This is a post I’ve been putting off writing for the past six months.
But during the festive holidays, there were reminders everywhere.
And with today being the half-year anniversary, I thought it was time.
At Christmas 2010 we all sat at the table together, unaware of what was around the corner.
Ten of us – and only two had an inkling anything could be wrong.
But it was no big deal. My father-in-law Keith had a pain in his side.
Must have pulled a muscle. Or so he and my mum-in-law thought.
It was a winter wonderland Christmas. Once the family had battled the snow to reach us, we enjoyed taking the kids sledging, strolls through the crisp white fields, working off the excesses of Christmas Day.
When the holiday was over, we put everyone on the train. Brodie cried on the platform, shouting: “Grandad. Grandad.”
He’s always been Grandad’s little boy. We reassured him we’d be together again soon.
No big deal.
But in January, Grandad had a biopsy to look into a shadow on his lung.
The pain he’d experienced over Christmas was lung cancer.
Years in the building industry meant he’d breathed in poisons which infected even the lining of his lungs. This disease could not be cut out – or beaten.
There were tears. We were gripped by fear, and the turmoil of not knowing how long he had left.
One consultant said three months. Another claimed, all going well, he could have 18.
As it happened, two chemotherapy treatments led to complications, and he never really got the strength to go for a third.
He was recuperating in the hope of fighting on, when a chest infection saw things take a horrendous turn within a matter of days.
By July the strong, determined and wonderfully kind man we knew was unable to walk, talk or feed himself. He’d lost three stones and was rushed to hospital, drifting in and out of consciousness.
For weeks I held the fort at home over the summer holidays, as Geoff rushed between work and his parents’ place 250 miles away.
But suddenly I was packing the car and kids ready for the drive down to Lancashire, hearing the end was near.
Staff advised us to do shifts at the bedside, and I took the first all-nighter.
As I held Keith’s hand and swabbed his mouth with wet sponges, he occasionally woke and reached out to me. I listened to his shallow breathing, half-hoping he would slip away peacefully that night – saving the shattered family from watching him slowly deteriorate.
My brother-in-law Paul said he just wanted his Dad back.
I understood, but knew this strong and vibrant man would be heartbroken to be an active brain trapped in a weakened body, stuck in a hospital bed.
And I was right. Keith started to eat and drink a little – and returned to his conscious self for a few weeks. He was transferred to a hospice, where he became depressed and at times tearful.
He managed to pass on his final wishes to Geoff, who was to make all of the arrangements when the time came.
And we were able to take the grandchildren in to see him. I’ll treasure memories of the nurses shushing Keith and five-year-old Brodie for singing Bye Bye Blackbird too loudly on the ward.
He cuddled 11-year-old Aimee, his little Princess. And he chuckled for one last time at our cheeky and mischevious Blake, who was then only two.
He was able to tell us how much he’d loved his life, his family and especially his wonderfully close relationship with Joyce, who’d been by his side for more than 50 years – almost 49 of them married.
On August 8 2011, Geoff had returned to work, unsure whether his Dad would be around for two days, two weeks or two months.
When the call came, he jumped on a train, but was still a couple of hours away as his lovely Dad slipped away, with Joyce and his eldest son Paul there to hold his hand.
Geoff hasn’t cried yet (or at least, not in front of me). He organised the funeral, attended the inquest, sorted through piles of paperwork – busying himself in the practicalities which follow a death.
But on Christmas morning, he sat quietly at breakfast, and confessed to thinking of where we all were the year before, sitting around together, laughing and joking and excitedly tearing open presents.
Not knowing what was just around the corner.
Keith’s request was for us to talk about him often and never forget him.
He didn’t need to ask.
His huge personality and infectious laughter stay fresh in my mind.
And as he regularly read this blog and discussed it with me, I can think of no better place to keep his memory alive.
There are memories which will always make me smile.
How he often tripped over his words – the first time we met he told me he was a fan of “Gladys Knight and the Tits”
How bossy he was, but always with love. “Come on gang,” he’d shout to the family, shunting us from one activity to the next, declaring: “I’m in charge.”
How he’d laugh and play with the kids, taking the time to read to them, do jigsaws, chase them around the park, spoiling them with love and attention
His selflessness, in doing anything for anybody, whenever he could. On every visit to us, he’d insist I made a list of DIY jobs to complete with Geoff (knowing my put-it-off-until-tomorrow husband would never have done them on his own)
His soft and gentle heart. He cried as much as I did at sad movies. We’d emerge from the cinema wiping away our tears, as Geoff and his mum laughed and teased us for it.
When I miscarried while on a family holiday, Keith dissolved into tears the minute he heard the news. I appreciated those who held me and comforted me, being strong. But I also appreciate that Keith felt it as deeply as I did, in that moment.
God bless you Keith. Love you. Miss you x
Pop over to Tara at Sticky Fingers to see other fab photos and family tales.
Pingback: 13-02-12 Love Mummy Weekly Showcase