Apparently, life's a bitch. It is hard to disagree with that statement when bankers are awarding themselves bonuses in the hundreds of thousands of pounds while millions hopelessly search for minimum wage employment, suicide bombers are indiscriminate
ly murdering innocent children, and politicians (elected by you) have no conscience when it comes to spending the tax on your EARNED income on the most ridiculous items.
Robert Newman is my wife's step-dad. He is the most dependable person you could ever hope to meet - If anything needs doing, Robert can and will do it. He thinks the world of his family and, I'm sure, would kill for them if pushed. Although he is 76, you would never guess that he was beyond his mid-sixties. He loves walking on Nairn beach, thinks nothing of rolling up his sleeves and tackling his granddaughter's garden, and even keeps pace with his 8 year-old great-grandson, Jordan.
At least, that used to be true until about 5-6 weeks ago.
Jane and I invited Maggie (Jane's mum) and Robert round for Sunday lunch on Father's Day. Very unusually, they declined because Robert wasn't feeling his best and had no appetite. This was just NOT like Robert.
When someone isn't feeling their best you know that, after a few days, they'll be fine. This didn't happen. Because we all thought of Robert as being fit and strong enough to laugh in the face of a silly little bug we thought little of it. So, it began to be a little of concern when, a week later, Robert still wasn't 'himself'. A visit to the doctor suggested that there was nothing to worry about - it would clear up. It was only, after another week, when his family persuaded him to go to the hospital for tests, that we learned that 'the bug' was cancer.
Isn't that a horrible word. Possibly the only thing worse than being told that you have cancer is being told that a loved one has cancer. I collapse internally when I think of Maggie (or Jane, or his granddaughters, Rachel and Anna, or his great-grandchildren, Jordan, Carmen and Charlie) sitting by his bed, looking into his eyes, trying desperately not to betray the fact that they know they are going to lose this man they love.
Robert always had hope. During the first week in hospital the doctors talked of removing the cancerous kidney and expecting the tumours in the lung and liver to remain benign. Despite the obvious risks of such surgery, Robert was keen that this was what should be done - he just wanted this evil disease out of his body as soon as possible. Just a few days later he was told that surgery was no longer 'appropriate'. Don't get me wrong; don't misread my thoughts and think for one minute that I felt the doctors were not doing enough. The doctors, nurses and all the staff from Raigmore hospital, plus the people from Macmillan Nurses were all wonderful and did everything they possibly could: Not just for Robert, but for Maggie and Jane too.
Only one more week later Maggie and Jane were told, last Tuesday, that they could come and visit Robert at any hour of the day because "it could be any time". They spent most of the day with him. They wanted to thank him for everything. They wanted to say 'goodbye'. But they knew that those words would break his heart.
Wednesday morning, the 29th July 2009, Jane got the call from the nurse saying that Robert had passed away. It was a beautiful, sunny day in the Highlands. No-one should die on such a lovely day.
Today, only seven days later, it is another perfect day. I am parked at the crematorium, wincing when a tear threatens to leak out. I am here early after I just took Staci for her driving test (she passed). I have my duties: I have to fold the cards that have the Order of Service on them and I have to make sure the crematorium knows which CD tracks to play (after Maggie, Jane and I spent a painful few hours trying to choose the music last Sunday). But, as Charles ("Buddy") Hardin Holley said, it doesn't matter anymore.
Robert, thanks for everything. Rest in peace.
Life may indeed be a bitch, but it is better than the alternative. As Terry Hall said, 'Enjoy yourself.... it's later than you think'.
ly murdering innocent children, and politicians (elected by you) have no conscience when it comes to spending the tax on your EARNED income on the most ridiculous items.Robert Newman is my wife's step-dad. He is the most dependable person you could ever hope to meet - If anything needs doing, Robert can and will do it. He thinks the world of his family and, I'm sure, would kill for them if pushed. Although he is 76, you would never guess that he was beyond his mid-sixties. He loves walking on Nairn beach, thinks nothing of rolling up his sleeves and tackling his granddaughter's garden, and even keeps pace with his 8 year-old great-grandson, Jordan.
At least, that used to be true until about 5-6 weeks ago.
Jane and I invited Maggie (Jane's mum) and Robert round for Sunday lunch on Father's Day. Very unusually, they declined because Robert wasn't feeling his best and had no appetite. This was just NOT like Robert.
When someone isn't feeling their best you know that, after a few days, they'll be fine. This didn't happen. Because we all thought of Robert as being fit and strong enough to laugh in the face of a silly little bug we thought little of it. So, it began to be a little of concern when, a week later, Robert still wasn't 'himself'. A visit to the doctor suggested that there was nothing to worry about - it would clear up. It was only, after another week, when his family persuaded him to go to the hospital for tests, that we learned that 'the bug' was cancer.
Isn't that a horrible word. Possibly the only thing worse than being told that you have cancer is being told that a loved one has cancer. I collapse internally when I think of Maggie (or Jane, or his granddaughters, Rachel and Anna, or his great-grandchildren, Jordan, Carmen and Charlie) sitting by his bed, looking into his eyes, trying desperately not to betray the fact that they know they are going to lose this man they love.
Robert always had hope. During the first week in hospital the doctors talked of removing the cancerous kidney and expecting the tumours in the lung and liver to remain benign. Despite the obvious risks of such surgery, Robert was keen that this was what should be done - he just wanted this evil disease out of his body as soon as possible. Just a few days later he was told that surgery was no longer 'appropriate'. Don't get me wrong; don't misread my thoughts and think for one minute that I felt the doctors were not doing enough. The doctors, nurses and all the staff from Raigmore hospital, plus the people from Macmillan Nurses were all wonderful and did everything they possibly could: Not just for Robert, but for Maggie and Jane too.
Only one more week later Maggie and Jane were told, last Tuesday, that they could come and visit Robert at any hour of the day because "it could be any time". They spent most of the day with him. They wanted to thank him for everything. They wanted to say 'goodbye'. But they knew that those words would break his heart.
Wednesday morning, the 29th July 2009, Jane got the call from the nurse saying that Robert had passed away. It was a beautiful, sunny day in the Highlands. No-one should die on such a lovely day.
Today, only seven days later, it is another perfect day. I am parked at the crematorium, wincing when a tear threatens to leak out. I am here early after I just took Staci for her driving test (she passed). I have my duties: I have to fold the cards that have the Order of Service on them and I have to make sure the crematorium knows which CD tracks to play (after Maggie, Jane and I spent a painful few hours trying to choose the music last Sunday). But, as Charles ("Buddy") Hardin Holley said, it doesn't matter anymore.
Robert, thanks for everything. Rest in peace.
Life may indeed be a bitch, but it is better than the alternative. As Terry Hall said, 'Enjoy yourself.... it's later than you think'.
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