Grandad’s Kit Kat

Back in 2004, my dear old Grandad’s health began to fail a little, as he approached his 90th Birthday. He felt off colour, he became a little vague and ate even less than his normal frugal diet.

The medical staff really looked after him, he was admitted to hospital for tests and the Doctors and Nurses took a real shine to him. He was a cheerful, gentle and kind man whom everyone took to.

His initial tests were inconclusive and he was booked in for an MRI scan. Mum went along to help him prepare and be there when he got back. When the results came back, they told my Mum and Grandad that they’d discovered a mass in his bowel. They had a talk and a think and Mum left. I visited later and we talked about the news. They said they could treat it, but weren’t sure as to how successful they’d be. My Grandad confided that he really didn’t want to bother, he was tired and ready to accept his lot but didn’t want to worry my Mum. So when the Doctors came to discuss the next bit, I stayed alongside him as his support, helped discuss with the Doctor and they laid on all sorts of support, a specialist Macmillan Nurse and various other people to help him through his illness. The Doctor said he’d return in a couple of days. In the meantime, I sat with my Mum and explained for Grandad how he felt and what he wanted. We all prepared ourselves for what might, and would, come.

When the Doctor returned, he was somewhat perplexed. He’d become uneasy about the pictures captured during the MRI Scan and had got the Consultant and some other experts to have a look. He asked ‘Mr Charles. Did you have anything to eat before you went for your scan’? Grandad sat and thought for a second. Then his face lit up. ‘YES! I did. I had a Kit Kat’. My Mum said ‘WHAT?! Dad. I TOLD you not to eat anything, just like what the Nurse said’! ‘Well’ he replied, getting a bit put out ‘I was bloody hungry’!

So we all got to breath a sigh of relief. That malignant mass of death that had threatened my hero, the man I most looked up to in the world, was actually the remains of chocolate and wafer. All that soul searching and heartfelt emotion was thankfully for nothing. When Mum told me, I laughed. Good old Grandad, not a bad bone in his body and totally oblivious to what had happened.

Grandad passed away the following year, he came to his natural end and there was no Kit Kat involved.

I’m night shift as I write this, and when I came in was a bit hungry. The ‘office snack shop’ has been replenished today and there were a pile of Kit Kats there. I grinned and felt the usual love and sadness, the yearning for one last hug, and saw Grandad’s face standing there with me as I remembered this story. Bloody hungry indeed, you old sod. Miss you forever x

The job is never done

We all seem to think that when we’ve done something, it’s done. It could be a simple short term thing like making a coffee, a medium term thing like paying a 6 monthly bill, or a long term thing like falling in love or teaching your children to cross the road.

But think about it. Nothing’s ever really ‘done’ is it?

You drink that lovely coffee and it meets it’s need for a while – takes away your thirst, gives you that caffeine shot, sharpens you up. And sooner or later, you feel thirsty again, feel fatigued and you…. well what do you do? Have another coffee? Trouble with that is that coffee doesn’t really slake your thirst as by it’s nature it makes you more thirsty, quicker. And the comedown from the caffeine high usually makes you feel lower than the initial fatigue that you tried to stave off. Maybe it’s time to try a different approach. Drink water to rehydrate your body (I also find it fills me up more and I eat less rubbish!) and get a bit of fresh air to sharpen you up. (Don’t have a smoke whilst you’re getting that fresh air….!)

Bills…. a nemesis to us all. Even as you pay, you know that sooner or later you’ll have to pay again. There’s a job that’s never done. Like an endless landscape of hungry hippos opening and shutting their mouths, gobbling up your hard earned cash with the odd unwelcome surprise expense like a new tyre for the car or yet another pair of shoes as your Batman or Wonderwoman grows at a seemingly inordinate and ever increasing rate.

Which then brings me onto long term things. I don’t know about you, but I have often made the mistake of thinking that once I’ve done or said something, it’s done and I can move on. Something simple like explaining to Batman that, once he’s finished his ice lolly after dinner, to take his plate to the kitchen and put it in the sink. There are two pitfalls here. Firstly, there are a million other more interesting things to be thinking about. Like going back to his Lego, watching Scooby Doo or poking his lolly stick up Baskerville’s bum. Secondly, he didn’t listen in the first place, no matter how carefully I calmly explained what to do and asked him if he understood, and saw him nod, so there’s no chance of him remembering tomorrow. I put adult logic to it – I can follow and remember simple instructions. Why doesn’t he? Of course I am forgetting that I was once his age and almost certainly did the same thing, and the times when I don’t hear Jenny’s voice through the white noise and don’t follow and remember her simple instructions. You should always remember that you are by no means anywhere near perfection yourself! (He said to himself.) So tomorrow, I will say it all again.

That, of course is long term Parenting, and has more of a bearing on Batman’s future than my own. But consider yourself, your relationship, how you look after yourself, and how you live your life in general.

We all have important aspects of the above and more that we should order and prioritise as we live. Try and keep focused and look at your priorities every day. It’s so very hard at times to keep those balls in the air. But take some time each day to treat yourself and those around you like plants. See if any water or feed is needed. Sometimes a bit of pruning, cutting and shaping will be required. It will hurt, perhaps, but it encourages new growth and more flowers to light up and fragrance your life.

When we hurt, we think it will stop hurting one day, that one day we’ll wake up and feel different. You hear of people who have suffered huge loss that wake up one morning and start their lives again. Ding. And off we go. But what went before never really leaves you. It’s always there and you mustn’t lose sight of it’s presence. Deal with it and face it – accept that it’s there and probably always will be.

A little bit every day will mean that a build up and backlog of ‘things’ and feelings is less likely. It all sounds like hard work, but if you kid yourself that doing one small thing will last forever, you will wake one day and feel snowed under – or continue to do so. That feeling will only grow and bring you down.

Don’t be afraid to ask for help.

Be real and truthful to yourself. As you do things to help life tick over, so over time, they do become easier. But keep your eyes open on the big picture. The job is never done.

It’s ok to take control

Following on from my ‘Head day’ post, another thing I think I’ve found is that I’ve lived my life in a sort of mental paralysis. If you’re told you’re not good enough, not worth anything, that you can’t do things, you get stuck in a place where you don’t feel you have the strength or ability to change situations, to alter course from impending disaster. You know that you have to do something, but you’re too used to being told what to do (but perversely, that you’re not actually capable of doing it) that you freeze, letting the bad stuff happen, wash over you. Because you’re used to feeling bad and responsible for bad things, and it becomes something you’re used to. You almost tend to like it, it’s familiar. It becomes a grim safe place to be. Like a kind of mental Stockholm Syndrome.

And because you don’t have a plan, a strategy for things when they’re manageable, they gather and grow so you end up paralysed and suffocated by many things that’re too big to contemplate dealing with.

I just got to the end of my tether last year, and had to start dealing with things. Xena has helped me deal with little bits at a time. That way you get tiny little small wins and just because you’ve achieved something, and the thing has become just a tiny bit smaller, you start to get movement, you start to get somewhere. Something is better than nothing. Gradually the landscape begins to change.

You will need to call on all the strength that you have, but were told that you didn’t have, but start the job. You’ll be surprised at who you are and what you have. You’re alright after all.

What do you feed roses with?

I have mostly maintained a positive attitude about my life and worked through the hard times. This is almost singularly down to the mighty love and nurturing of my Grandparents. My Nan and Grandad have been, and always will be, a huge force of goodness and love for me. My Grandad never lost touch with himself or humanity in general, having fought through the Second World War with the Royal Artillery, alongside the 8th Army in North Africa and up through Naples and into Germany towards the end of the war. When my Dad and I went round to their flat to tell them that my Sister was in a coma, seriously brain damaged and unlikely to survive, my Grandad cried. A (still) big, strong 81 year old man having come through all those horrors, and through past society in general, not keeping a stiff upper lip and letting his feelings happen. He was years ahead of his time. My Nan…. my Nan never failed to see the bright side of things, and if there didn’t seem to be one, she would simply keep going, finding little things to smile and laugh about to keep everyone cheery. She never gave up, she always had hope, and whilst I’ve struggled with life a fair bit, their love, influence and example have guided me through much.

When I was going out with the woman that was to become wife number one (I only capitalise the word ‘wife’ for Jenny, my present and last Wife!) we got matching tattoos with each other’s names in. (Schoolboy mistake. Never get a name tattoo.) And there it stayed, for years, quietly festering, malevolently, on my shoulder. Wife number two said right from the very start that she wasn’t bothered and didn’t care and I couldn’t afford to get it lasered off, so there it stayed. I don’t know why, but at that point, it didn’t cross my mind to cover it up with another tattoo. Then marriage number two broke up and one day I found myself driving down a huge hill into Plymouth, where I have family. I suddenly knew it was ‘the time’ and decided there and then to get that tattoo covered up – after all, if I couldn’t find a decent artist in a city full of matlows (sailors), where the hell else would I find one?!

I found a great, award winning artist who freehanded in biro what I asked for: a beautiful rose with lots of swirly stems with buds on. I wanted to signify something beautiful, growing out of something that had caused me immense pain, after holding the promise of love, hope, and a long and happy life.

It was an afterthought really – but it struck me afterwards that you pile shit on soil to grow beautiful roses. That rose now always reminds me of a period of great relief, a new start in life, where I started to grow again – and in some ways for the very first time. And that’s really the point of today’s words – it’s brown, it’s smelly, it’s horrible, both in reality and figuratively, but it’s full of nutrients that would otherwise go to waste. Clever Mother Nature, naturally recycling her, and our, waste. And out come nice things.

Sometimes, we don’t see the shit coming down the hill, it just hits us. Sometimes, if we’re lucky, we see it coming and have half a chance of directing it to the place where it will be able to fertilise what we are trying to grow. Either way – take the shit you are given, hold your breath, put it where you want it, and start to grow your roses.

See, my Grandparents are still there. Horticulture from my Grandad, and Hope from my Nan. Quite possibly the best gifts I could ever share with you.

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Shock

This morning, I have been considering the subject of Shock and the effect it has on our lives, from the very beginning. It comes in many shapes and sizes, some we bring upon ourselves, others visited upon us by others. Either way, by and large, it hurts.

Maybe Shock and Surprise are cousins. Surprise is the kinder cousin, you get to meet it first on a childhood birthday for example, when you open the most brilliant present ever and realise that the person who gave it to you had thought about you and by association, must love you a lot. Or at least thinks a great deal of you.

Shock is the darker, moodier, unpredictable cousin who you know, but does stuff you don’t expect and sometimes can be very hurtful, pretending to be surprise, but when you least expect it, slapping you in the face just after you’ve opened up that most brilliant present ever.

I guess all our lives start with Shock. A baby born into fresh air from it’s Mother’s womb cries. From that lovely liquid all enveloping warmth, the reality of fresh air shocks it to life. Crying at that point is seen as a good thing, as it’s the first indication that the baby has been born alive. And consider the environment the baby has been born into. A harsh cold hospital with lots of blue curtains and people in masks, or outside in the world, anywhere. Childbirth is traumatic on the mother, but actually equally traumatic on the child. (Yes, I know. I’m a bloke. What do I know?!)

During childhood, Parents use Shock to train their children. It could be ‘don’t run into the road or you will get run over and die’. It could be shouted: ‘I TOLD YOU NOT TO RUN INTO THE ROAD, YOU ALMOST GOT RUN OVER’. Or it could be a slap, or a thrashing, or a hiding, or whatever your Parents threatened or indeed visited upon you. Now in one way, and delivered properly, Shock is an effective tool. (It also gives rise to questions that you then have to dig deep to answer – “Daaaaaaad. What does ‘die’ mean”?! Good luck with that one!) But all too often, the Shock is delivered by it’s wicked Uncle Horror, with Shock looking particularly smarmy as it arrives. Horror and Shock are born out of lack of patience at best, or nastiness and evil at worst.

During adulthood, Shock’s method of delivery changes a bit, sometimes still accompanied by Uncle Horror, and is built upon the foundation dug in no small part by your Parents. The thing that makes you feel stupid, though, is that the choices you have made lead you to Shock. The job you choose, the person you choose to go out with. So when that Shock really gives you a kicking, it feels even worse because you also feel like a mug for bringing it upon yourself, walking into it with your eyes open.

When you make a decision, you make it based on the information you have at the time, and in no small part on what you want in the future…. lots of money, a good relationship, kids…. ad infinitum. When it all falls down, you are left in the initial cloud of dust, rubble all around you, gazing at the desolation of your 9/11, your 7/7. Shock.

I won’t flower this up. Give yourself a break, for goodness sake. You did what you thought was right at the time. Shock is the realisation of those times you got warning signs that things weren’t quite right, that you were heading down a wrong path. The worst thing is not that you misjudged, or made the mistake. It’s not learning from it. And seek comfort – not in the bosom of the same mistake again, but carefully consider what happened, seek help and gather good people around you that will help you move on. They are there. It’s not easy, but take one day, one hour, even one minute at a time.

Here’s a song about a moment of Shock. If you’re going to listen to it, stop. Find a nice quiet comfortable place and let Richard wash over you. Let it hug you and comfort you and start you moving on.

Adults Aren’t Always Right.

In 2006, just as my Mum approached retirement, my Sister died. She had been ill for almost 11 years, but her death at that point was still quite unexpected.

In the months that followed, having given almost the whole of the previous 11 years to nursing my Sister, ( she was 23 when she sustained brain damage) my Parents found themselves grief stricken and lost, mired in a sense of failure and loss, in which they still paddle about in today, on a good day.

I was walking my dog with a lady who introduced me to the University of the Third Age, which to all intents and purposes is a big youth club for pensioners. She gave me a leaflet and I gave it to my Parents, who discounted it straight away.

I found my Mum looking at it days later, at Watercolour classes. It turned out that, when she was an 11 year old girl, she painted a picture at school. She liked painting. The teacher took a look at it and told her never to pick up a paintbrush again. So she didn’t.

I said to her ‘Look. No matter what you were told in the past, just do it. Give yourself a break and for once in your life, do what you want to do, for yourself. Sod what anyone else thinks. If you like what you’ve done, and it makes you happy doing it, fuck it. It’s no one else’s business. Just give it a go.’

So she did. I went round there today, and she showed me this, that she painted the other day. I think it’s lovely. And also, my Dad started bowling, photography, playing the banjo and tapdancing. Not bad for a fascist bastard Thatcherite ex copper, eh?! (My Dad, that is!)

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