More Funerals Than Christenings: Part II...

Travelling in the family car to my stepfather's funeral, I got a text from a former work colleague. He informed that his sister, a close friend called Rachel, was in hospital fighting for her life.

The illness that had taken hold of her was a rare one that was complicated by a previously undiagnosed condition. It was all very sudden. My stepfather's funeral was on Monday. On Wednesday night, Rachel was dead. She was younger than me.

I first met Rachel when we were working together at IPC Magazines. As I took on increasingly senior positions, we worked together more closely. In the last seven years at that company, the environment became increasingly toxic. My friendship with Rachel was the thing that helped keep my sanity. She was funny, kind and smart, and a calming influence in any environment she was put in.

A proud South London girl, she could also swear like a trooper if anyone annoyed her. And she took great delight in uncovering a family history of renegades and circus performers.

She had a spiritual side. Her interest in crystals was something I often teased her about. But this and her commitment to learning more about shamanistic drumming was inspiring. There was something just right about her interest in nature and natural rhythms. It worked for her and she wasn't too bothered if it didn't work for you. She knew who she was and what interested her, and she was confident enough to proudly own those elements of her life.

When I left the company where we both worked, we kept in touch. We'd have regular trips to our favourite cafe and nearby pubs, share news and set the world to rights. Time with Rachel was always a joy, easy and treasured.

After I heard she was dead, I tried to compartmentalise the grief for a few days and lock it away. I thought it was because I was dealing with another recent loss. Then I realised I was in denial. Her brother put a post up on Facebook a few days later expressing his grief. That helped. It enabled me to start the acceptance process. This was good. I needed a kick start.



I loved Rachel. She was my mate, my confidante, my sounding board and my favourite hippy. She was a woman who ran with the wolves, embraced that olde world of natural wisdom and found herself through it. It will take a while to fully accept I won’t be meeting her for a Thai curry or for a pint any more.

Her loss is so cruel, brutal and random that it will take time. There’ll be moments where I’ll be really angry about it. And times I’ll be sucker punched by unexpected bouts of grief. But there will be moments I’ll remember how she made laugh and smile. Which is what I’ll hang onto.

I can’t imagine how her brother and his family, her partner and her mum feel. I would assume it’s what I’m feeling multiplied by a few thousand. I hope the wave of genuine love that her friends have expressed after learning about her loss provides some comfort for them at some point. 

Because loved is something that she absolutely was.

More Funerals Than Christenings: Part I...

My stepfather, Don, died recently. He was a Welsh miner, he was kind and funny, and he always enjoyed a drink and a sing.

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. 

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.

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.