Three years on...

Three years ago I sat with my dad in hospital in Stoke, convinced he would be home the next day. He was weak, frail and in pain from a broken hip, but all he wanted to do was be back in his chair near his garden and in his sanctuary. Although he seemed so frail I couldn't believe he wouldn't go back to Stockton Brook, it never occurred to me it was our last day together. As he began to hallucinate and his temperature climb, I still thought drugs would sort it. As plans were made to take him to intensive care I assumed it was the best place to get him through and on his way home. As the consultant asked if we wanted him to be resuscitated I thought he was going through formalities. I had the meal planned and what I would do when he was back in his chair and how I would do anything to make him happy. But he didn't go home. He died strapped to a horrible machine that violently forced air into his congested lungs. The room was windowless, dark and sterile, my father loved light and life. But he still died with great dignity and surrounded by such love. There isn't a day when I don't wish with every fibre I could have this last day again. God bless you dad. You passed on your last piece of wisdom - how to die.

The Sealed Box

A beautiful poem written by my 12 year old (13 next month, how did that happen) about the death of granny's dog. Dougal was bitten by a tick and got Lyme's disease poor thing, only 5.

THE SEALED BOX

The sealed box, never to be opened,
Made and carved with pristine wood,
Even dust won’t abolish its beauty,
Sitting there, in peace,

Trotting, running, sprinting,
Diving, curving, round trees into ponds,
For nothing more than what you hurl,
The naive mind, all of us,

But the day, time, place, bite,
Led to jab, flame,
After loss of legs,
Into black marking, painful dust,

Meaning…

The sealed box, never to be let out,
Made and carved with pristine wood,
Even dust won’t abolish his beauty,
Sitting there at peace.