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the shizzle => the blog pile => Topic started by: Oldmanmatt on May 15, 2011, 12:37:00 pm
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Black Hole Sun........
It’s last Thursday afternoon, day off training. I’m riding the metro into BCN for a wander around, coffee, check out the gear shops. My phone rings, it’s my wife.... “Hey Babe, I’m on the Metro; I’ll call you back in five”....
Won’t you come.........?
I get off at the next stop, Urquinaona, run up to the little park in the centre of the square. Re-dial.... “The good news is” she says “is I don’t have DVT”. She laughs. “I have a lump, pressing on a vein in my groin”.
I can’t breathe, a solitary tear springs from my eye and I try to sink deeper into the shade. My mind, in a split second, races through the last year and a half of watching her dragged through Chemo, Radiotherapy, angina attacks, abscesses, stoma bags... Hell... That blessed all clear back in October...
And wash away my pain............
“Mel (the Oncologist), says it’s almost certainly Cancer, they won’t know for sure until after the PET next week” (She’s laughing again! How can she laugh?).
I swallow; force the pounding heart out of my throat, “I'll get a flight home, as soon as I can..”
“No!” she interrupts, “I’m OK, you stay there until you get your money, we’re going to need it!”
Black Hole Sun.......
I try to train on Friday, the wall seems unreal. Someone has removed a crucial hold from my favourite warm up route and irrational anger sweeps over me. I always feel isolated, I have limited Spanish and no Catalan; today I might as well be on the Moon. I try too hard and too many times to make a move on a problem I’d been working, strain my finger. I have to leave before anyone sees the tears....
Won’t you come............?
The dream is back. I’m there again, on South Georgia; the sun searing my face and eyes. I’m lost in a vast expanse of snow and ice, my feet frozen solid; my fingers starting to go...... I wake, drenched in sweat. I haven’t had the dream for ten years or more, not since I met Her.......
For fucks sake, wash away my pain............
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You have mail Matt.
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The Dream.........
It always begins the same way.
I’m alone, the silence of the Ice Cap wraps around me like a shroud. Purple spots cloud my vision as the snow blindness takes hold. My Bolles were not worth the money, it seems.
Behind me, the silence is shattered by the unimaginable cacophony of another avalanche. I don’t even flinch anymore; it’s been my soundtrack for too long now. In front, the crevasse; a yawning, blue abyss.
My feet hurt, each step is an appalling agony and a voice at the back of my head whines with each step “you’re 21 and you’re going to lose your feet”. I push down the voice again, step back; slip a second axe from the holster on my harness.
Breathe, run, leap.......
Desperate scrabbling, panting and I’m standing again. Holster the axe, push down the voice; cling to the routine. Force the pace, keep moving.
The Sun is my enemy. In a few hours it will dip just below the horizon, relief from the terrible burning but then the Adiabatic will come tearing down from the peaks behind. The temperature will crash (we’d recorded -50DegC the night before). In two days it will be Christmas Eve, in eleven days I will turn twenty two; cling to the routine, keep moving..........
It’s a few hours earlier, we haven’t slept in 36 hours or more. The Guy’s have collapsed, Roy’s feet are gone, Steve is concussed. We are shambling Zombies, there is little left of the men who set out from advanced Base, full of determination and life. It is (we will discover later) the warmest summer for five hundred years. Our pathetic attempt to summit is beaten to a pulp, as around us the mountains shed five centuries of snow and ice.
We had been descending when it happened, already mentally defeated. Five of us, strung out Alpine style. I lead, as the deputy leader; Steve (The boss and twenty years my senior) bringing up the rear. In the Serrac, below the summit ridge; we had scaled a fantastic Ice wall. In the cold half light of the Antarctic dawn it had been crisp, exhilarating. Now it was a slushy, deteriorating, heart pounding nightmare. At the base another mind boggling crevasse meant traversing to safer ground a hundred meters away. I made it, got my breath back, set up the belay. As each man descended, so we each moved a rope length away and dug in. It’s Steve’s’ turn, last man down but the ice face is too chewed up by our passage and......
There’s a shout, I look up, to see Steve tumbling, the screws not even holding long enough to tighten the rope. In a flailing arc, he disappears into the crevasse and as he does, we see the rope wrapped around his Crampon. He didn’t make a sound.
We stumble into the advance base, Steve is semi-conscious; the rest of us just shells. Going through the motions. Pete sets up the radio, it doesn’t work; but what’s the point anyway. We’re too far from the nearest Helo to expect rescue and there’s nowhere for a fixed wing to land. Our ship home isn’t due for another five days. We rest in the snow hole for the short night, dump the gear we’d sweated to bring in and begin the 20k trudge to base camp on the coast. There’s a more powerful radio there, just maybe we can raise the Garrison at Grytviken. As we walk I’m dreaming of rescue......
I’m back at the moment of collapse. I’m screaming, ranting “For God’s sake get up, you can’t sit down”! The Sun has turned the surface snow of the Ice Cap to slush; it seeps into your clothes and freezes again. To sit in this is to die. They won’t listen. Now a raving lunatic, I untie my line and turn away. Blind with rage and fear I begin pounding for the coast. We are deep in the fracture section, marooned between crevasses; to move on un-roped is suicide, but I go anyway.....
The sun is on the horizon, it’s cold, so cold. A distant voice in my head calmly notes I’m crossing a patch of stones, at last; the compression section! No more crevasse! And, there a few K’s away, in the gloom, the tents! Safety!
Then it hits me.......... WHAT HAVE I DONE!!!
I can’t go on, I’m finished. I drop my pack, sit down. Bawling, gibbering “Oh God, where are they, what have I done!”
The cold is now my world, my mind wanders through tortured paths of memory and regret. I am broken.
I sit, numb, staring into the adiabatic as it mounts its nightly assault. I will sit here till the cold takes me and my sin no longer burns. It is what I deserve.....
“There's something red out there”. The voice is back, intruding on my sorrow and pathetic self pity. A blob becomes a figure, becomes a shuffling, unsteady, man. “It’s Steve” says the voice, I ignore it. The figure throws its self down beside me, without removing its’ pack. “He’s still out of it” says the voice as I stare at his glassy eyes. We don’t speak.
An hour or more has passed. There are now five figures, huddling in the bitter, slicing wind. Nobody has uttered a single sound. The gloom is lifting; one of the figures stumbles to its feet (who knows, now, who it was) and the others follow.
As we shuffle away, Roy turns and like a knife to my heart, he mutters “Thank you, for not giving up”.
They were not the same men............
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I was alone...
When I met her...
Sitting at a table, in a Restaurant. She was beautiful. A child of the Carpathians, taking a year out; working in the restaurant (where her cousin was the manager). Enjoying the Dubai sunshine.
We smiled at each other, as she handed me the menu. Her eyes, the colour of Honey, with a mischievous glint. I waited for my friends; it was our semi-regular lunch time hangout. She took our order, brought our order; got it wrong......
Most days, I would get there before the others; order an iced coffee. We’d chat while I drank. Sometimes she’d bring over a whole pile of different used coffee glasses and then she’d tease my friends about how long they’d made me wait.......
I was a broken man, again, my wife of ten years; had left me the year before. I'd just turned thirty a few weeks ago. Much to the amusement of my friends, I didn’t notice; that she always took our order, always got it wrong.
Oh, I was enchanted by her but I couldn’t bring myself to make the move; too many doubts. Finally, one of my friends, in exasperation; wrote my number on his card and gave it to her. I didn’t know and that same afternoon I skived work, went back to the restaurant to give her my number. I did it, stuttering, her cousin giggling behind her. She smiled and said “Thanks, but I already have it”. Shame faced, I rushed out.......... She had my number but she hadn’t called me! I’ve just made a right tit of myself haven’t I......?
She called me an hour later. Yes, she’d very much like to go on a date with me. Her night off was the next day, she was living in Sharja. Perhaps I could meet her there in the Gold Souk? Seven thirty? YES, A THOUSAND TIMES YES!
Ten years ago, almost to the day.....
Today is “Patient conference” day. The many Doctors and Medics who handle her case are sitting together as I write. There is no formality between us, it’s always first names; never “Doctor” this or “Professor” that. Each and every one, has taken us to one side and passed us their home and mobile numbers; “call me, any questions, any time”......
She was late. I’d been early, already on my third coffee. My phone rang, an unfamiliar female voice “She’s on her way, running late and doesn’t have a phone, so asked me to call”. I started to breathe again..........
Then stopped......
She’d come around the corner; little black top, tight (oh so tight) red trousers and black heels. I’d only ever seen her in her work clothes and she’d been beautiful; but this was a knock out......!
Tomorrow is the PET scan. She called me, to discuss bland, domestic, things. Chirpy, efficient and casually tacking the PET thing on to the end. The PET will tell us if the tumour is “active” and if it has spread (well, it’s already spread, the original tumour burned away in a maelstrom of radiation). On this, all our hopes and fears are riding.
To her, it’s a footnote........
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Why am I doing this.......?
I haven’t written an essay for twenty years (and then, only, late at night; a few hours before it was due on the lecturer’s desk); and even then, dry, technical........... Stuff.
I don’t keep a diary, don’t blog. An occasional FB comment. I don’t write.
I draft reports, precise, logical. An engineer to the core.....
I sat at the computer on Saturday morning. I’d strained my finger, the day before. Rain was forecast. There was no chance of climbing away from reality. I was on the site, commenting on strains, browsing through blogs. Numb
I closed the browser and without conscious volition, opened Word.
It’s five PM on Monday, I’ve been writing for three days. Short, surreal, disconnected, ramblings and memories. I don’t know why.
Why am I posting this, here.........?
I don’t know. I just felt I had to put it somewhere, somewhere other than a folder in “My documents”. Somewhere.......
Someone might read it. Not too many. Unseen faces, people, climbers like me.
It will stay there, until the moderators get tired of it clogging up the bytes.
Just like us.....
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Thanks for posting it. I wouldn't have guessed you were an engineer!
Found your writing compelling and emotive.
Chris
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If it's helping then keep doing it. The perversity of finding a subject like this enjoyable to read is surely testament to your skill as a writer.
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CairnGorm.....
I boulder, now. A little obsessively, perhaps.
It’s not as if bouldering is exactly safe (some of the worst injuries I’ve seen, in thirty odd years of climbing, have happened on boulders).
I’ve been climbing since I was eight years old. I don’t know why. If I did, maybe, I wouldn’t have to.
I climb.
It’s a sunny, January, afternoon. We’ve arrived early. The car park at CairnGorm is full, conditions are perfect (forecast for a dump overnight) and surely, surely, we can squeeze one in.....
We should have known better.....
“The Runnel (Grade 2)”, should be a doddle. We set off. Fast, young... stupid.
There’s another pair already on the route, about a pitch up (it seems there isn’t a single gulley free of Gore-Tex, right now). Mug of coffee from the flask, take our time gearing up. Let them get a pitch or two ahead....
We’re climbing; it’s easy going; just steep snow. The crux is on the last pitch, short, sweet. We alternate the lead and we’ll worry about who gets the crux later. Flip a coin.
“BELOW!”
I hunker into the scoop and put my head down. Ice comes clattering past; I wait a few seconds then emerge again. The weather is turning, the sky no longer blue but white, the light flat.
I’m on belay, Mike is leading, the pitch before the crux. I can’t see him and he hasn’t moved since the Ice came past. I shout but there’s no reply, no sound at all, the air is dead here in the gulley.
Then I get the signal, tugged through the rope, he’s on belay.
There’s something wrong, I have too much rope here, he can’t be at the belay point; but the tugs come again and I think I hear the call. I un-clip and he’s pulling through.
I climb.
Snow is kissing my cheeks, the world is white, the light is fading. I have to stop, frequently, to let the slack in the rope catch up with my progress. Something is wrong and this is a bad time for something to be wrong.
I climb.
He’s a mess.
The snow is red around him, his face a bloody, swollen, mass. One eye closed up, the other red, half closed, glassy.
The climber above had dislodged the ice, he’d shouted, he knew we were below. But in that instant, Mike had glanced up......
I can’t see the sides of the gully anymore, nothing but white.
“What are you going to do?” says the voice.
I don’t know. Below us lie many rope lengths of steep ground. Can I lower him? Can He make himself safe and then belay me, as I climb down? Again and again?
“What do you think?” asks the voice.
Can I leave him? Can I get down alone and call for help?
“You left them on the ice, remember. It’s what you do.” the voice sneers.
“Mike, Mike mate” I prod him and he looks up from his misery. “Can you belay? We can’t be far below the runnel and the top.”
He nods, the coin has landed, I lead.
I climb.
Within a few feet, Mike is lost in the soft white flurries. My breath thunders in the deepening gloom.
I climb.
My axe strikes the thin ice of the crux. It’s been heavy going, the rope sometimes too tight, sometimes too slack. The last deadman is a long way below. The ice is too thin to take a screw. There must be rock around me, somewhere to put some gear, but I can see nothing but white.
I climb.
The ice is thin, much thinner than I expected.
“You thought this would be easy” said the voice.
I climb.
The voice is talking again. I can’t understand it, it’s too surreal.
“Did you find my camera?”
Realisation. I look up and there’s a disembodied head smiling at me.
I cried.
There was abseiling, there was hauling.
There was stumbling through the dark, supporting Mike’s semi conscious form. The sharp beams of head torches cutting through the falling snow.
There were hospitals, hot coffee.
There was a warm bag on a youth hostel bunk.
But when I close my eyes.....
I climb.
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Keep writing mate. Really enjoying it (though there is a tiny bit of me that wishes I could write that well) - it's very powerful, emotive stuff.
Best of luck with every thing.
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It will stay there, until the moderators get tired of it clogging up the bytes.
Not me :bow:
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Where are you?
“Where are you? Where have you been?”
She’s angry, worried, I should have been home hours ago.
“Umm, look... Can you come get me? Ask Anne if she can come with you and call Bill’s wife... We’ve lost our car keys, phones, wallets... everything.”
I’m shaking as I talk.
“There’s been an accident.”
She is four months pregnant, showing.
And I am a selfish, thoughtless, Bastard.........
Six meters....
I switch from twenty one to pure O2. I’m going to be here for forty minutes or so. Sun beams flashing through the water around me.
I watch Dave switch gases, we exchange OK’s. He’s struggling to stay level. A Remora has decided he’s a shark and is trying to latch on.
“More like a whale.” Says the voice.
It’s been a good dive, life is good.
I grab the ladder, pass up the deco tanks, throw my fins in. Climb in.
Behind me Dave passes up his tanks and sticks his face in the water to get his fins.
I bend forward, to take the weight of the twin set as I undo the waist buckle, beside me Ahmed is gearing up. Gentle waves, calm.
Ahmed pulls his re-breather towards him, I slip the buckle.
POP!
A silly, insignificant, sound. Flames leap across the deck, engulfing my feet.
I don’t think, don’t breathe, I just dive. Straight over the ladder, straight over Dave’s submerged head. As my head hits the water, something smacks into my calf. Hot, searing.
I surface, behind me a terrible, howling roar. I turn to see a towering Roman Candle, rising from the middle of the deck.
Phut! Boom!
Shit... The tanks are cooking off. Turn, swim, desperate... All around debris, shrapnel, tearing up the water.
“You have responsibilities.” The voice is chiding, berating. “You should not be here!”......
The years had passed, we had passed them together. Two weeks after that first date, she’d moved in.
There had been mountains, canyons, deserts and jungles.
The mountain girl, who could hardly swim; had become a competent diver. Her quick eye had soon focused on photography, above and below the waves; it was being noticed.
When, after two years of searching, we had finally located the wreck of the U533; she had carefully ferried deco tanks to and from the stops as we slowly crawled up from 120 mtrs (a disorienting tasks in the featureless blue void). She shyly stood with us glory hounds, when we posed for the paper.
There had been the miscarriage.....
There had been pain....
We’d just returned from another adventure, back to work; reality. Not long after Christmas 2005. She said “I’m late.”
We sweat it out, the three months of shadow. Then the dreaded scan, that last time brought such pain.
It was viable, it was strong. She was pregnant.
But I wanted to go back to the Sub. That meant training. So I left her at home, drove the 100k’s to Fujhera. 75 mtr dive, good forecast, good friends; what could go wrong......?
The explosions have subsided.
We are huddled in the water a couple hundred meters away. Quiet, staring.
To the bemusement of Ahmed and Phi (a Vietnamese American), Bill begins to laugh...
“Bloody Flares wer’ in’t ther’” he giggles. “An t' radio” To a Brit, such things are funny...
Suddenly we’re all laughing.
Time passes, we’re not laughing anymore.
“You’re 25 k’s offshore, the boat is burning, you’re alone” says the voice. “You shouldn’t be here”
Time passes, the voice won’t stop.
In the eyes of the others, I can see, they hear the voice too.
Time passes.
There is a fishing boat, attracted by the blasts; it has followed the smoke column.
We laugh, we joke. We slap each other’s backs.
But even when I’m back on land, she is holding me, sobbing....
I can still hear the voice...
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PET day..........
Here it is eleven AM. There it is only ten.
She will be walking into the scanner room right now.
Somewhere in Taunton, (they don’t have one in Exeter).
It was three AM, last night; when I last glanced at my watch and finally slipped into restless sleep.
The voice is getting louder....
I missed my training session yesterday. Friday’s finger strain, was still..........
“An excuse”
The voice does not permit self delusion.
The voice is not a bad thing.
It just is.
There has been fear....
Still limping from the leg wound, (a piece of yellow, plastic, re-breather casing had embedded its' self there a month before). I hold her as we leave the Doctors office.
She smiles at the Nurse behind the desk (but I can feel her shoulders shake) and makes another appointment, one weeks time. From now on it will be a weekly ritual.
Placenta Praevia. Type 4.
We didn’t know what it was. Now we do and wish we didn’t.
There has been joy...
Four weeks early (to avoid any risk of contractions).
It is Dubai, I am not allowed in the theatre. I must wait outside.
There is crying.
A beaming, Bulgarian, Mid-wife is calling me, “Come, Daddy, meet your little girl”.
Now there are two “Shes” and everything has changed.
It’s eleven thirty one. She must be nearly finished.
I’m waiting anxiously for her call. To hear her say she’s home. She wouldn’t let my Father drive her, insisting she do it herself.
Her Demon, her fight...
There has been joy...
She has booked a suite at an expensive hotel, looking out over the warm waters of the Gulf.
She has booked a baby sitter.
It is Valentines’ day and we enjoy a candle lit dinner in the restaurant at the back of the beach.
Gentle music, the surf softly churning in the distance.
Eight months and three weeks later...
“He” arrives.
There has been joy...
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10:13 (BST)
She texts "They're injecting me with the good stuff"
11:30 (BST)
One word "Done"
"Call me whn u get hme. Mxxx" I reply.
"There are hundreds of image frames to be checked" Says the Voice.
It will be Thursday, before we know anything.
I wait...
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Her...
(http://www.flickr.com/photos/oldmanmatt/5730267744/in/photostream) (http://www.flickr.com/photos/oldmanmatt/5730267744/in/photostream)
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(http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3611/5730267744_25a23693f2.jpg) (http://www.flickr.com/photos/oldmanmatt/5730267744/)
P1010051 (http://www.flickr.com/photos/oldmanmatt/5730267744/#) by oldmanmatt (http://www.flickr.com/people/oldmanmatt/), on Flickr
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I can't think of anything intelligent to say, nor can I ignore this thread...just keep writing.
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Waiting....
Thursday...
It’s only tomorrow, might as well be a hundred years away...
Sleep came last night, finally, uninterrupted, deep; even the dream left me alone.
But, when I wake, the thoughts are back.
Constantly running through the events that lead to this point. They say that your life flashes before your eyes, in moments of extreme danger; when you think you’re going to die. I have been there, I don’t remember such a thing; I remember the voice.
There has been some news; it is good; it is hope.
The Surgeon (“Call me Harry. Look, here’s my card, any questions, anytime.”) has said he is happy to operate.
There had been doubts. There had been “Proximity to arteries and nerves”.
There had been hesitation....
There are many more questions...
I have regurgitated a life time, through my fingers, passed the keyboard; to the hard drive. There is more, far more than I can post here. Not every memory is painful...
There was Greenland....
There had been Ice diving, mountains, fjords. Fire lit nights, listening to Inuit hunters tell tall stories. Drunken revels with crazy Danes...
There had been The Politician....
There were three of us. Two of us we’re” his” babysitters, sorry, guides.
The Politician was on his honeymoon and though his new wife is full of life (she was a cracker!)And has spent her days in a wetsuit or boots; he has mostly read books or “Teleconferenced”.
Today, he wants to “do” the Ice Cap. We plan a short foray, just enough to give him a taste; cross a few crevasse (maybe he will realise how small he really is). Let him feel the silence.
We stop for a brew. It is quiet out here, the occasional boom as something moves deep below.
We are content, reverent; “He” wants to chat.
“I think I detect Military in your accents?” He has a distinctive, whiny, voice (you would know it well).
“Navy” I say. “Guards” says my partner (He really does have the accent too).
“But” says the Politician “You’re both so young, why did you abandon your careers so early?”
Normally, we enjoy chatting to clients, they are always awe struck. Normally, they get it. This guy is just irritating.
We could talk about Kuwait, Bosnia.... Hell... He wouldn’t understand.
I glance at my buddy, willing my eyes to say “you get this one, you’re more diplomatic”; he doesn’t need my prompt...
“Because” (in his best, plumy, upper crust), “Your fucking predecessor, made us redundant; you prick!”
The Politician would like to borrow the radio...
We watch the Helo, disappear. He was too tired, apparently, for the hike back.
We turn and begin the trudge back to the coast, giggling like school boys.
There will be a price....
It was worth it.
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She re-built me...
Even as I’d walked off the Ice Cap, that sunny arctic afternoon; my ex was busy carving out her new life.
I didn’t know...
When I found out, I quit my job and rushed back to the UK. It was too late.
Tired of being left behind, tired of my adventures; tired.
I took the first job that came along. Dubai.
I was a shell, nothing inside.
From that meeting in the restaurant, she began to fill the shell.
We talked, late into the night; on long dawn drives to the mountains or far away dive sites. Her passion for adventure, for life; re-awoke my own.
We were married a year later.
We were married three times.
The first time at Holy Trinity, just friends and our parents.
I sketched the dress, her mother made it. She was stunning.
Our friends had organised a reception in their villa garden. We walked in under a tunnel of divers fins held at the salute. It was the best day of my life.
We were married again, a few days later, at the Romanian Embassy in Abu Dhabi. Just us (and a bottle of champers).
There was no avoiding it. She was Romanian, Orthodox, there would have to be the full show.
A few months and a great deal of planning later, we travelled again to her native mountains.
A Romanian wedding is something to see. To experience it, well; that is beyond description.
It is a beautiful, August, morning.
I travel with my family to her village. The house is decked with greenery; a huge arch of tree boughs adorns the gate. There is music and dancing in the garden beyond. I knock.
Her cousins will not let me in; I must pay them to get past. Inside, my family joins the dancing. They must distract her family, while I sneak to her room and try to steal her away. She is radiant, breath taking, we hurry out.
We are (of course) caught before the gate. Now we must face her parents.
We each in turn must beg them for forgiveness. I must ask them to forgive me for stealing their only daughter. She must ask them to forgive her for leaving them alone. Her father asks “Is this what you want?” It is quiet, stern faces all around. “Da” she replies. The house erupts in cheering and we must lead the dancing (and I must pay the accordion player, repeatedly).
We travel in convoy to the church, horns blaring.
Our God parents lead us to the altar (they will do the same for our two children, in the years to come).
It becomes a confusing, busy, whirling ceremony.
There are candles, crowns upon our heads; there is dancing round the altar. There is much kissing of saints, splashing of holy water.
There are vows.
The convoy moves on to the tavern in the town, an open air courtyard. Roofed around the edges (like cloisters) where the tables are set up.
There is food, there is wine.
There is dancing. Not the English traditional wedding stomp.
Arms upon each other’s shoulders, we whirl in concentric circles. Feet flashing, learn quick or be mown under. Lightning flashes on the mountain tops.
We cut the cake. She grabs a handful and smears it on my face. I return the favour. They are cheering and the dancing begins again. Even through the rain and pounding thunder, we whirl through the darkness.
Then she is gone.
Her cousins have kidnapped her. They send an emissary with her shoe and the ransom demand. Wine and lots of it!
She is returned. We dance and drink and spin into the night....
Late, very late, we slip away.
Together.
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Music...
11:00 BST
I have to take this thing off shuffle...
There is still no news...
I’m trying to work, to focus...
Izzy strummed, that Hawaiian guitar, and I’m tumbling over the rainbow.
It happened yesterday, at the wall; when Delores wailed, cried, “In your head, in your head!”
I shall carefully select a new playlist.
It doesn’t take much, right now.
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There is only one tumour.
They can cut it out, along with some of the Lymph nodes around it.
After that....
It depends on the Biopsy.
It is better than we had feared.
There will be more waiting...
It is a long way from over...
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To those who noticed that I wrote Adiabatic instead of Katabatic, repeatedly, and did not mention it...
Thank you.
(No one did).
Believe it or not, I have only today reread what I wrote...
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Better than we feared is definitely better than worse than we feared. Keep hold of all the positives no matter how small they may seem.
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Campus....
Left hand up...
Pull through...
Repeat to top...
Lock off 90...
Lock off 120...
Rest. Two minutes...
My mind wanders...
Christmas 2009. She is in pain.
It grows worse. Enough to prompt a trip to minor injuries.
“It’s probably nothing, take two of these and see your GP in the morning”
Right hand up...
Pull through...
Repeat to top...
Lock...
Lock again...
One set done...
Rest three minutes...
“It is almost certainly “X”. Nothing to worry about. However, since you’re in such pain, we’ll get you to the surgeon pronto”.
Two weeks and she’s in theatre.
There will be cameras, inspections, probing...
Left hand up...
Pull through...
Repeat...
Becoming aggressive now, frustration showing through...
Rest two minutes...
A small room in pastel shades, comfortable chairs.
“Uhmm... We found something”
It is very, very rare. No one it seems has ever seen it before.... read about it, yes. Not in someone so young...
This does not help.
Right hand up...
Sweating, grunting...
Two sets done...
Rest three minutes...
They don’t hang around.
Immediately, there are treatment plans.
“If the biopsy is X then we do A, if Y then we do B”.
But...
Within the week, there is another lump, in hours it swells; visibly beneath the skin.
An abscess. She is admitted. As they prep her, it bursts...
The calm, smiling, faces become serious. Everything, more urgent...
Left Hand up...
More like combat than training...
Rest two minutes...
The abscess has changed everything.
There will be a “Loop Stoma” and all that that entails.
There will be delays, while damage heals...
Right hand up...
Burning now...
Three sets done...
Spent...
Lying on the mat, panting.
Spent...
-
It’s complicated...
I drove up to Savassona.
It was 30 degrees, the sun shone and the birds sang.
I was almost alone, only one other climber and he didn’t seem to want to talk.
I was glad.
It’s complicated...
I climbed hard, ticked some 7a’s, left “half past Rome” alone.
Failed to make the last move on my nemesis.
Again...
For a while, I felt good....
That was Monday...
Today...
She went to see the Surgeon.
My Father went with her, to hold her hand.
I am still stuck in Spain...
It’s complicated...
Soon I will just throw in the towel, race home and sod the future...
It’s complicated...
The Surgeon says...
The tumour is wrapped around the main vein leading from her right leg.
The tumour is attached to the tube between her Kidney and the bladder.
There will be four different Surgeons.
It will take twelve hours.
There will be weeks of intensive care...
There is risk...
There is fear...
There are no promises...
Monday was a long, long time ago.
It’s all so complicated...
-
I cannot find the breath to sigh.
I cannot find the strength to try.
I know not what to think or say.
In all directions murky grey.
I cannot see the rhyme or reason.
For this dark change to the season.
-
So....
Two weeks have passed. There has been no time for introspection, little time even to catch a breath and when time was found; the thoughts and fears too urgent, too overwhelming to be allowed to surface.
Last weekend, I finally managed to leave Spain and return to a damp, grey, Devon.
I still haven’t been paid.
The last week in BCN was spent with lawyers and the Courts. There were arrests to be made and papers to file. It might have worked, we pray it has; we need the money.
Tuesday...
Tuesday meant a meeting with the Vascular Surgeon. He eases our fears. He has so many answers, so many alternatives....
“I will re-build the Artery with an artificial insert, if that’s not possible, then I’ll... and if I can’t do that, then I’ll... and we can always do... and even, at a push I can...”
Her right leg is now twice the size of her left, angry, purple.
The pain is getting to her, the easy smile, the quick joke; gone.
In both of us, the tears and anger are there, close, just behind the eyes; ready to burst out at the slightest provocation. Everyday life is a minefield of provocation.
She is scheduled, now, for surgery on the 28th. We have to move house on the 20th. The children have to be taken to school / nursery. The shopping must be done. Bills paid. Things that are frustrating, normally, are now irritating to the point of distraction.
I grind my teeth and hope I can keep it in...
Hope I can control it...
Hope no-one pushes the wrong button...
Friday...
I take my little Girl to the wall, first time there in seven months. The bouldering and wall training in Spain, during her visits, have paid off. I’m proud of her. Her Mum kept up the training at home as long as she could.
It’s not the same without Mummy.
Her boots were in the gear bag, her harness.
I will leave them there, in the bag.
I know she will need them again soon.
I can’t let myself think anything else.
-
Tomorrow....
Just another day...
It will probably rain...
Tomorrow...
They will operate.
Today has been one long exercise in fear suppression.
We alternate between holding hands and bickering over nothing.
Over dinner we tell the children. "Mummy will be going to hospital tomorrow, for her operation. Do you remember? She's going to be away for ten days..."
"You must be good" she says "for Daddy and Mamia, until Mummy comes home..."
A pause, we glance at each other, she looks away...
There is chocolate pudding for dessert, the children soon forget.
I wish I could...
-
The most compelling thing I have read on the net. You have a true gift with words.
I hope everything works out, I really do.
God bless.
-
Wishing for the best for all of you Matt.
-
Thoughts are with you...
-
The most compelling thing I have read on the net. You have a true gift with words.
:agree:
I only wish it was the result of happier times, and I also really, really hope it everything works out.
-
Sitting in the hospital restaurant...
They took her to theater ten minutes ago.
I wait...
People around me, happy, sad, chatting, quiet. The full gamut.
I can't sit here and worry, I have to push my mind to another place; pull out a memory.
Drown out the voice...
-
There was a beach...
We could see it from the roof of the hotel. Miles of golden sand, rolling surf, blue waters; shimmering in the distance.
It was a “no go” area.
Between us and that mirage of heaven, lay the Shanty Town. A white man could not go there and live. A white man, in this town, travelled in groups. A taxi from one razor wired compound to another. The Hilton, the 21 club, the Casino, the High Commission. With an armed escort, maybe a trip to the market.
“They” thought we needed a break, a little holiday in the sun. We thought they wanted us out of the way for a while. There was some spurious “security” job at the British High Commission.
There was initiation to the hash house harriers (that involved a “who’s the toughest” contest with our Yank and Aussie counter-parts and left me with a concussion and black eye (trying to break ice blocks with my head))...
We were surfers...
There was surf...
We were bored...
We went...
The taxi would not take us into the shanty town. The driver stopped a good 200 mtrs up the track from the first huts. We had worn nothing but a T-shirt, shorts and Flip-flops.
No watches, no wallets, no jewellery. Enough cash for a cab back, no more.
We stood there, uncertain, watching the cab race away.
Well, we’re here now; no going back...
As we walk into the hovels and narrow streets, a silence descends. The hustle and racket around us peters away to nothing. A sea of faces, open jawed, staring...
We have made a mistake; we should have heeded the warnings...
We are about to die...
A lone face approaches, a middle age man. Worn, ragged, scrawny.
“Are you Americans” he asks, sombre, cautious.
“No Mate, he’s English and I’m Cornish” I say.
A pause.
A broad grin breaks out across his lined face. “English! We used to be English! See, we still have the Queen on our money!” He pulls a crumpled note from his pocket. “We have the same Queen! Yes?”
He grabs my mates’ hand. “Come! Come, we drink tea. Yes? Englishmen like tea. Yes? My wife makes good tea.”
He leads, we follow. The spell is broken, around us life resumes. After all, there are more important things, in shanty town life, than two stupid white boys.
The tea is good. Family, friends, pour out of the hovels. The smiles are broad, bright white teeth in ebony faces.
There is a lot of hand shaking...
Tea drunk, we walk on through the teeming bustle. It is Sunday. It seems every other building is a makeshift church, singing fills the air; exultant, joyous; African.
In the dunes behind the beach, young men, race their horses. Heads swathed, Tuareg style, in flowing shemags; they thunder back and forth. A crowd of young women, ulating, cheer them on. Flirting, teasing, vibrant.
Alive.
We reach the golden sand.
The beach is steep; a high Atlantic swell rears to dump heavily on the shore.
Lines of singing teenagers, clad in flowing white robes, stand at the water’s edge. Waist deep, the local Pastors plunge them under, shouting their Baptism to the waves.
Away from the singing mass, we strip down and plunge into the crashing surf. Body surfing, hard into the sand.
There is release.
There is freedom.
Exhausted, we stroll further along the shore.
There are fishing boats and men hauling nets. Chanting they drag the nets out along the shore, then one end is secured to a stake driven into the sand. With the other end attached to the boat, the men paddle furiously, pitching and leaping through the surf; in a great semi-circle around the stake. Shouting, cheering, they ride a wave back in. Boat dragged clear, they begin to haul, singing as they pull.
The net is full.
It is full of Shark, Barracuda and Sea Snakes.
Maybe the swim had not been such a good idea...
As the Sun sets on the sea behind us, we head back to the stink of the city. Shaking hands, we promise to return; we want to return. It is a good place.
There is gun fire, somewhere, in the concrete jungle up ahead. We find a cab and return to the razor wire gates of home.
We never went back...
Papers came. Orders. The “Holiday” was over.
We left.
That day will never leave...
-
Today...
Today, I had to tell a mother her daughter was going to die.
Today...
Today, I had to tell my wife, that they could not operate. That when they opened her up, they found the cancer had spread; that there was nothing they could do.
Today...
Today, I had to come home and put the children to bed. I had to smile, to read a story; to tell them Mummy would be home soon. I had to lie.
Today...
THE Day.
I wish I was back on that beach.
Today.
-
Fuck that's harsh man - apologies if it sounds trite but I wish you all the best in the days ahead.
-
Christ Matt, that's grim news. Be strong, thoughts with you.
-
So sorry Matt.
-
So sorry to hear that
-
I am a long time board reader who doesn't post very often, however this subject is very close to my heart as my dad has terminal cancer. I know it is cliched however try and stay positive, i will be thinking of you even though i only know you through your words posted here.
Ste.
-
Really sad news. Thoughts are with you.
-
Don't know what to say, that's so awful man. Thoughts are with you.
-
Really sorry to hear that Matt.
-
Gutted for you. Thoughts with you and your family, cherish the time you have.
-
I sit in the hospital restaurant again, waiting to see the Oncologist. She was angry today, at the world, at the doctors, at everything. I cannot focus. I need escape. Pretending hunger, I left the quiet of her room to seek refuge in the hubbub of the crowd; in memories...
There was a cave...
More overhang than cave, jutting out of the low cliffs that bounded the small estuary. We dumped our kit at the back and gathered drift wood in the last of the afternoon sun. Just within earshot the South Atlantic pounded on the Island’s shores.
As dusk drew in, we grabbed our cheap “Start Fishing Kit” rods and went in search of supper. We hadn’t eaten for 24 hours or so. All that remained in our packs were a couple of rashers of smoked bacon. This would be bait, a gamble, an investment; with no guarantee of a return.
We worked our way up with the rising tide. I followed the main channel, while my friend headed up a small creek. Almost my first cast produced results, a small Mullet; enough for a meal for one. It went in my pocket and I cast again...
There was nothing, for a long time. I carried on, upstream, the sun kissing the horizon...
A sharp tug, a tremble and the line screamed off the reel.
Shit! This was big and my silly little reel was rapidly spooling out the precious line. Should I cut it, cut my losses, save the line that was left? Panicked, I fumble for my knife.
Before I can open the blade, the line stops spooling. Cautiously, I try to pull. The rod bends alarmingly, then eases. I reel in a little, then a little more.
And some more...
Half the line recovered. Maybe it’s dropped off, or maybe....
Have I caught it?
Fwizzz!! The line is off again, tearing out.
And so it went on. Both of us hooked now, the Fish and I.
The Sun was almost gone, the evening gloom cold and murky.
We fought our way up that muddy estuary, me knee deep; cold to the bone.
I could not reel him in. Each time I tried , the rod would bend, till I thought it would surely break. Pointing the rod directly along the line, I dug my heels in and walked backwards into the shallows.
The Fish fought every step.
It was dark...
I had no Idea how far up stream we had travelled. I wanted help, my arms and back burned with effort, but I had no Idea where my mate was. There was no response to my calls.
The fight went on...
It was, suddenly, easier. As I walked back, I felt my feet touch dry ground and then my legs were against the low bank at the river’s edge. The moon was high and bright, now, and there in the shallows; lay the Fish.
Reeling in, I walked quickly towards it. As the line slacked it began to struggle again and I stopped.
Point the rod along the line, back up to the shore; quickly walk forward, reeling in.
Repeat.
The Fish is on the beach.
Panting, I pick up a rock, raise it to strike...
And hesitate.
We need to eat.
The rock comes down.
Carrying my fallen foe, I pick my way by moonlight, back to the cave. There is a boulder in my path and I raise my foot to step over it and....
The boulder leaps to its feet and runs up the nearby bank.
I stumble back, falling on my arse. There, eyes glinting in the moonlight, was a Patagonian Fox.
Silver coated, it stares at me.
An age passes, our eyes locked, before it turns and flees; the moment gone.
I realise I am filled with shame, the lifeless Fish heavy in my arms and my heart.
I stumble on.
-
I wrote that last post at lunch time, before we met with the Oncologist. I couldn't post it, couldn't log on to the hotspot. After the meeting, it suddenly seemed more apt, maybe even prescient...
For us, the fight will go on...
The Oncologist has clarified things. From the despair of yesterday, the shock for both us and the doctors; there is now a plan.
The surgeon did not remove the tumour. Because the cancer has spread to the lymph nodes, the best way to fight it is to burn it with radio therapy. She cannot start the radio therapy until she has healed from yesterday’s operation (or she will never heal). He chose to limit the area of damage, to speed up the healing and to get her into Radio as soon as possible.
She doesn’t understand, she just wants the pain gone and the tumour causes the pain.
I think I understand.
It will be one hell of a fight.
No promises.
Hope.
Time to pull the line, reel it in.
-
Keep on stumbling.
-
Matt, do not get buried in the memories!
The best thing is to be near her
You love her so much ... and in such moments it is necessary to be with Liana physically ... ... material, she can you see it, she touch you, she knows that is not the alone...
Tell her we love her and that God loves her
My English is bad but you're smart and you know what I mean
God be with her and you to can help it
We love you!
godmother
-
So sorry, Matt. Thinking positive for you all.
-
Sing a song of sixpence...
I sing, as I drive the kids to school.
Loud, enthusiastic.
It helps.
A pocketful of Rye...
I’m going to have to stop doing it when I’m alone in the car, or I’m going to be sectioned.
Four and twenty Blackbirds, baked in a pie...
I met a man at the Climbat wall in BCN, a couple months ago. I’d guessed that he was ten years my senior, he was knocking off F7a’s after a couple of tries. In conversation, it emerged he was a visiting American, in town for a couple of weeks. We got around to Yosemite, he’d climbed the Nose with Dougie Haskil; he was sixty four!
And when the pie was opened...
There is a man, who climbs at Dart Rock; we chat often. He is seventy five; he knew my Grandfather and my father as a child. He’s all muscle and sinew; he’s training for a trip to Yosemite in September, aiming for the Nose.
But, I think I can see (in the occasional twitch), the beginnings of Parkinson’s...
The birds began to sing...
The Radio therapy will begin on the first of August. It is, apparently, complicated; it will take a lot of planning.
The pain is difficult to control. They keep juggling her pain meds and blood thinners. It was so bad on Sunday; we had to make a trip to A&E. She refuses to take the Oramorph. “I’m not ME!” she says, when she takes them...
The King is in the counting house...
The voice is not alone now.
I can hear another sound.
Somewhere...
A clock is ticking...
-
I sat on the tattered old deck chair...
As the sun rose over the valley before me, I popped a pill and cracked open a can.
I stretch out my leg; it’s feeling a little better.
And then...
It all gets a little hazy...
We’d arrived a day ahead of the rest of the guys, Steve and I. We’d taken a hire car loaded with all our gear and driven up; the others would follow by train and bus.
On the coll, at the end of the lake, the hotel is closed; season over. “But” says the proprietor “feel free to use the barn at the back”.
“No charge” he says “Rats, yes, but no charge”.
It’s early morning, the glacier glinting in brilliant autumn sun, beyond; the summit. The highest point in the Dolomites.
We share a look, a grin. We have time...
Later, much later, we step off the ice and bound joyfully down the scree. Another summit ticked.
Laughing, panting, I step from the scree to the tarmac of the road and...
Miss my step, ankle rolling under me, I sprawl across the tarmac.
The guys have arrived. My ankle has ballooned beyond recognition, livid, purple.
“I think it’s just a bad sprain” says Doc, our tame MA “I don’t think it’s broken” (it is, but it will be weeks before that comes to light). He gives me the pills and strict instructions about how many and how often to take them. “It’s Oramorph” he says “strong stuff”.
In the deep dark before the dawn, I hobble around, helping them gear up. I watch them walk off into the gloom; they will be gone forty eight hours or so. I will wait alone. I settle into the chair and scan the horizon for a hint of the sun...
I finish the can. It really does feel a lot better, hardly hurts at all. Maybe just one more of those pills. I crack another can...
I can hop on the bad leg now, it really doesn’t hurt! They’re only a couple of hours ahead, maybe I can catch them up?
“Nah” says the voice “you climbed that one yesterday. What about that one over there?”
I climb.
When it hurts, I pop a pill.
The world is a wonderful place.
I am descending, when I run out of pills. Still above the snow line. Quickly the pain mounts, filling my mind, drowning out all thought. The voice drives me on.
I become aware of where I am. I’m sitting on a rock, well below the snow. The sun is almost gone. I am in agony, I am lost, I am alone and no-one knows I am here.
Suddenly, two figures appear out of the gloom. One tall, skinny, the other short, fat. Both wear lederhosen, both have the silly hat with the feather sticking out. The short one carries a blunderbuss.
I remember giggling.
“Have you” says the skinny one “seen the White Stag?” They have thick German accents (“you’re in Italy, but hey.” says the voice). “Ja” says the fat one “the Great White Stag?”
“No, but can you help me? I can’t walk. I’m cold.”
“No” whispers the wind.
I am alone.
I turn to watch the last dying embers of the day, and there, silhouetted against the last sliver of the sun; I see the white stag. Magnificent, proud upon a jutting rock; he stares across the valley. I am mesmerised.
The sun is gone. There is no moon. I am cold. My world is pain. I cannot walk.
The Stag...
Is nothing but a twig, sticking out of a cracked boulder, no more than a foot in front of my face.
“Ah...” says the voice.
I remember, stumbling, boulder to boulder.
I remember pain.
I remember waking, sprawled on the grass, covered in a light October snow.
I remember the barn, a few yards ahead, in the first light of another dawn.
I remember not being able to get into my sleeping bag, just dragging it over me and surrendering to the void.
“Matt?” A voice, hands shaking me. “Matt? Are you all right?”
“My leg, it’s my leg.”
Someone tugs off my boot.
“Shit Mate! What have you done?”
A needle.
I’m running with the Stag...
-
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...
-
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...
-
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?
-
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.
-
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...
-
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...
-
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?
-
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.
-
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?
-
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.
-
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.
-
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.
-
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
-
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.
-
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.
-
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.
-
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.
-
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...
-
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.”
-
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.
-
Today...
Just.
Don't.
Ask.
LAH! LAH! LAH! LAH! LAH! LAH! NOT LISTENING!
-
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.
-
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.
-
“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...
-
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.
-
Would you believe...
It worked!
-
“Concentrate!”...
Says the voice.
God, this is greasy...
I can hardly feel my fingers...
Panting, scrabbling. Grunts of effort.
Oh, bugger! My leg’s going to go.
Here comes the sewing machine...
I bet that damn micro has popped...
“It went minutes ago”...
Says the voice.
What the hell is up with him today? One second too tight, the next; enough slack for two more pitches...
E4?
E Bloody silly, more like...
“For crap’s sake! Will you bloody well climb?!”
Says the voice...
Shit! There really is no pro and I’m a damn long way above that last Friend (the one that now has that dodgy micro hanging off it).
I still can’t see the top...
“But I think I can see the next belay.”
Says the voice,
“Not much to it. Maybe a crack for a small Friend?”
How the hell am I going to get there?
Crap! I’m scared...
Panting, sweat dripping...
The Friend slides home.
Relief.
“Not much of a belay.”
Says the voice.
“One Friend?”
It will have to do.
Sometimes, one Friend is all you get.
Maybe, it’s all you need.
“Onsqqerk”
Damn, I can’t speak...
“Aheemm... ON BELAY!”
Hands shaking, pulling through.
“That’s me!”
A small voice calls from the void below.
“What’s it like Dad?”
“Uh... Good! You’ll enjoy it...”
“Liar!”
Says the voice.
It gets harder from here, according to the guide and no one knows where the top actually is...
From the journal of an unknown climber, found at the foot of the infinite crag; below the route “Life” (E BS (Bloody silly,) 95c).
According to the Guide, grading of this route has proved difficult as no one ever reports back, after completion.
Every ascent...
Is the first.
-
Sleep, baby, sleep... October 27th 2011
A cheeky grin, feigned innocence, batted eyelids; she sings to me in an angelic falsetto.
She throws in a cutesy lisp, just to rub it in.
Two hours of pre-hydration.
Your Father tends the sheep...
I’d told her to get some sleep...
The problem was, I’d just persuaded (bullied?) her into accepting a blood transfusion. Her platelets and Haemoglobin were way down.
She treats this as though she has failed an exam, tries to say she will get more sleep, drink more beetroot juice and cram the vitamins.
It doesn’t work like that, I say. In a couple of hours, they will start pumping in the toxins again and that will knock you even further down.
Your Mother shakes the dreamland tree...
Red faced, I leave her singing.
In my mind, her lilting voice follows.
I need the kick of caffeine and the comfort of the crowd.
Somehow, it’s easier to find solitude, in a crowded room...
Down falls a little dream for thee...
Yesterday, they inserted a PIC line; to make it easier on her much abused veins.
There were blood tests, ECG’s.
There was waiting.
Today, is Chemo day.
Another eight hours or so, of pumping, flushing; poisoning.
Waiting...
A ray of hope?
Maybe...
The Oncologist says, that having sequenced the biopsy; the cancer is a good candidate for the new Immuno treatment trials and drugs.
Perhaps, her lazy NK cells and T-lymphocytes can be persuaded to deal with this?
Meanwhile...
“Bring on the poison!” she sings.
Sleep, baby, sleep...
-
“Checking in, Sir?” October 28th 2011
Yes...
Yes, I suppose I am.
“Is that your Baggage, Sir?”
Yes...
It must be...
A moment’s fear.
I didn’t realize I was carrying so much.
Is it too much?
“It’s OK Sir.” smiles the girl, behind the desk “There are no charges for excess, not with us.”
“Did you pack them all yourself?”
Yes.
Although...
I had a little help, from life.
Especially, with the big black ones.
The ones I’m trying to hide, behind the small ones (with the jolly floral print)...
“Are you carrying any sharp objects, Sir?”
I don’t... think so.
I hope not.
She’s writing something...
I can’t believe I’m here.
I can’t believe I’m flying with this airline...
I never believed I would.
Not ME!
“If you will just take a seat, Sir.”
She’s smiling again...
“You don’t need to be nervous, Sir.”
She takes me, gently, by the arm and leads me to a soft chair.
“Here” she says “all we care about is giving you a soft landing.”
The Trick Cyclist...
Will see me.
Soon.
-
In the early morning light... October 29th 2011
Someone is shaking the fly sheet.
“Uh... Matt?” mutters a quiet voice, “can you give me a hand?”
Blearily, hungover, I leave the slumbering female form beside me and crawl out into the cool morning air.
The crickets and cicadas begin their morning song...
This was supposed to be a rest day.
After days of sun drenched climbing, it was time to kick back.
We backed my friends battered, old, red, Cavalier; down to the edge of the river.
The car stereo, was required.
Here, the Ardeche, ran slow, before the leaping, splashing, plunge; into the Gorge proper.
On a little sandy beach, we built a fire, uncorked some bottles and dragged up a few logs to sit on.
Across the dark, lazy, water; a party of French canoeists, had the same idea...
And that, really, is where it all went wrong...
Bangers, those little fireworks, that (in those days, at least) seemed to be sold in every French corner shop; had formed the basis for all humorous moments of the trip to date.
One had to be careful, not to be seen leaving to answer the call of nature...
There had been, a few, burnt buttocks.
The timely application of a match to touch paper, could render a crux quite interesting; for the poor sod on lead... Even more so, for the audience.
However, the combination of alcohol, gunpowder, a roll of sellotape, a rival (French!) group (also, similarly armed) and far too much testosterone; proved...
Well...
Explosive.
Being accompanied by a member of the more sensible sex, I retired to our tent; relatively early (some things are even more fun than bangers).
By the time I reached the river, the next morning, I was stone, cold, sober.
In fact, my blood had turned to ice.
The first body I saw... was surely dead.
The unmoving form of my friend lay upon the sand, feet so far into the embers of the fire, that the soles of his Doc Martins had melted away. Slightly blackened toes, peeked through charred socks.
As my numb mind began to comprehend the devastation around me, I became aware of a strange red form, bobbing slightly, in the middle of the river.
Draped over this odd metallic raft, were several, inert; bodies...
Copious amounts of blood stained the sand, between the empty bottles (although, it smelt strangely of vomit).
There were dead fish...
Everywhere.
The cold fingers of panic, gripped my racing heart.
At this point, the dead body at my feet; sat up.
“Bugger!” said the Zombie.
It leapt to it’s feet and raced for the water.
A moment passed.
The Zombie squinted into the pale light, at the red raft. Ankle deep, a wisp of steam rising from the leather of it’s boots.
“Maybe” it said “we... should have left... trying to move the car... till morning.”
On the raft...
A body swore...
Quietly.
-
In the quiet early hours... October 31th 2011
I lie awake.
The past week, has been spent sitting in Cherrybrook ward.
Cherrybrook is the Chemo ward.
Recliners replace beds.
The patients smile and greet each other, most have met before; an exclusive little club.
Help yourself to tea or coffee, biscuits, on the table; over there.
I hate it.
I hate it.
I feel like I can’t breathe.
In all those sad smiles.
In all those cheery hellos.
I’m scared, I worry, I fear...
That, I can see the future.
“You need to sleep” says the voice.
I know.
“Find a happy place” says the voice.
In the quiet early hours...
The minibus glides silently down the hill.
Engine off, lights doused.
By the square, with a muffled squeal of brakes, it comes to rest.
Dark clad, bandana masked; young men silently pour out.
From the base of the War Memorial, they grab the wrought iron bench.
Quiet curses, grunts; trapped fingers and bruised toes.
They force the bench into the back of the van...
A few hours later, just after breakfast; the Gendarmes arrive at the campsite.
They slowly cruise around, finally coming to rest beside a group of shamefaced, coffee drinking, young men and women.
Some of them are sat on camp chairs.
Some are perched on logs.
Some are sat on an oddly shaped pile of sleeping bags and carry mats...
Slowly, one of the Gendarmes, climbs out of the car.
He’s not young.
Quite probably, he has teenage children, of his own.
“Bon Jour” he smiles at the group.
There are muttered replies, although; eyes are avoided.
Last night, he says, someone stole the bench from the war memorial. The bench was part of the memorial.
It was, he says, important to the local people.
Had this group, of fine young people, seen or heard anything?
The muttered “Non”, from the few who could answer; was even less audible than the “Bon Jour”.
In the quiet early hours...
The minibus glides silently down the hill.
It comes to rest, beside the square.
With more muffled curses and some loss of blood.
A bench is replaced.
Plans to install the bench on the Jardin des Ecureuils, are forgotten.
Silently, covertly; the van glides away...
Probably, if that group of young people had had more than two brain cells between them; they might have seen the flaw in the plan.
Their subtle error.
The slight oversight.
After all...
That season...
That minibus...
Was the only...
Bright orange, right hand drive, ford transit monstrosity, in La Palud.
-
The telephone, rang... 3rd November 2011
It’s a silly, insignificant, sound.
In the great, grand, universe; no more noticeable than a single atom of Hydrogen.
Even in the cafe, today, it hardly registered with those around us.
But still...
The telephone rang...
I’d been toying with the idea of writing a rant.
Of setting down, in black and white, all those selfish “why ME?” thoughts.
I was beginning to feel like the Locus.
I was starting to think it was all aimed at me.
It felt so unfair.
“There’s no time for ME.”
“What about ME?”
But then...
The telephone rang...
She answered.
She said hello.
Then with a puzzled, slightly worried expression; she passed the phone to her mother.
Mamia gasped, her shoulders shook and even before the tears rose and the sobs began; I knew I was not the one.
I knew, this was not my story.
Because...
The telephone rang...
You see...
My beautiful, gentle, wife; has not suffered enough.
The universe is not satisfied with ravaging her body with cancer.
It is not enough; it seems, to turn her mother and me into helpless passengers.
The universe is not sated, by making a mother watch her daughter in fear and agony; face death.
Oh no.
No, in the hubbub of the cafe...
The telephone rang...
It rang.
Because.
This morning.
Her father.
The Grandfather of our children.
Died.
-
There is a question...
I leave her.
I have to take the children to school.
I have to take myself...
Away.
Just for a while.
She is rocking, backward and forward; rubbing her leg.
Gasping, sighing.
It’s been ten days, now, like this. We can’t get the pain under control.
The Doctors and the hospice nurse, juggle the drugs. They try but there are several hours, of each day, when the pain becomes everything.
Nothing to do, but wait for the drugs to kick in.
She doesn’t want to be held.
She wants to be left alone.
I go, but the question follows...
I train.
I feel strong, I climb well.
I chat to other climbers.
But...
In the quiet, between problems.
In the rests, between the campus runs.
As I drink a coffee, after.
There is the question.
I had my first, big, blow up; a few days ago.
In the car, another change of plan; another unexpected appointment with another Doctor.
Long delayed important things; postponed again.
Suddenly, I couldn’t keep it in any more.
Shouting, ranting, I ask the question.
In so many different ways.
After, came the shame.
But the question remained.
Yesterday, we had her birthday party.
Thirty five.
She had to rest, before the guests arrived; the morphine finally dulling the pain.
As she lay upon the bed, in blessed sleep; my daughter strokes her cheek.
Six years old, she turns to me with a sad smile.
In her eyes,
The question.
Why?
-
There is confusion... 24th Nov 2011
My Daughter comes into the bedroom.
“Daddy? I think it’s time to wake up.”
The fog in my mind won’t shift. My eyes won’t open.
“I made breakfast” she continues “and fed the cat.”
“But, you’ve been asleep a long time...”
I mutter an Ok and she leaves.
I reach out, across the bed; but...
She’s not there.
Suddenly, I’m awake and... I remember.
There is confusion...
The Jeepney screeches to a halt, breaks not rubber, on the jungle track.
She grips my hand, in fear, as I peer out into the gloom beneath the green canopy.
The driver, is cursing quietly in Tagalog; hands tight upon the wheel.
In the back, the fear becomes palpable; the breathing of the passengers loud against the jungle sounds and purring engine.
Blocking the track and from the undergrowth all around, emerge camouflage clad men.
They hold very large guns.
The heavy metal T-shirts and assorted bandannas, can only mean...
We have a problem.
One of them approaches the drivers, open, window and a rapid exchange takes place.
In the back, no one speaks; we just exchange worried glances.
Without the breeze from the jeepney’s progress, the humidity and heat rise, rapidly; to unbearable.
Still, I hold her tight.
The driver turns.
Does anyone, he asks in English, have any Marlboroughs?
Dwight (thank you, thank you, and thank you!), pulls the red packet from his bag and passes it forward to the driver.
The driver passes the packet to the man at the window.
There is utter silence in the back.
A collective holding of breath.
Four of the men, join the man at the window.
Each takes a little white stick, from the packet.
And then...
The man hands the packet back to the driver, smiles and...
They are gone.
Foot hard to the floor, the driver takes us screaming down the track, before again screeching to a halt a few K’s along the road.
Raising his hands above him, he shouts a thanks to any God who might be listening; then turns to us and exclaims “Communists!!! Not Abu Siaf!”
Singing, he turns and we trundle on.
The confusion clears...
I had gone, last Tuesday, to Amsterdam.
It would mean I would miss her chemo on the Thursday, but everyone agreed I had to go.
I have to find a way to make a living, part time. The benefits just don’t cut it and the meetings planned were the best hope for us.
There were plenty of people, who would help while I was gone.
I called her to let her know I was back, midday, on Thursday (I’d planned to be back in time to collect her from the chemo, to be there for the days after).
“Um. Listen” she said.
My heart sank.
The Oncologist, had taken one look at her, that morning and admitted her.
She was rushed, hastily, into another CT scan and a new Doctor entered our lives.
The Pain Consultant.
For the next five days, they juggle and tweak and test and monitor; until she can think and sleep again.
“The scan is encouraging” says the Oncologist “the tumour is only slightly bigger and there is nothing new.”
“How,” says the voice “is bigger, encouraging?”
We smile and nod, just as the Oncologist smiles as she speaks.
We all ignore the look behind the smile.
There is damage to the sciatic nerve.
There was too-ing and frow-ing.
The world became so hectic.
The worry was overpowering.
By Sunday, I was exhausted.
And,
I woke,
Alone.
I don’t like it.
-
There is something strange... 27 Nov 2011-11-27
About climbers.
It doesn’t matter if it’s pulling over fragile gear, swinging ape like above resined anchors, panting a few fatal inches over flimsy crash pads or delicately picking a way up some frozen cascade.
We all know it and, deep down, we fear it.
Joe, chose the word and the word was good.
Like rubber soled Knights, we dip our fingers in magic fairy dust and then, alone amongst the modern challengers of mortality; we turn our back upon the enemy.
Behind us, always felt, never seen.
It can never be defeated.
At best, we can avoid it.
It gets us all, in the end; sooner or later. Climber or not.
The Void.
Even stranger, perhaps, we pay money, to dance with our nemesis; in the sanitised environs of “The Wall”.
This is no exercise bike, no treadmill.
Oh, the crash pads and the anchors lend some comfort...
But who, even here, has not felt the pull, the leap of the heart, as the void calls.
“That was stupid” says the voice “all it took, was a little more... commitment”.
I’d finally finished it. A boulder problem, at a climbing wall; over soft mats.
It gets a V6+/ V7, it’s no push over.
I suppose I’d tried it ten or so times, in the two weeks since it was set.
Got it all wired, except, the last move.
I told myself I wasn’t strong enough.
But, as I lay on the mat, on Friday evening (having just fallen from something else); I realised.
I know the Void.
I’ve looked into it more than once.
And now I see it every day, when I look at her.
It had sucked something out of me.
Only my Daughter witnessed it.
Smoothly through the moves, to the critical point.
There it was, the pull that sapped my strength.
“Are you going to give in?” said the voice “Again?”
Sod the Void!
My hand slid home to the final jug.
I did it again, to be sure.
I jumped down...
Different...
Just a boulder problem.
At a wall.
-
I sat on the train... 8th December 2011
In the distance the white capped mountains slid by.
The sun shone and the compartment was desperately hot, after the brisk, icy; morning air of Como.
My mind wandered...
I had some hours to kill.
I roamed the castle, in Milano; stared blankly at the stalls of the Christmas fair.
My mind wandered...
Now, I have a job.
Something else to occupy my mind. Something to ease the money worries and combat the demons of the looming future...
In the smiling crowds.
My mind wandered...
In another country, too far away; they hook her up to the poison.
Again.
My mind wandered...
I catch my breath and sense overrides the urge to pound my fins, to race across the cave and drag her clear.
I try to shout.
It is lost, in a cloud of bubbles.
Camera held in front, her cylinder brushing the roof of the cave, she squeezes forward.
She knows this is stupid, she knows not to do it; she knows the risk.
But...
This was why she was here.
At the back of the cave, much larger than the Mountain Girl, the White Tip Shark turned to watch her.
Gills pulsed, jaws flexed; the tail twitched.
The camera flashed.
Silt.
Bubbles.
Panic.
I sit on a train...
It’s dark outside, it’s a different country, the sunshine of Milano seems such a long time ago.
The cold, as I waited on the platform at Reading, cut far deeper than the icy Como breeze.
Snug in the quiet carriage, I call her, to say goodnight, to tell her I love her; that I will try not to wake her when I finally climb into bed.
She’s tired from the Chemo.
For the first time today, Mamia went with her.
Mamia, got a bit upset; it seems.
Three hours to go.
My mind wandered...
Heart pounding, I sprint across the cave mouth. In the cloud of silt I feel her leg and pull her from the cave like a rag doll.
I can see nothing.
I feel...
Everything.
The silt clears.
She grins and waves the camera, eyes flashing.
I
Love
The Mountain Girl.
My mind wanders...
Songs echo.
I try to ignore it, but the voice sings...
What’ll I do?
When you, are far away?
And I am blue.
What’ll I do?
-
Notice requiring possession... 29 Dec. 2011
What goes up...
Must come down.
It’s Chemo day.
It’s my birthday.
Notice requiring possession...
It came, six days before Christmas.
Beneath the curling lip of the towering wave…
The Dark Light spreads.
She sleeps, as they pump the poison; I hide amongst the crowds of the hospital restaurant.
Difficult to smile, difficult to think; difficult…
To be.
The sun has not yet risen, not quite.
The Jungle more awake than the drowsy village.
As I struggle in the water, I feel myself begin to lift and my heart begins to race.
Fearfully, I glance behind.
Beneath the curling lip of the towering wave.
The dark light spreads.
In the dark, before the dawn, I had sat with Harry and Dixon. Nelahni, brought me Scrambled eggs and hot buttered toast. Harry laughed, scoffing at my Englishness as he and his brother tucked into their Rice and Curry.
As the Jungle woke behind me, the crashing, pounding noise of the ocean, a few yards in front of us; told me I would not be paddling out for a dawn session today.
Through the gloom of the beach, Siri appeared, board tucked under his arm. Calmly he strolls over to me. White teeth, in a dark face; he grins.
“Coming?” he says.
“No” I plead “It’s just too big, I can’t even see if the channel is clear enough to paddle out”.
He grins again, shrugs his shoulders, mutters something in Sinhalese and strolls off towards the water.
My cheeks burn.
Harry sn**gers.
I wait a moment longer and then grab my rash vest and board and hurry after Siri.
Seconds after plunging in, I realise my mistake. The wornout Velcro of my watch strap, had meant I’d been leaving it in my room and now I’d forgotten to take it off. Feeling it come lose as I paddled, I ripped it off and shoved it in my mouth. In the dark, I was sensing the waves approach, timing the duck dives to sound and sensation, not sight. There was no time for distraction, around me waited the hungry coral; eager for my blood.
In the growing light, exhausted, I reached Siri, sitting in the calm water just behind the line up. I paddled on a few more meters, to be sure.
“Bugger!” I curse through a mouthful of watch. There are no pockets in my board shorts.
I drop off the board and pull the leash strap off my ankle.
I begin to cram the watch into the key pocket, but it’s tight, I have to concentrate.
The sun is just below the mountains, far beyond the Jungle, the water smooth as glass in the gentle morning breeze.
And then the Dark Light spreads…
It is not going well.
The pain is giving her a rough ride, robbing her of sleep; eating at her sanity.
Her easy smile and gentle nature, fading.
The Oncologist is worried by the pain and more by the growing numbness in her leg. Day by day she loses control of the muscles, she can no longer extend at the knee or even lift her leg to walk properly.
She falls.
Often.
She lashes out at Mamia and me, when we rush to help her up.
“Go away! I’m fine!” she says…
“It maybe, that the Chemo, is not doing…. As much as we had hoped…” says the Oncologist.
Time for another scan.
Time to begin the negotiations for the Monoclonal Antibody treatment.
It’s new.
Because her cancer is rare, it doesn’t have a body of evidence for this application.
It’s expensive.
“I will fight, I can fight” says the Oncologist.
I don’t even bother to watch her eyes anymore, the hands say everything.
“Notice requiring possession” says the voice.
The Dark Light spreads…
The wave is huge.
A rouge.
Breaking much further out than the already huge waves ahead of it.
And I?
I am in the pit.
“DOWN!” says the voice “THINK HEAVY!”
Still holding my leash, with a panicked death grip, I swim down until I feel the Coral brush my chest.
The wave rolls me, almost gently to its back.
Relieved, I almost break the surface and then…
The leash goes tight!
I let go, but it’s too late; the tug draws me up the back of the wave.
There is a moment of weightlessness, a grabbed glimpse, in the pale light; of the Void beneath the lip and (perhaps) the coral waiting below…
Somehow, I turn to put my feet toward the coral, in a frozen instant in time.
I drop.
Here, in the Dark Light, the world tumbles; vicious claws rip at my spiralling form.
Noise and pain.
Seconds as hours.
Drowning.
Dumped, bleeding, broken; high on the white coral sand.
Gentle hands, kindness in the eyes of strangers, worry in the eyes of friends.
Notice requiring possession…
We are being evicted.
Not because we haven’t paid the rent.
Not because we have done anything wrong.
No.
Just because the landlord wants us out.
Notice requiring possession…
Six days before Christmas.
Just to confirm my atheism and to mock my dying wife’s faith…
Because,
You see…
Our Landlord, who knows all about our situation, is…
The Exeter Diocese of the Church of England.
Amen.
-
It's hard to know what to write to anyway console or express shocking disbelief at your terrible situation. We are both thinking of you.
If you can face it, you should contact the newspapers as this is unacceptable in the highest order.
Lu and D x
-
Unbelievable.
I'd also suggest writing to the bishop directly as well pointing out how this is kind off at odds with his "mutually supportive community" christmas message (http://www.exeter.anglican.org/index.cfm?page=news.story&newsid=172).
bishop.of.exeter@exeter.anglican.org
Actually maybe a few folk could write, fill his inbox so it can't be ignored. If you're up for that I'm certainly willing.
-
bishop.of.exeter@exeter.anglican.org
Actually maybe a few folk could write, fill his inbox so it can't be ignored. If you're up for that I'm certainly willing.
I am too, though we might need a little detail in order to make the case properly. Definitely write to the press too, stir up as much bad publicity as possible.
-
I'm thinking about you all Matt.
stay strong.
-
bishop.of.exeter@exeter.anglican.org
Actually maybe a few folk could write, fill his inbox so it can't be ignored. If you're up for that I'm certainly willing.
I am too, though we might need a little detail in order to make the case properly. Definitely write to the press too, stir up as much bad publicity as possible.
Add me to the list of willing emailers.
-
Me too. I was so pissed off when I checked out their sanctimonious website. Not something you need at the moment. Our thoughts are with you.
-
+1
-
bishop.of.exeter@exeter.anglican.org
Actually maybe a few folk could write, fill his inbox so it can't be ignored. If you're up for that I'm certainly willing.
I am too, though we might need a little detail in order to make the case properly. Definitely write to the press too, stir up as much bad publicity as possible.
Add me to the list of willing emailers.
Matt, if you want us to email then maybe if you PM'd a few of us (who have expressed an interest) a little context / details about your landlord(s) that we can put in an email? Also, Neil Mann (@fieldproducer) is a influential journo (he has loads of followers), climber and used to post on here.. so if you were to make a www page that he could re-tweet etc.. then that may well spread the message suitably to various media types in particular...
+1 from me too..
-
I'm not ignoring you.
I'm touched.
I needed to think.
I want to put together an answer, later, when the kids are in bed.
-
I am deeply touched by your care and concern.
I had not intended to spark a letter writing campaign or the like.
I had to speak to my wife, to ask if she wanted the fight, because I cannot act alone without dragging her with me into the unknown
I am angry, but part of that anger is unjustified.
I am angry and finding an outlet for that anger is difficult. Trying to throw it somewhere where it will do no harm is a daily struggle.
So part of this answer I will post in the forum, part (the next, missing, paragraph) I will PM to everyone who posted here or PM’d me. It suddenly seems important, that people do not see this as some massive wind up. I actually read the blog from the beginning, something the councillor had been asking me to do for the past few weeks. It just seems so unlikely that one family could have been through so much. I gave up on telling my “war stories” and “travel tales” at dinner parties years ago, after being met with frank disbelief once too often (although my life has been quite tame compared to some of the posters here, I’m sure). I don’t want that to happen here.
We cannot face the fight.
We have enough to deal with already.
When we came back to Britain, in 2008, we had to rent. We had the money for a deposit but no history of income here and a fledgling business. So not much chance of a Mortgage in the spring of 2009…
By the middle of 2010, after a year of battling cancer and the recession, there was no money left.
At the same time my wife was diagnosed with the new tumour, we were served notice on the house we lived in. We had very little time and few options. We ended up moving into the Vicarage. We knew it would be temporary, although there had been no decision if a new Vicar would be appointed or the parish merged with another.
We did not know, then, how bad the cancer would prove to be, incredible to think now, we really thought (as did the doctors) that it could be cut out and we could all laugh about it later…
She went in, for the failed operation, four days after we moved in.
And then we forgot about it, just hoping something would turn up, perhaps, even; a little pity.
I’m an Atheist and if I turn out to be wrong and I find myself standing before the big cheese, being judged someday, HE/SHE/IT will need some fairly hefty security, or I shall be doing them serious damage… See you! Pal! Ya Basta!
My wife is an Orthodox Christian.
Many of our friends are part of the parish and members of the church.
Why should we deny them their Vicar?
As I said, unjustified, I should have thought it through; that was my responsibility.
It would have been better, if they could have been more helpful, even a letter; not just some cold legal form (sent twice, to be signed for). Why they had to send it six days before Christmas, I don’t know, would a few days more have been so bad?
Please, though, share the link for the blog.
Because, the real battle might be just around the corner.
My wife’s cancer is an Anal Squamous cell Carcinoma.
It’s rare.
It’s even more rare, for it to metastasise.
The drug Cetuximab, is a Monoclonal antibodiy.
It is effective in preventing cancer cell division and growth.
If a cancer cell has epidermal growth factor receptors, the cetuximab bonds to those receptors and prevents growth/division by excluding the growth factors.
Her cancer has those receptors.
The drug is approved for use by the NHS.
BUT NOT FOR HER TYPE OF CANCER, BECAUSE IT’S TOO RARE FOR ANY LARGE SCALE TRIALS TO HAVE BEEN CONDUCTED!!!
So there is no body of evidence for the Oncologist to cite in support of her application for the treatment.
We will have to fight to get the drug.
And I’m getting really, really, tired.
-
Matt,
Just wanted to add my name in support, you blog basically has me in tears every time I read it. I wish I was in a position to offer you help besides kind words.
With the church being one of the largest property owners in the country, you would think they could be more helpful!
Best
Tim
-
:agree: having a terrible situation compounded by such crap must make the nightmare even worse, especially when some preach compassion.
-
Matt,
Jeez, you guys are going through hell.
You probably have not heard but Marion(Wagg) and I have had our troubles also, although nowhere near what you are going through. Marion had a gas embolism after a dive on the Zainab last August and nearly died. She pulled through and is now undergoing extensive rehab. Although her injuries are not life threatening, my/our dealings with the medical professionals are also less than satisfactory.
Keep your spirits up as best as you all can and give everyone our love.
Jim Darbyshire
-
Hi Jim,
I'm ashamed to say we missed it, happening in August; we were distracted. I only found out on Sunday. We'd been wondering what to say. I'll drop you a line on FB, when I've got more time. I have recently become friends with a young poet who lost her husband to a unprovoked attack by a very stupid man. We decided, when the sighted lead the blind; all you can do is follow. When the blind cooperate, you have more hands to feel your way in the dark and you don't have to depend on what the sighted think is important...
I know how tough you are and the strength of you character.
And I know that isn't always enough.
We wish you well, both of you.
I'll write properly soon.
Matt and Lili
-
I for one will be extremely angry if the PIP breast implants are dealt with at cost to the NHS when deserving cases for cancer therapy continue to be denied. I await the outcome of the current debacle.
-
Just wanted to add my name in support, you blog basically has me in tears every time I read it. I wish I was in a position to offer you help besides kind words.
Stubbs has said, very simply and very eloquently, exactly the words I have been searching for for sometime but couldn't string together.
My thoughts with you and yours
Ben
-
I sought some advice from a friend who replied.
"In the first instance I would recommend that he contact the Bishop (bishop.of.exeter@exeter.anglican.org) and cc in the Property Services Manager, Graham Davies (property@exeter.anglican.org) and whichever is his local ‘second-in-command’ to the bishop (http://www.exeter.anglican.org/index.cfm?fuseaction=diocese.content&cmid=35 (http://www.exeter.anglican.org/index.cfm?fuseaction=diocese.content&cmid=35)), most of whom will be angling for a promotion to full Bishop . E-mail is good but if he can get it onto a real-life actual hand-written letter so much the better and more tangible (as long as his handwriting is legible and his spelling up to snuff). As in any large organization there will be a degree of autonomy accorded to the employees and I doubt that the bish would know anything about the move to evict. It isn’t the sort of issue that is part of the bishop’s ‘duties’ – he is the spiritual leader of the diocese.
At the very least one might expect a plea for alternative accommodation to fall on sympathetic ears (especially if the media are subtly invoked).
Shocking story and scandalous behavior from the martinets at Property Services."
-
Useful advice. I emailed the Bish yesterday (no reply as yet) but will now send same mail to Mr Davies
-
For your further emailing pleasure;
The Archdeacon of Exeter is (The Venerable) Penny Driver;Her address is Emmanuel House, Station Rd, Ide Exeter EX2 9RS The email is :
archdeacon.of.exeter@exeter.anglican.orgPhone:
01392 425577
-
No reply...
Nothing...
Except, they phoned the agents, to ask if we "would be a problem?"
-
I was hoping for something a little better than that, sorry Matt.
-
they really are shameless.
sorry Matt.
the problem you represent, and that they clearly don't have, is called morality.
-
They seem to have a FAcebook page.
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Bishop-Bobs-prayers/338066632288?sk=wall (https://www.facebook.com/pages/Bishop-Bobs-prayers/338066632288?sk=wall)
should we start posting?
-
Thinking of you all, Matt, let us know if there's anything we can help with even if it's just posting on FB pages or whatever to make a bit of noise, what you're going through is horrendous and really shouldn't be allowed. It's shameful that so called 'good Christians' would behave the way they are. :(
-
It was late… 19th January 2012
Last night, when I got home.
I had to cram a weeks’ worth of work into two and a half days, to be back for this morning.
I left the office at three, to sprint to the airport, to climb onto the orange plane, to race through the fog and break into the clear air above.
I had to drive four hours, through traffic cones and diversions, rain and sleepy, weaving, idiots.
I tumbled into bed, at one am, too wound up to sleep.
The now familiar, mixed, feeling of relief and dread at returning home; kept my eyes resolutely open.
An early start.
Bleary eyed.
The traffic choked drive.
The fear, beneath it all.
Today…
Is Chemo day.
Today…
Is results day.
It was late…
When the patrol boat appeared.
The rapid Arabic exchange between the Dhow Captain and the Patrol boat, quickly quelled the party mood of the passengers.
The Captains tone, the up raised palm, all said “We’re only a couple of hours from Khasab, can’t we carry on?”
The firmly shaken head and single barked “Lha!”, from the half seen figure on the patrol boat; left little doubt.
“We follow heem!” the Captain shouts to us.
Someone asks why?
He shrugs and spins the wheel.
We are led deep into one of the forgotten fiords of the Musandam and told to anchor amongst the small flotilla of Dhows, fishing boats and Coasters; huddled in the shallows below the towering cliffs.
Subdued, confused, we take the party below decks.
We do not want to advertise the alcohol.
But, hey! It’s Boxing Day…
It was late…
When we went in.
The Oncologist’s clinic never runs to time.
These are not the kind of appointments that can be rushed.
Often interrupted, by the need to find more tissues.
By the need to find a breath.
“The tumour and the lymph nodes are just a little bigger, and that’s not… too bad.” She says.
“There is a little question about a, very, tiny thing in your chest…” She tries to say it quickly, to gloss over.
But we heard it.
We saw her look at her hands.
We saw the smile flicker.
We want to know.
“Well, there is a small lump, in your lung, it might be nothing to worry about. It could be a lot of things.”
She won’t be drawn any further.
The request for funding of the new treatment has passed through the first panel, she says.
Two more panels to convince.
“I’ve made a really strong case” she says “But…”
It was late…
The next morning.
When we arrived in Khasab.
For the first time in living memory, snow capped the peaks of the Hajar and a bitter wind howled around us as we loaded up for the trek back to Dubai.
It would be a long, tortuous, journey.
Flooding had closed most of the major highways along the coast.
It was after departing, when we turned on the radio for news of the flooding; that we heard that the world had ended for so many people.
That few minutes of bouncing, jostling, waves that had disturbed us, deep inside that fiord; had wrought havoc and death, far to the south.
It was quiet, in the office the next day.
As I signed the papers, to authorise purchase of a ticket home, my friend, my welding Foreman, sobbed, silently.
Over a hundred men, from my company alone, went home that day.
Except, their homes were not there.
As he left, my mind drifted back to Harry, Dixon and Nelahni and the thin strip of sand between the Dewasiri guest house and the murderous ocean.
Of the train I used to ride, from Colombo to Hikkaduwa, seen on the news that morning; strewn through the jungle.
Flotsam.
It is late…
Here, from dark to dark.
She sleeps.
I type to the rhythm of the pulsing pump.
The Oncologist was outraged.
“How can they evict you? Now?”
“I’m going to write to them!”
I say thank you, but, they don’t reply.
The Council, can’t house us until the Church gets a court order for eviction.
If I return to work, we lose the housing benefit and that makes it harder for the Council to house us.
We can’t find a private rental, we’ve been on benefits too long; the agents won’t even consider us.
The British Legion is sending someone to help.
I don’t know what to do.
The only thing I know.
It’s getting Late.
-
Hang in there Matt, I suspect (hope) theres an element of brinksmanship in their eviction...
have you written to your MP? or - have you contacted the local press? Daily Mail? (I hate them, but its right up their street,,,)
-
They seem to have a FAcebook page.
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Bishop-Bobs-prayers/338066632288?sk=wall (https://www.facebook.com/pages/Bishop-Bobs-prayers/338066632288?sk=wall)
should we start posting?
Well its had some impact...
"Thank you to those who have posted comments referring to an individual in a property owned by the diocese. For reasons of confidentiality, we ask you to write to the Diocese of Exeter, the Old Deanery, Palace Gate, Exeter. Thank you"
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Bishop-Bobs-prayers/338066632288?sk=wall (https://www.facebook.com/pages/Bishop-Bobs-prayers/338066632288?sk=wall)
-
Well, something is moving...
We have a number to call.
Given how close I came to losing the plot, this morning; I hope it leads somewhere other than frustration and pain.
I had so many things to do, no time to do them.
I had to be in three places simultaneously.
The phone would not stop ringing.
That one extra, unexpected, urgent task...
The realisation I had no change for the parking meter...
Discovering I'd left the power lead for the laptop at home...
And the battery was flat...
And I needed those files...
And someone wanted to chat...
And...
I went back, to sit in the car...
And screamed.
And shouted.
And...
Hoped no one...
No one ...
Could see.
-
Hello Big Brother!
I've read it now. Amazing writing, as I knew it would be. I'm very proud of you and love you very much.
I've just written a 4 page letter to Bishop Bob and will post it tomorrow! Even if it makes no difference at least it will take him a while to read it!
xx Little Sis xx
-
They seem to have a FAcebook page.
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Bishop-Bobs-prayers/338066632288?sk=wall (https://www.facebook.com/pages/Bishop-Bobs-prayers/338066632288?sk=wall)
should we start posting?
Well its had some impact...
"Thank you to those who have posted comments referring to an individual in a property owned by the diocese. For reasons of confidentiality, we ask you to write to the Diocese of Exeter, the Old Deanery, Palace Gate, Exeter. Thank you"
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Bishop-Bobs-prayers/338066632288?sk=wall (https://www.facebook.com/pages/Bishop-Bobs-prayers/338066632288?sk=wall)
I had no reply to either of the emails I sent - but maybe they are taking some notice. I shall write to 'Bob' on actual paper. Reasons or confidentiality - or don't want it publicised?
-
"Thank you to those who have posted comments referring to an individual in a property owned by the diocese. For reasons of confidentiality, we ask you to write to the Diocese of Exeter, the Old Deanery, Palace Gate, Exeter. Thank you"
I replied: "For reasons of confidentiality, or you don't want the adverse publicity? You should really be ashamed of what you're doing."
I suspect it'll soon be deleted, especially given my FB ID ! I won't post anything else, don't want to piss them off.
-
They seem to have a FAcebook page.
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Bishop-Bobs-prayers/338066632288?sk=wall (https://www.facebook.com/pages/Bishop-Bobs-prayers/338066632288?sk=wall)
should we start posting?
Well its had some impact...
"Thank you to those who have posted comments referring to an individual in a property owned by the diocese. For reasons of confidentiality, we ask you to write to the Diocese of Exeter, the Old Deanery, Palace Gate, Exeter. Thank you"
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Bishop-Bobs-prayers/338066632288?sk=wall (https://www.facebook.com/pages/Bishop-Bobs-prayers/338066632288?sk=wall)
I had no reply to either of the emails I sent - but maybe they are taking some notice. I shall write to 'Bob' on actual paper. Reasons or confidentiality - or don't want it publicised?
I suspect it's maybe an old organisation where a bit of paper carrys more clout than an email (even if printed out). Acknowledgement is a sign of progress still...
-
I had no reply to either of the emails I sent - but maybe they are taking some notice. I shall write to 'Bob' on actual paper. Reasons or confidentiality - or don't want it publicised?
I suspect it's maybe an old organisation where a bit of paper carrys more clout than an email (even if printed out). Acknowledgement is a sign of progress still...
I'd go for them not wanting publicity but I'll also try the paper approach.
-
Facebook page appears to have been taken down (or I am being dumb- real possibility)
-
Link still works. Don't know if they have deleted a thread.
-
Something is moving.
I'm not sure where it is going...
But it is going.
They have replied and we are talking.
Thank you, everyone.
I should have updated yesterday...
Yesterday was complicated.
Today was worse.
Oh, well...
At least HMRC have backed down, thanks to the MP.
One less thing to worry about.
Now, just the small matter of a tax return to be filed by Monday...
-
Some times, you have no control... 07 February 2012
Some times, you have to rely on others.
Some times, you are as helpless as a baby.
For me...
For Adventurer, Climber, Diver, Environment controlling Engineer me...
That is really, really hard.
She sleeps, on the sofa, in pain again...
I work, quietly, tapping keys, filling forms.
I pad silently upstairs to make phone calls, to answer the silent buzz; when it comes.
Mamia has taken my little boy, to run in the park, to get muddy; to be...
A little boy.
We still have no news.
The treatment still hangs in the balance.
Maybe.
We should have found out last week.
Silence.
Is the decision already made?
Is it just too hard to tell us?
Some times, you have no control...
Silence...
The boat is called a "Rigid Raider".
It's not much of a boat.
Not what could be called "Ocean going".
We called it a "Skimming dish".
There were two.
One loaded with all the kit for a major expedition onto the ice cap.
One loaded with personal kit, climbing gear and...
Us.
The massive berg, that had blocked King Edward sound, to anything larger than the Raider; was shaped like a Church.
A vivid blue, crystal Church, with a soaring spire, reaching into the heavens. Glinting in the bright sun.
It deserved a photograph.
The boat Coxswain, had an idea.
Some times, you have no control...
Thursday.
Thursday, we are due to see the Oncologist.
Thursday, we have a provisional appointment to begin the new treatment.
Thursday.
We find out.
We wait.
In silence.
Some times, you have no control...
Silence.
Broken by the occasional booming "Crack" as the ice cap calves another daughter.
Broken by the brief crackle of the radio.
The equipment boat, some way behind, will race at full speed; between us and the Berg.
The water is a shimmering, blue, mirror.
It should look spectacular.
It does.
There is rummaging in rucksacks, as we stow away our cameras.
There are smiles.
We are happy.
The boat rocks, to the wake the long past gear boat...
There is a "Crack!"
Loud, close, imminent.
I look up.
The spire is moving.
The spire is falling.
Silence.
The silence is shattered.
Huge daggers of ice crash into the sea around us.
The Coxswain slams the throttles forward and the Raider leaps into a pirouette; bow straining for the sky as the props bite.
She comes to the plane, in a maelstrom of icy death.
As we race away, I am transfixed.
By the ice that will surely kill us.
By the calm, determined face of the Cox; as he ignores the hell pursuing us.
By Roy's voice, repeating again and again "Shit! Jesus Christ! Shit! Jesus Christ!".
By the chunks of ice battering us and filling the boat.
By the tip of the spire as it crashes to the water two or three meters behind us.
By the wave.
Even as we reach top speed, the towering wave lifts our stern and the bow begins to scoop water.
Finally, I close my eyes.
Silence.
Dare I open my eyes?
Dare I ask?
Some times...
You have no control.
-
I can't seem conjure up any words. I've just spent the evening, gripped, reading this, having come across it. Bubba's FB post a few months ago, re the vicar, suddenly makes sense.
my words seem useless, but I'm thinking of you and your family whist berating myself for letting all my little narcissistic worries get to me at times.
Carry on being excellent to each other.
-
(http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7007/6841113125_5c73046c5b.jpg) (http://www.flickr.com/photos/oldmanmatt/6841113125/)
2012-02-08-13-43-24_1E8D1698-175D-4F79-AF50-87BCB70A540D (http://www.flickr.com/photos/oldmanmatt/6841113125/) by oldmanmatt (http://www.flickr.com/people/oldmanmatt/), on Flickr
We cried.
-
Good.
-
Thats one little ray of sunshine.
May you have many more.
-
I should think so too...
-
They finally did the right thing; I'm so pleased you now haven't got this hanging over you on top of everything else. Sweet!
-
funny how our sense of morals were stronger than theirs.
As is our sense of community.
let's hope this is the first of many good news items Matt
-
Thank you everyone.
Thank you all.
It really was you who made the difference.
System_ian, was the Zombie, by the way...
-
Great news Matt :)
-
great news Matt!!!
:2thumbsup:
-
:agree: with everyone, really, really good news
-
You know, you should at least know what they look like.
Feb 2011,
BCN.
Just before.
Only a year ago...
(http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7021/6826012915_0d8a0837e9.jpg) (http://www.flickr.com/photos/oldmanmatt/6826012915/)
2011-03-10-08-57-45_00000000-0000-0000-0000-00000000342E (http://www.flickr.com/photos/oldmanmatt/6826012915/) by oldmanmatt (http://www.flickr.com/people/oldmanmatt/), on Flickr
-
I reckon the one at the backs adopted. :smart:
-
Oi! That's my best outfit.
-
Good news. :2thumbsup:
-
We got it!,
Treatment starts at 11:15!!!!
I open my eyes.
And cross my fingers...
And toes...
-
Nice one!!
-
i'm crossing my legs, but that's due to too much coffee and trying to finish an assignment before heading down stairs ;D
Good luck, and hopefully, i'll see you in a couple of weeks.
-
Good luck, hope the side-effects aren't too bad.
-
Best of luck.
-
Hopefully this is your luck turning, got everything crossed for you guys.
-
Lights... 27 February 2012
Flash by...
In the gloom of the tunnel.
Eruption.
Into blinding sunlight.
Church towers...
Thrust from rocky hill tops, straining to match the majesty of the towering peaks.
Squat, solid, castles...
That speak of long forgotten war.
Of cold steel and bloody battle.
Not princesses.
Not...
Magical kisses...
"Cresi Anno".
The year of the battle of Crecy?
"Cresci Anno".
The year of the Crazy?
The voice, is playing word games, while I concentrate on the traffic.
My mind is caught, by a long ribbon of white water cascading over smooth, worn Granite. Shining in the afternoon sun. A bridal train of beauty.
Lost, for a moment; I almost miss it.
The village is smaller than I had expected.
This does make it easy to find the Hostel...
Two elderly men sit, at separate tables; one with a small dog at his feet.
They look at their glasses or the back of their hands.
They don't look up, when I walk in.
Aside from the murmured conversation of a young couple, buying water from the grey haired woman behind the bar; the loudest noise is the ticking of a clock.
As the couple leave, I smile and greet the lady behind the bar. I ask if there is a climbing shop nearby?
"There was." says the man without the dog...
"No one wanted it..." he gestures to the door in the corner, "It's the kitchen, now."
He heaves a fatalistic shrug.
I ask if he knows where I might buy a guide book?
"Oh we have those. That's all they ever want.." he sighs, "Guide books and chalk."
They had two, Cresciano and Chironico.
I bought them both.
I couldn't afford both but the voice wouldn't let me buy just one.
I ask him about mats.
"We had them... " he said.
"But they took them..."
Another shrug.
I park, in the forlorn little car park, down in the village.
It is almost empty, save for a single white van, with UK plates and emblazoned with the words "Operation Beastmaker".
Despite the youth of the year, it's 26 degrees in the car park.
I bundle my Duvet in the pack and lash my jumper around my waist.
The path is steep, uneven, still, quiet and...
Hot.
The looming mountains and tumbling water are stunning; each pause for breath reveals another breath taking view.
After taking two of the ankle breaking paths that cut the exaggerated sweep of the winding road, I turn onto the tarmac to take a look at the hamlet that this ridiculous piece of civil engineering serves.
Impossibly cute, stone built houses grow from the grassy slopes; surrounded by granite posted vineyards and gardens. Here and there, old machinery and winches hint at a more industrial past.
A spring, trickles from a pipe, sprouting from a granite column and splatters into the trough below.
Topo in hand, I search out the famous lines.
A desperate hunt, through shin deep leaves on steep slippery ground and I am dreaming of...
Dream time...
The Dagger...
As the light fades, I reluctantly head down.
In the car park, the van is occupied.
Greg, is living in the van.
He has been for over a year now.
Introductions, small talk and a plan is hatched.
Ah... What the Mice and Men don't know...
The lights of the tunnel flash by again...
The sun still shines and the churches and castles are still fighting to be noticed; between the dominating peaks.
I'm surprisingly nervous...
I haven't climbed on or held a real, living rock; for almost a year.
I think I have kept the strength, the fitness...
"But Plastic isn't Granite." says the voice, " Mr Granite will not be at home to excuses."
There were two vans in the car park.
The Welsh had arrived.
Olly, Alex and Jo; join the fun.
I climb like a drunk, spastic, tortoise.
Feet skittering, fingers slipping, skin eroding...
The realisation, after detouring to fill my bottle at the spring; that my bottle was in fact still on the back seat of the car. (A discovery that prompted me, at midday, to make the hike back down to the village and... Back up, in the afternoon heat)!!
I rejoined the guys and threw my self straight into the 7C+ roof they were playing on.
But soon I was spent, legs and forearms cramping, fingers sore and bleeding.
Hopelessly outclassed.
With every drop onto the mat, I felt how far I'd fallen from a year ago...
I have to cry off early.
I have to make the drive back to Como.
I have to make myself presentable, for dinner at my friends house; when I return the car he leant me.
I drive into the sunset.
Pausing for a moment.
I press Genre.
Select "Classical".
Hit Shuffle.
Tap play.
Barbers' Adagio.
"That fits" says the voice.
It was a good day.
A day full of failure.
Of disappointment and shame.
In a beautiful place, with good people.
Vanessa played the Prelude and I smiled.
Today, I sit in an airport cafe.
Waiting for the orange plane, to take me home.
I should be happy.
Part of me is.
But...
The home I go to...
Is not the home I dream of.
-
She went in... 12 March 2012
She could hardly speak.
Hardly walk.
Hardly think.
The Hospice nurse insisted...
I'd missed my flight, on Friday night.
I had to spend another night in Amsterdam, rise at four am (three in the UK, with the time difference).
The Trams don't run that early on Saturday mornings.
I squinted into the dark sky.
It seemed the rain had passed.
Birds began to sing.
I might as well walk to the station...
The pain has overwhelmed her.
Beyond the reach of even the massive dose of Morphiates she already consumes.
Restless.
Agitated.
Helpless.
We wait for the nurse to arrive.
The birds fell silent.
The waking streets suddenly quiet.
The sky opened and the water fell.
I struggled on, dripping into the station.
Sitting, gently steaming, as the train pulled away.
Passport checks and bag scans.
Waiting...
Waiting...
Thinking...
She can't think.
She can't articulate the nature of the pain.
A vague hand, indicates the offending zone.
She drifts to silence mid sentence, fading through mumble to mutter...
To moan.
"Welcome home" says the voice...
She went in.
She went into the Hospice.
"Just until we sort out the pain" says the nurse.
Says the Doctor.
The Hospice...
"Will she come out?" asks the voice.
That night, at home, alone...
The birds fell silent.
The sky opened.
The water fell.
-
How is the pain, today... 16 April 2012.
The first question.
Every time.
From everyone.
Doctors, Nurses, Friends, Family.
Helpless...
The "couple" of days, in the hospice; turned into fourteen.
Into rushed scans.
Into sad smiles and awkward pauses.
Clasped hands and inspected nails.
The treatment did not work.
The tumour grew.
The Lymph nodes grew.
The Oncologists' smile is so brittle.
Her words so forced and un-natural.
Empathic pain, clear in her eyes.
"We have to stop, it's not helping and...
mm...
You are deteriorating".
Numb...
Finally, she comes home.
We try to carry on.
For a few days.
Unable to make the required acknowledgements.
The necessary mental steps.
To talk about the way ahead.
Numb...
The day before Good Friday, we sit in the Oncologists office.
She (both of them) is not prepared to quit.
They, will keep fighting.
There will be another round of Cysplatin, the only Chemo that seemed to hold it stable.
There are copies made of all the notes and scans, dispatched to anywhere and everywhere; someone may have something.
Maybe the Marsden?
Maybe...
Dichotomy.
Sleepless nights of pain and discomfort.
Sunny days of friends and happy children.
Waiting rooms and needles.
Smiling, chocolate covered faces; chasing Easter bunnies.
Fitful, drugged, sleep and moaning dreams.
A little girl singing to herself, to the smiles of those around; as she climbs the stunning limestone cliff.
Tablets passed, injection made.
I join the children splashing in the sea.
From misery to "Whizzies" in a heart beat.
Helpless...
-
A few of her pictures, through the years...
(http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5202/5729711789_f82a36f13c.jpg) (http://www.flickr.com/photos/oldmanmatt/5729711789/)
creatures (147) (http://www.flickr.com/photos/oldmanmatt/5729711789/#) by oldmanmatt (http://www.flickr.com/people/oldmanmatt/), on Flickr
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Before...
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2010-12-15-18-08-36_00000000-0000-0000-0000-0000000033FC (http://www.flickr.com/photos/oldmanmatt/6826001419/#) by oldmanmatt (http://www.flickr.com/people/oldmanmatt/), on Flickr
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62. Around and around... 07 May 2012
Around and around...
Where next to go?
Where will it stop?
I'm afraid, I know...
Waiting again...
Watching again...
On Friday, she came home from another weeklong stint in the Hospice.
She had looked so weak, unable to eat; I began to prepare myself for the worst.
And suddenly, I was the object of scorn and derision; suddenly I was the enemy...
Accused of giving up, of not doing enough to find a cure, of neglecting my duties to protect my family.
Because, it is just too hard to accept.
Because a healthy young woman cannot have an incurable disease.
Because...
Because there must be something...
Somewhere...
"There will be a hospital in Germany" (because of course, those clever Germans, cured cancer years ago and are keeping it secret).
"There is a conspiracy against the alternative therapies, the drug companies don't want us to know! It's a cure only available for the rich! You must find money to get to the secret clinic!" (After all, these things cured Steve Jobs... Oh... Hang on... They didn't did they).
She came home on Friday...
She could eat again.
She was so much brighter.
She smiled a little...
By Saturday evening, she didn't feel so good.
"Bowl!!"
One word.
Six am, Sunday morning.
One word.
It sent me from deep slumber, to a dash for the bathroom.
To a hastily grabbed bowl, kept there "just incase".
It sent me, us, into another spinning, gut twisting, whirl; of indecision and painful choices.
It is Monday.
It is midday.
There have been Nurses...
Doctors...
Injections, pills...
Rushed trips to Pharmacies.
Children packed off to Grandma and Grandad.
To give them a rest.
Most of all...
There has been waiting.
Waiting to see if the last pill worked, if the latest injection could stop the sickness.
Now we wait.
Again.
Wait for the District Nurse to bring a Syringe Driver...
One last try, one last pitch, to regain control.
Or?
Around and around...
-
Keep writing Matt.
-
we know the enemy Matt and it's not you.
Hang in there
-
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
-
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.
-
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.
-
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...
-
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?
-
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.
-
Two Suns in the Sunset is an amazing song.
-
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.
-
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...
-
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. :strongbench:
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Even as someone who has had to walk this same path I am humbled. I am sure you are all in all our thoughts.
-
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. :strongbench:
^ this. Stay strong Matt.
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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.
-
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.
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Matt,
What can be said???
Just keep going and be brave for your kids.
Marion & Jim
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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.
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Jasper has the words I don't.
Keep fucking going. :strongbench:
-
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?
-
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..."
-
We're so sorry, Matt. Stay strong for them. We're thinking of you.
-
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.
-
Feel for you so much Matt, sending you all the vibes I can muster; so sorry to hear that she's gone...
-
Our thoughts are with you Matt. Take care of them and be kind to yourself.
-
"There's not much of Daddy left..."
We've never met, we probably never will. But my impression (for what it's worth) of the strength and courage you've shown here is that there will turn out to be more than enough of Daddy left.
-
so sorry for you Matt. It probably doesn't feel like it at the moment but it does get easier. She'll never be gone from your hearts and minds. Stay strong.
-
Matt, I'm so sorry. My heart goes out to you all.
-
Condolences Matt. Thinking of you all a lot. In these months you, and your wife, have been for me an example of courage and dignity. Thank you for being so human.
Lorenzo.
-
Thinking about you and your kids matt. I'm sure you'll be strong for them.
-
I always find myself in tears and lost for words reading your words and today is no different.
My thoughts are with you.
-
As everyone else has said, every post reduces me to tears, especially this one. Thinking of you and your kids.
-
As others have said, I only know you through UKB, thinking of you.
-
Shit, mat I am so, so sorry. I wish there was more that I could do for you than give you these words. Be strong. My thoughts are with you and your family.
-
So sorry for you, nothing we can say will suffice, all our heartfelt to your family.
-
The morning after... 13 June 2012
I keep tripping up.
Metaphorically and literally.
Everything is slightly distant.
A little muted.
My body and mind, in the same room but concentrating on different things.
Occasionally, bumping into each other as they fumble around.
We all slept the sleep of the innocent, woken only by alarms; to dress and ready for school.
We smile and giggle.
Tease and tickle.
Nearly ready, almost time to go.
He found her Crocs.
He's three.
"Why are Mummy's Crocs here?... She needs them!"
I explain again.
I have this now, I can do it; I was expecting this.
I was ready.
He nodded, as somber as a three year old can be.
"When is she coming home?"
He asks.
The world shifted.
Dissolution of pretence...
We cried together.
Held each other.
The children, Mamaia and I.
I'm going climbing.
Screw the world.
Enough.
-
There is nothing I can say which seems sufficient and yet I feel compelled to write to offer my condolences. You regularly show such strength, composure and compassion that moves many and is an inspiration. Keep going.
-
keep strong mate.
-
In bits. So sorry Matt.
-
My thoughts are with you and your family matt.
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Oh matt. :( I'm so, so sorry for your loss. I wish there was something that could be done to make it easier, I'm utterly in awe of your strength. Keep on going. xx
-
Our thoughts are with you. I can't even begin to imagine trying to hold it together.
-
:no:
Words aren't enough, but I'm so sorry for your & your families loss. :'(
-
i cant comprehend what you must be going through right now matt but take care of yourself and your family, remember that there are people around you that love you so much. i offer my sincerest condolences.
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My thoughts are with you too Matt. Hold tight man.
-
Stay strong fella. All the best
-
Walking along I realised my thoughts were with you despite not knowing you, your writing has touched me, take care, Rich.
-
There's something about the way you have written over the last year or so Matt that has really brought us (the ukb community) right into your world. Like most on here, I only know you through this blog and unlike yourself, words fail me.
Try to stay strong, roll with it all.
Thoughts and sympathies are with you all.
-
So sorry, Matt.
-
So sorry Matt,
You know where I am, if i can help let me know.
Everything that went before has been making you strong enough for what is coming now.
i have faith in you.
Ian
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Matt, can any of us make a donation to any charity or trust or anything set up on her behalf? I'd like to do more Han that for you but at least it's something.
-
So sorry Matt, heart goes out to you and your family.
-
Matt, can any of us make a donation to any charity or trust or anything set up on her behalf? I'd like to do more Han that for you but at least it's something.
First off, thank you all for the thoughts and wishes.
Sorry, I didn't reply sooner; I have basically been in Zombie land for the last two weeks...
If anyone would like to donate something, rather than set up a specific trust/charity at this stage; could you send to:
Exmouth and Lympstone Hospiscare
High view gardens,
Exmouth,
EX8 2RJ
Or just donate to your local Hospice.
These organisations take over where the NHS leaves off and they provide a degree of care and assistance I would never have imagined, they made the last few months almost bearable (almost).
Thanks again.
-
Donations can also be made online:
http://www.justgiving.com/exmouthlympstonehospiscare/Donate (http://www.justgiving.com/exmouthlympstonehospiscare/Donate)
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Donations can also be made online:
http://www.justgiving.com/exmouthlympstonehospiscare/Donate (http://www.justgiving.com/exmouthlympstonehospiscare/Donate)
See! Zombie.
Just beginning to wake up...
Now you can try:
http://www.justgiving.com/Lili-Glover (http://www.justgiving.com/Lili-Glover)
-
Will do. Hang in there mate.
-
Will make a donation when I get paid on Friday.
Not surprised you're a zombie - I don't think I could even function in your situation, I'd be curled into a ball somewhere with a bottle for company. You're awesome Matt, and long may it continue.
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I have been reading your story for the last few hours Matt. I feel very privileged to read about this most personal and emotional part of your life. It is absolutely amazing you have found the strength to type these words with each installment. You are truly inspirational. I cannot begin to comprehend how you managed to find the strength to write about each event after actually having to be strong enough to get through it in one piece and strong for your kids.
I don't normally cruise the UKB site very much but I have found myself in the house without much to do since my Dad died suddenly on the 13th June after recovering from a heart problem at Christmas. How cheated I have been feeling at the loss of my Dad, taken far too young at 59, we had Dad and daughter stuff still left to do and planned for the future. He went for an afternoon snooze and then didn't wake up again. I felt robbed and totally lost.
But I have had to give myself a bit of a shake and a stern talking to. I cannot begin to imagine how hard the battle with cancer was that your wife and yourself and beautiful children have had to go through. I suppose from some small mercy I can thank God or whoever it is up there that my Dad just went to sleep and there were no hospitals, and pain, and treatments, and anxiety. That was all done last year, and they thought he was better so the last 6 months of his life were normal and happy and he felt better than he had for some time. And was at home with people near him. I must be thankful for this.
I have been very moved by your words. You have shown incredible strength and courage sharing this with such a large community. I will donate to the charity as soon as I get back to work and earning again (I was sacked 2 days before my Dad died...). It has also restored my faith in humanity the compassion and words of support from so many people on this site that are thinking of you. It reinforces why I got into and continue to climb. Such a great crowd.
I have found climbing has helped me deal with the grief and the emotional turmoil I am going through. In particular a recent day leading at the Quay in Exeter, my first session on ropes for quite some time. I find my mind empties and there is nothing there, no hurt, no tears, just me and chalky fingers and the rope and coloured resin holds. I only wish it would stop raining so I can get out on the rock. I usually boulder, but sport routes seems better for me at the moment, bouldering doesn't consume my mind for long enough to get me in that empty zone.
I feel very inspired by your strength and your story Matt. To stay strong for other members of my family. Thank you Matt for this most eloquent and heartfelt diary. I feel truly honoured to have come across your beautiful words.
I am so sorry for your loss, my thoughts are with you and your family.
Nic
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The world... 11 July 2012
Is distant.
Muffled.
People speak, I watch their lips move.
The Voice tells me what they said, a few seconds later; like a bad phone connection.
I smile, at people; when they speak.
At least...
I turn up the corners of my mouth.
The local Round Table paid for the children and I to spend a week in Cyprus.
They all but frogmarched us onto the plane.
"Insisted" doesn't cover it.
We Snorkelled, played in the quiet bays in the National park north of Paphos.
Clear, warm, blue sea.
Darting fish and shimmering sand.
The susurrus of Cicadas.
The chirruping of frogs, late into the night.
We ate Olives and cheese.
We laughed.
But I kept turning to talk to her.
To share.
Each time, a cold wind enveloped me.
A shiver.
A lump, in my throat.
And the world took another step away.
We returned.
To the cold and the wet.
To a pile of brown envelopes, just inside the front door.
To an empty house.
Suddenly, the world is back.
The sorrow sweeps in.
The tears, prickle the back of my eyes.
All day.
Every day.
She is gone.
-
Hang in there matt.
-
I remember those feelings all too horribly well. Just remember the love.
-
*stops moaning about broken heel*
Stay strong mate.
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It was... 29 July 2012
A little strange.
A little too easy.
Too comfortable.
The children played, argued, protested and generally did what children do.
The sun shone.
Birds sang.
Her little boy, scrabbled around and complained about the sand in his shoes.
Mine, kept calling for me to hold his hand as he jumped from boulder to mat.
My little girl climbed too high, again, and made me fret ( but she could see the whole world from the top of the Agglestone and she wasn't coming down without a fight ).
I forgot about climbing.
We sat on the mat and talked.
We lay on the picnic blanket, closer than I'd intended, and talked.
It is too soon.
Too complicated.
Too risky.
For both of us.
And them. Especially them.
But...
It was a moment of calm.
A moment of smiles.
A window in the loneliness.
A friend in need, is a...
Friend.
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Hi Matt,
Hope things are improving.
I hope you don't mind me posting this here, as you were one of the first to sponsor me.
Hope to see you later in the year when I'm down that way.
http://www.justgiving.com/Ian-Holmes0 (http://www.justgiving.com/Ian-Holmes0)
Monkey Feet against Cancer
I'm running Hell up North, "Barefoot" for Cancer Research UK because I hate cancer and they are trying to cure it.
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Ian, you have my whole hearted support and you know it!
If I get back into work before the run I'll up that donation.
Good luck mate!
Watching the training progress with admiration...
-
Well, race day tomorrow and just pucnhed through £1000.
Wish me luck
http://www.justgiving.com/Ian-Holmes0 (http://www.justgiving.com/Ian-Holmes0) http://www.justgiving.com/Ian-Holmes0 (http://www.justgiving.com/Ian-Holmes0)
Monkey Feet against Cancer
-
Keep writing, stay strong.
-
The song rises... 16th December 2012
Someone, one of us, starts to hum.
A foot taps...
The artificial family.
That feels so natural...
Glances are exchanged...
Smiles and grins...
The song erupts.
Our anthem.
When the bombs go off, I won't say cover!
Loud...
Louder still...
Keep one foot in front of the other!
Home is where I lay my head,
So under the stars I'll make my bed!
Artificial?
Look again...
-
(http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8082/8279406540_9af9f031b6.jpg) (http://www.flickr.com/photos/oldmanmatt/8279406540/)
Untitled (2012-12-15 18:29:40) (http://www.flickr.com/photos/oldmanmatt/8279406540/#) by oldmanmatt (http://www.flickr.com/people/oldmanmatt/), on Flickr
When you have to feel your way through the Dark Light...
The more hands the better.
-
Sitting..... 19 th March 2013
Waiting...
Another hospital...
A child.
A tonsillectomy.
I.
Hate.
Hospitals.
-
His name... 21 April 2013
His name, is Moses Peters.
The children call him "The Wizard Man".
He changes people's lives...
Moses makes people smile.
He can change an intimidating, oppressive day, into a little glimmer of hope.
He's probably never saved the world.
Never been a Schindler or a Mandela.
Never given a speech or roused the people in defence of their homes.
He's more important than that.
In his pale cream smock, with his flowing grey beard.
He sits beside the road.
The sea at his back.
And waves.
He waves at everyone.
A broad smile, his staff raised.
He waves.
Drivers return his salute, with a tooted horn.
Children look for him and giggle and shout when he appears.
Adults smile.
And the smile lingers...
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Matt thanks for letting me read this..... I was there at ur wedding.. I was there at the birth of Stacey... I am sorry I was not there at her passing..... I loved her I will always love her and will remember her with smiles... our lovely lovely Lilli...I am ................!!!!!
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Back in April, I wrote about Moses Peters.
I have never spoken to Moses.
I wouldn't know his voice.
A day or two ago, he suffered a bad stroke.
He was, I'm told, smiling and waving at the time.
He is critically ill.
Paralysis.
Pain.
It.
Is.
Shit.
I can't.
May never.
Speak to Moses.
But...
I can wave to you instead.
And smile...
(http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7443/9106872084_0094f1ddf2.jpg) (http://www.flickr.com/photos/oldmanmatt/9106872084/)
Untitled (2013-06-22 07:46:57) (http://www.flickr.com/photos/oldmanmatt/9106872084/#) by oldmanmatt (http://www.flickr.com/people/oldmanmatt/), on Flickr
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I met a man last night...24 November 2013
I even know his name.
I held his hand.
His head.
Legs.
...
Blood.
I called him Mate.
Told him everything would be fine.
For an hour or more.
The children hid in the car, little faces, lit by the flashing orange of so many Hazard lights.
The Barns competition had been so lively.
Thumping music, vibrant, athletic youth and enthusiasm.
We chatted with Alice from the Barn and Paul from the Quay. It was, to be honest, a proud moment.
No longer just another couple of customers, now we were fellow climbing wall owners. Part of the community.
Perspective...
We'd felt a little hurt.
It had even seemed important.
We had three sponsored climbers in that competition and not one had bothered to wear the T-shirts we'd supplied them with. It had felt like a slap.
For a moment.
I lost perspective.
On a cold, dark road.
In blood and twisted limbs.
It came back.
There was a lady...
I think her name was Kerry.
She put her hand through the shattered visor and held a a balaclava clear.
As blood poured, she held his shattered nostrils open.
Even when I'd gloved up and tried to send her to the nearby pub to wash, she refused to move.
Talking calmly to him.
Like a mother to a crying child.
Polly bustled.
Efficient.
Blankets procured.
Torches.
Messages relayed.
She calmed the excited lady, who'd been the first to key in 999 and kept the information flowing.
Polly was the first to go and check on the shocked but unhurt driver of the car.
Leaving him for a moment, I remember going to kill the ignition on the bike.
The stink of the fuel.
The bike.
Blue.
Barely recognisable as a bike.
A carpet of shards and fractured debris, spread across a country road, glistening in the torch light.
It seemed to take for ever.
Blue light.
The Cavalry arrived.
Some how, the arrival of the Paramedics didn't bring the relief I'd expected.
We rolled him onto his back.
Carefully.
He began to struggle.
There were Paramedics, Firemen, Policemen and even a orange overall clad Doctor.
And yet we were still in the midst of it.
Polly gently tried to restrain his arm, as the medics tried to cut away his jacket.
The horror as we realised the hand she held was attached to such a badly broken, twisted wrist.
I held his legs.
His knees so badly damaged by the handle bars.
We held the torches while the Doctor struggled to get a cannula in his unbroken arm.
The relief, as the struggles subsided.
As the Ketamine calmed his convulsions.
Gently placing the Scoop beneath him.
Strapping him in.
Lifting him to the trolley.
And then...
Cold.
Redundant.
We might never know.
Did he make it?
Good luck,
Kevin.
Good luck.
-
It's hard Matt. The feeling of helplessness. I'm sure you could find out how he did if you wanted to but maybe it's better not knowing?
-
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...
-
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...
-
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.
(http://images.tapatalk-cdn.com/15/05/03/5c94c1e2ef1309bbb94f6362d36ca69d.jpg)
It's a big 'ol bus of a vehicle.
Right?
(http://images.tapatalk-cdn.com/15/05/03/af3984ac21574a15ae3ed648372f4a41.jpg)
Wrong.
(http://images.tapatalk-cdn.com/15/05/03/db11acf1a8e4fd0264088e088aa8413d.jpg)
Very wrong.
Actually, even more wrong than that.
(http://images.tapatalk-cdn.com/15/05/03/9e8bd16ee1fb0bdce7b04bf79dae1046.jpg)
Still.
Silent.
Humbling.
Deadly.
Desolate.
The only way to survive this crushing, dwarfing, hellish purgatory is...
Act like a two year old.
(http://images.tapatalk-cdn.com/15/05/03/f05a643deadb9e4a6d412f45584af180.jpg)
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.
(http://images.tapatalk-cdn.com/15/05/03/ee25fd7239016d9cb31d0c85aa9165a9.jpg)
Maybe.
Sent from my iPad using Tapatalk
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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.
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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.
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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:
(https://image.ibb.co/fLeu4H/8285_BEF9_D2_DE_424_C_BD72_0_E7_A162_FCE0_E.jpg)
Not so far off, really.
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Yes, Matt. Sorry to bring that up after such a long time. Hope you are ok.
Pretty close, indeed.
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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.
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Hand in there Matt. Message if you need to.
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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
-
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…
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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.