Home Thoughts Weekly

Posts

Since You've Been Gone

Well, Ma Mère, There have been so many times when I’ve gathered up all the little shiny moments I’ve collected during the day, ready to present to you in our evening phone call and then I remember all over again that you’re not there. But, Mum, so much has happened since you’ve gone - maybe you know, maybe you don’t - that I’ve decided to write to you instead. A few days after you died, we sold our house! After all those months! We even joked about you rattling cages somewhere. At first, nothing happened and then suddenly everything happened at a breathless pace and the next thing I knew I found myself driving (yes, me, driving!) along the M4 to Bridgend and the Time Capsule House, the one you said you and Dad would have bought. I remarked, when we first viewed it that if it was meant for us, it would come to us. Over a year later, when it had been under offer twice, we moved in. Oh, Mum, you and Dad would have loved this house; it’s peak Seventies and the decor - the pampas ensu...

Fly Free, Dottie Do

‘How many days to my birthday?’ Ma asks. I do a quick calculation. ‘Eighteen,’ I reply. ‘Eighteen days until your ninetieth birthday.’ Ma pulls a face and shakes her head. Every sentence is hard work for her now, when each breath is a struggle. ‘You’ll have to write a book about this, you know,’ she says, with one of her quick, mischievous smiles. ‘“Carry On Dying”. Make ‘em laugh, make ‘em cry.’ The smile fades. ‘Who knew,’ she adds wearily, ‘that dying would be such a palaver?’ It’s only eleven days since Ma was diagnosed with a high-grade, aggressive lymphoma, four days since she was overwhelmed with pain and breathing difficulties and was admitted as an emergency to hospital. Until a few weeks ago, she lived completely independently; shopping, cooking, cleaning and tending her much-loved garden. The deterioration in her health is shockingly rapid. The eight days preceding her death are a living hell, a constant battle with the ward staff to get Ma the pain relief she’s been p...

Liminal Space

It turns out that writing a book is not the first thing I’ll do in 2024. The first thing arrives promptly, on 2nd January. It happens amongst the slew of bodies in an everyday, overcrowded, overworked A&E department. It imparts devastating news about a precious loved one. It brings a flurry of all manner of scans and tests, sucks the air from normality and distorts time. We wait for days to pass and wish they were longer. This is not particular to us: we are where all families have been and will be again, so I have no wish to remind others of their pain or dwell on ours, but this is where we are, drifting on an uncertain tide. My firstborn daughter celebrates a big birthday so, inevitably, I think back to her arrival when she brought sheer joy, utter terror and a fall of snow that seemed to symbolise how greatly my world had changed. Now, as Tom and I look after my daughter’s daughters, someone knocks on our bedroom door in the night and, shortly after, a small figure folds herse...

2023 Retrospective

‘So what,’ asks my son-in-law, Simon, ‘is the first thing you’re going to do in 2024? ’ After spending a perfect Christmas, firstly with Lily, Russ and the girls in Cardiff then with Rose, Simon and the children in Keynsham, I’m moaning away again because our house is still on the market and no one who’s viewed it appears to have read the particulars. ‘Make selling the house the second thing on your list,’ Simon continues. ‘Let it run in the background while you get on with something else or it’s going to dominate your life. Think about what you’re going to do first.’ Simon’s got a great knack of coming up with the right advice at the right time and it turns out that his comment does make me think, but more about that later. ‘Well, we’ll carrying on enjoying where we live and continue doing what we always do,’ Tom replies. And, as I look back over 2023, it hasn’t all been dominated by a fruitless attempt to move house. Strava tells me I’ve been active for 251 days of the year. O...

Tripping Hither, Tripping Thither

'Where shall we take your mum this year?’ asks Tom. After the success of our Isle of Skye trip last year, we warm to our theme and pick another island but one - given Ma’s recent trials and tribulations - a bit closer to home and which comes with added ferry trips, namely the Isle of Wight. Ma has to put up with lots of ‘do you remember whens’ on the way out as Tom and I fondly reminisce about our sailing days in the Solent (see Sailing Kind , but once we’ve disembarked it’s only a short drive to our holiday accommodation which comes - rather splendidly - with its own private beach and occasional flashes of red squirrels in the garden. Our holiday home is very comfortable and decorated in a slightly chintzy style which - as Tom points out - would have delighted his mum. It’s ‘Peak Rita’ but we’ve chosen it because there’s a large downstairs bedroom with an ensuite and walk-in shower which is perfect for Ma. We don’t discover the hidden drawback until the next morning when I take a...

A 'Diff full of Memories

The pavements in Cardiff are packed - of course they are; there are some 27,500 runners, plus supporters, in the Welsh capital to mark the 20th anniversary of the Cardiff Half Marathon. Even though Tom always drops me off in plenty of time to get to my starting pen, just moving through the crowd is a challenge. Although this is my 10th time of running this race and I should be used to it, I feel a bit tearful and lonely at this point. I know a dozen or so runners who’ll be here and a few of the spectators, but with that many participants there’s almost no chance of me meeting anyone en route. I resign myself to feeling a bit Billy No-Mates and look up to see my dear running buddy, Helen, who’s queuing for the loos! We have a joyful hug before going to our separate pens, where I meet a lovely group of women who are running to raise funds for Pancreatic Cancer UK. I think of my dad and start crying again. Thank you, ladies for supporting Pancreatic Cancer UK Before I can get too morose ...