Blink And You Miss It

Life, that is. It's there, and then it isn't. Alive, then dead. And those of us left behind just plod on, bewildered and trying to make sense of it. You know something? When my Dad passed back in 2007 it took the form of what you might describe as a managed descent. He had his terminal diagnosis, and then there was a period of five months where we all got a chance to journey with him. My sister didn't get to experience that. No, the universe decided that in the space of seven days it was going to rip her 36 year marriage out of her hands and leave her a widow. And I mean literally rip, like a tornado ripping a house from its foundations and hurling it thousands of feet into the air. What's the saying? Oh yeah, "We're not in Kansas anymore". How is a fragile human being meant to even begin to process that? How can you prepare for days like these? You can't, of course. You just get hurled along with the rest of the fucking house, and you land someplace else, in a land you barely recognise. Watching this particular tornado from close range has sadly, once again reminded me that as humans we are far more helpless than we care to admit. So much we cannot control. And frankly this is what I have wrestled with too much this year. I tend to see any situation as something that admits of a solution, only some things you can't fix. Some knots you can't unpick. You just have to stand and watch as people you love experience the unthinkable, quietly knowing that what you see them living through is the monster you fear yourself. In this life, if we are fortunate, we get to share some time with people we love and cherish and would likely choose to spend eternity with. Love is a risky business, and time a thief that will, eventually, consume all. There are people in my life that have made me wiser, calmer, more steadfast. One day I will smile at these people for the last time. We'll share a final laugh, eat a final pub lunch, go on a final walk, partake of a last embrace. We probably won't know it at the time, but we can be assured this comes to us all. We're all a part of the great transaction more commonly referred to as consciousness. We live, feel, observe, comprehend, and then the hour comes when we do not. Perhaps this all sounds depressing to you, and perhaps it actually is. But would you rather have not experienced the joys of being alive, with all that this entails? This voyage is in every sense the adventure of a lifetime. Yours, mine. Some of it we will share. As I type this I am once again trying to process yet another massive seismic shift in the fabric of my reality, and it won't be the last time. I have no great words of wisdom as to how you spend your time on Earth, but for me I think I owe it to those departed to be grateful of what I still have. In closing, when I gave my Father's eulogy 15 years ago I closed by imploring those present to "Live as if it means something". It was simultaneously a cry from the heart and a call to arms. I meant it in 2007, and by God I mean it now. . .

Little Boy Lost. A New Reality.

I feel like a little lost boy. I feel like i've lost my best mate. I look ahead and think what now? What does this horrible new reality look like? I was meant to go to work today but couldn't do it. Woke up at 0415 with a splitting headache. Called a Supervisor who was wonderful, and who he himself had been faced with the same terrible reality just two weeks ago. It's now 24 hours since Billy went gently into the night surrounded by his whole family. His pack, if you like. Seeing the anesthetic hit him, seeing his legs go was a moment of raw grief followed by a period of 15-20 minutes when we just stayed with him. We were all sat around him and he was covered by his blanket. He felt no pain. His heart stopped. Billy was gone. And now here we are as a family not quite knowing what to do with ourselves. Billy was the heart of our home. Daily routines were built around him. Walks, feeding, bedtime. His absence leaves a void and reframes every part of our existence. We were a team of five and now we are four. Whenever Holly came downstairs she sought him out. Literally every time. I'd come home from work and he would be on the top of our sofa and look up. Perhaps his little curly tail would flicker. When home alone he would join whoever was around. He was a constant source of joy, a little fluffy bundle of love and acceptance. And now he's gone. And the world seems smaller, sadder, less. As a family we are grieving terribly, each in our own way, but also together. We're talking about it, hugging a lot, and there are so many tears. I can honestly say, even just 24 hours on, that this is the most extreme sense of loss I have ever felt. Greater than losing my Father, even. My Dad was not with me every day. He'd not shared thousands of miles of walks along canals, over hills, through fields. Whatever any day had consisted of his love and affection and ability to bring a smile were a constant. Where do I find that now? I look ahead and it feels bleak and dark and cold. I know this grief will pass, but today it is searing. I have put aside any notions of being strong at this point. I'm having to settle for just being human. It's all I can do for now. There are a million happy memories left behind by Billy. Enough laughter to fill several lifetimes. But he's gone now. And I'm sad. And I'm processing. I am told that in time this will pass, and when those vast clouds of sadness part I will be able perceive a way forward. Just not today friends. I'm not ready.

Dark

It all feels so dark, doesn't it? So heavy. So unrelenting. I cannot recall a more bleak and unforgiving time in my life. I've always been able to see the positives and a way forward, but right now it is coming from all sides. Covid, War, cost of living, climate change. It's tough. Perhaps that's why I haven't been blogging so much. I'd just be reminding you of what you already know. From a personal perspective it has been a difficult year, although this also is more to do with events over which I have little control. Come November I will be the father of two adult kids, which is a strange feeling. Both are good and decent humans with a moral core, but like so many younger people I sense a naievety about the way the world really is. It won't open its arms and embrace you. It won't all come together according to your precise design. Its all a trade off, with compromises and limitations at every turn. And boy, having two who are nuero diverse is really something. I often feel all at sea and completely bereft of how to help them as they figure stuff out. See, I'm a pragmatist at heart, and whilst its all well and good to say the pink and fluffy stuff that people want to hear I sometimes worry that this simply disguises how tough the world is. They need to appreciate this and I don't always know to communicate it. For me personally, I had aspirations of how I want life to be, but there's always an obstacle. Always a distraction. So I just keep plodding. I go into what I term "Meal ticket mode", which is simply to observe that I go out, I work, and try to ensure everybody close to me is provided for. I ask for nothing in return. I am just doing what I do. An automaton executing the same algorithm I have been running for years. Is this the "quiet desperation" I have heard some men speak of? Ideally I try to take myself out of the loop from time to time, going on hikes, bike rides. It just removes me from the norm and really gives me a perspective. Even that's difficult now though due to having an elderly dog who may or may not require veterinary treatment, making me reluctant to spend money on personal hobbies. I will, of course, keep on trucking, as the mantra goes. It is, after all, what I do. I laugh when I can, relax when i can, and try to ignore the shadow for a time. And I do not think these feelings are unique to me in this current landscape. We're all carrying a heavier load. We're all experiencing challenges. There's nothing unique about my story. Perhaps we all need to be a little kinder to each other. A little more forgiving. A little more understanding. Perhaps that way we all end up bearing a slightly lighter load.