Farewell and Memories

March 30, 2023 by iggandfriends 2 Comments

Last Saturday we said a final farewell to the man who has been part of my life for the last 6 1/2 years. After three years of dwindling until the body was a hollowed out husk, the sense of humour, the listening ear still remained. My cariad, my delight, my annoyance. A loving father to four amazing children, having been widowed over 20 years ago. The one who encouraged, supported, sustained me. He was by no means perfect – irrascible, impatient, at times a snob. I can’t paint a full picture of him here, for I only knew part, as we all can do. We bonded over a love of language and languages, music, scottish country dancing, the countryside and nature, and our faith. He taught me the intricacies of the bagpipes, to appreciate a decent wine, and how to cook venison, pheasant, pigeon. We learnt how to make shakshuka together – and his long time favourite of sausage casserole. His linguistic skills in Ghurkhali got us fantastic service in Nepalese restaurants. My linguistic skills got us excellent service in Belgium. On a brief holiday to Bruges he steadfastly kept me company when I ended up in hospital for the day on IV antibiotics – despite being told to go away and enjoy himself. When I managed to combine a chest infection with concussion he collected me from a hospital at 4.30 in the morning and drove me home – where he hovered for the next 12 hours. When I got stir-crazy he popped me in the car and took me up to the house on the hill where he handed me a cup of tea to drink in the car and planted daffodil bulbs in the rain. We walked miles over the countryside, him looking at the estate, me admiring the wildlife. Sat on a wall in the dusk, a juvenile badger passed under our shadows, snuffling his way along.

We argued about money – I am stubbornly independent – he would have hung me with jewellry if I let him. Instead he bought me slippers, and a fan for the logburning stove. He chopped and stacked logs for my woodpile, and dug the vegetable patch. I taught him about growing potatoes and herbs, gave him a rhubarb crown. Booked trains and coordinated travel. Pruned rose bushes. Drove him to countless appointments. Whisked him off for afternoons out to the Rose Garden at Drum, or off to Castle Fraser – where the gravel on the courtyard was so deep I almost tipped him out of the wheelchair. We slow-danced around the big room to 1950’s big band music (he hated the music, loved the dancing). I made and hung curtains, darned holes in jumpers, and sewed a lap quilt out of his old jumpers to keep him warm in the last few weeks. Knitted socks and kilt hose. I would fall asleep on the sofa, feet on his lap, while he read the paper, or listened to music, or just sat and sipped his whisky. We would chase down meanings of words in the etymological dictionary – where does the word bereavement come from? – and bounce around quotes from favourite authors. He introduced me to ‘Other Men’s Flowers’ and Captain Hornblower – I introduced him to Mrs Pollifax, Terry Pratchett and Alan Plater. We learnt about kidney failure and dialysis and strokes. About walking frames and wheelchairs and occupational therapists. For three years my phone was left on at night – just in case he wanted me – or latterly the carers needed me. I still can’t turn it off at night.

The world is peopled by his absence. He pops up in the most unexpectedly places. I was ambushed by Percy Pigs sweets in Marks and Spencers the other day – they were the first food his daughter got him to eat after he went into acute kidney failure four years ago. At a concert I bought a programme – as I always do – before realising that there was no person to show it to, to tell about the music. The daffodils will be blooming up on the hill now, as they are in my garden. I store up things in my mind to tell him about – tree-creepers going up the tree, woodpeckers having a drumming festival, the first bumblebee of spring, toad-spawn in the pond, dolphins in the bay, a red kite hovering above. Then realise he is no longer there to tell. I am learning to recalibrate my life, to adjust diary and energy and ways of being. I suddenly have time to do my ironing. My Fridays are free again. I could not wish for him to have continued any longer. Yet – the world is peopled by his absence.