. Everytime I read this thread I find myself crying.
I know my words are as nothing by comparison but you and your family have been and will remain in my thoughts.
Stay strong.

[Bubba]

Feel for you so much Matt, sending you all the vibes I can muster; so sorry to hear that she's gone...

[iain]

Our thoughts are with you Matt. Take care of them and be kind to yourself.