I have had my lesson from the senior daughter - can I put it all into practice. No I cannot. I am a prime example of a crusty trying to be young and clever! I so want to reply to everyone who has posted the most life enhancing comments about my blog. I just cannot tell you all how much I appreciate your interest and support.
I know there is a school of thought, much expressed recently in he press, that to blog and twitter is an unnecessary exposure of feelings and private thoughts. In a a way I agree, but - what is the difference between so doing and writing a warts and all autobiography. I do come from the generation which was taught 'the stiff upper lip' approach. But you know what, whilst that is admirable, sometimes there is a almost primeval need to lance the inner hurt. I know my girls have said to me that when they were small, I was a great one for saying to them, dust off and get on with it. Maybe I wish sometimes I had been a little softer. You see - I am a mass of conradictions.
Life is not easy for anyone, and I now believe that people must deal with their problems in their own way. I have realised over the past year that what has happened to me has been, for me, catastrophic. In the wider world, it is really an insignificance, and in the small hours when I rail at all the hurt and inustice, I then do have to tell my self that there is much to be thankful for in my life. Getting the right balance will take time.
It is early and I am sitting in my kitchen, it is a dull wet day and there is gentle music playing on the wireless. My heart is breaking for my very special friend I met her in my first job after college, we were both 18, and we have shared flats, houses, she was my bridesmaid, the elder daughter's much loved godmother. Her husband, dear kind reclusive I, is dying of cancer. Last week she rang me and said I would like to go out, and would I meet them for lunch. It is difficult for her to manage to look after I on her own if they go out. We had the most wonderful lunch, we met halfway because we live about one and a half hours apart. It was a lovely warm day, thankfully not raining. We sat in the window of the restaurant, talked about old times, and there was an unspoken realisation that this was the last time we would ever meet like this, and it was so very poignant. When R went to fetch the car, I took my hand and said that R had been so wonderful to him, had looked after him so beautifully throughout his illness, and said he so appreciated that despite it all, R had kept their daily routine in place, and had never once wavered. They are both creatures of habit, so I knew how much that meant to I. He was worried that he might not have left R properly provided for - he is such a kind, good gentle man, and I had such a lump in my throat. He told me that it had been a tonic to see me, I always livened things up. Was that a compliment!
I is an architect, a gentle man, not sociable, but he and R have had a wonderful marriage. They have not had children, and they are so special to my elder daughter. When little, she used to stay with them in her school holidays - I taught her about birds, and gave her membership of the RSPB. They used to play chess and R used to make wonderful cakes and puddings, because I, partoicularly had a very sweet tooth, and the elder daughter loved being with them.
I had a phone call last night to say I was fading, and would I go over on Wwednesday to sit with him for a while so R could slip out for an hour. She is insisting on keeping him at home, and will not allow him to go to hospital. They are lucky to have the most wonderful back-up from their doctor's surgery and have as much help and care as they need to keep I in his own home. I know how wonderful it will be for him, his sheets will be beautifully starched and ironed, and the house will be quiet and orderly. She is so special and my heart aches for them
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