I first met him when I was 16. As a keen pool player, this was the age I could join a local working men’s club that had cheap snooker tables without another adult nominating me for membership. This was in 1985. I used the club on Saturday mornings and on Saturday evenings because this was when the tables were less busy. Don was on strike at the time and he’d often be in the club also wanting an occasional frame. As devout socialists, we bonded over the strike and a mutual loathing of Margaret Thatcher. A facet I admired.
Fast-forward nine years and I was back home from college, working as a fledgling writer and sub-editor to support my community theatre work. He and my mum had got together. It was a wonderful thing to see her having renewed optimism and hope after a tough divorce from my dad. I was also delighted because I knew Don and, more importantly, I knew I could trust him with my mum’s happiness.
Fast-forward nine years and I was back home from college, working as a fledgling writer and sub-editor to support my community theatre work. He and my mum had got together. It was a wonderful thing to see her having renewed optimism and hope after a tough divorce from my dad. I was also delighted because I knew Don and, more importantly, I knew I could trust him with my mum’s happiness.
Soon after, I left for a new life in London knowing they’d be OK.
And, for 31 years, they were. They went on various travels and were content doing their thing, living in a terraced house surrounded by kids and grandkids and great grandkids who’d constantly pop in to visit. Yes, there were the usual family crises and dramas. But they came through everything with their union unscathed. And Don’s new family adored him. It was a perfect fit.
For a lot of years, Don battled health issues. The man who’d survived life down the mines and a police baton charge at Orgreave eventually lost large parts of his stomach. He fought cancer and infections as various bits of his body failed. But he always pulled through. He had a stubborn will powered by a grim determination. Another facet I deeply admired.
A couple of weeks ago, I got the call from my younger brother to come home. I knew it was bad. But trips back to Yorkshire are more for funerals that christenings these days.
Don had been in hospital battling a new infection. This time, the doctors couldn’t do anything else for him. An operation would kill him. The medics couldn’t cure him. He’d asked to come home. His prognosis was 24-48 hours.
Before he came back, a hospital bed was placed in the middle room of mum’s terraced house. Don also had a new TV to watch his favourite westerns and sports. We established a shift pattern to make sure he was never alone. Then it was a matter of waiting for the pain-killing medication to kick in. Or the end.
The first two days, he was constantly ill. He couldn’t eat and nothing was going into his system. As this was failing, his body was ejecting anything left in it.
And, for 31 years, they were. They went on various travels and were content doing their thing, living in a terraced house surrounded by kids and grandkids and great grandkids who’d constantly pop in to visit. Yes, there were the usual family crises and dramas. But they came through everything with their union unscathed. And Don’s new family adored him. It was a perfect fit.
For a lot of years, Don battled health issues. The man who’d survived life down the mines and a police baton charge at Orgreave eventually lost large parts of his stomach. He fought cancer and infections as various bits of his body failed. But he always pulled through. He had a stubborn will powered by a grim determination. Another facet I deeply admired.
A couple of weeks ago, I got the call from my younger brother to come home. I knew it was bad. But trips back to Yorkshire are more for funerals that christenings these days.
Don had been in hospital battling a new infection. This time, the doctors couldn’t do anything else for him. An operation would kill him. The medics couldn’t cure him. He’d asked to come home. His prognosis was 24-48 hours.
Before he came back, a hospital bed was placed in the middle room of mum’s terraced house. Don also had a new TV to watch his favourite westerns and sports. We established a shift pattern to make sure he was never alone. Then it was a matter of waiting for the pain-killing medication to kick in. Or the end.
The first two days, he was constantly ill. He couldn’t eat and nothing was going into his system. As this was failing, his body was ejecting anything left in it.
On the third day, like a pub singer Christ, he awoke and we had 60 minutes of him cogent. The first order from Celtic Jesus was a drink. A proper one. This was served. Order two was a singsong. He then slept and he remained peaceful. He briefly awoke a couple of times, once for a brief singsong with his son and once to tell my mum ‘I love you with all my heart.’ Then he dropped back off as the morphine took his pain away and his exhausted body fought on.
It was amazing how quickly we all adapted to having him back in the room between the front room and the kitchen. Like it was a normal thing. In many ways, it was a normal thing. He was back home surrounded by the people who loved him, with the usual buzz of activity of our boisterous and competitively loud family. The only difference this time was that we knew it came with a time limit.
In the end, 24-48 hours turned into 164 hours. He put up a fight. It was a Thursday morning just before 12noon when he went. My mum was in the back yard talking to the next-door neighbour.
When he went, it was peaceful. We’d all become attuned to his new breathing patterns. Especially during the night. He’d often take a deep breath, then go silent. Part of you would be relieved and think, ‘I’m grateful the suffering is finally over for him.’ Then his breathing would restart and you’d think, ‘He’s still here. I’m so happy he hasn't gone yet.’
In many ways, Don was lucky. And so were we. We could have lost him so many times to so many different illnesses through the years. But the NHS, aided by his own iron will, saved him multiple times and brought him back from the brink.
There aren’t many people where good memories are the only thing I have. Family relationships and friendships are often complicated at the best of times. But my relationship with Don wasn’t. Ever.
I was lucky to get a stepfather I could love and respect. In the words of my wife, 'He was a mountain of a man from the Valleys.' I’ll miss him. We all will.
