Departures (long but cut)

[shinydan]

As you will have read on saintmaryuk's LJ, my father, Mydrim Granville John Howell, passed away at around 11am yesterday. Thank you, to everyone who's sent condolences and hugs, not just yesterday but throughout his illness.

Dad had, by Monday night, stopped producing urine; his breathing was very shallow and had to be assisted by a machine. Maureen, my sister and his carer, contacted me at around 10pm to let me know. Mary and stuflyer suggested I stay the night at theirs, and timpootle and welshlad chatted away to me until half-one to help get me to sleep.

I went into work yesterday - no, I shouldn't have made that LJ post - at around 0800 and did my best to keep my mind occupied. I can't say I had a huge amount of success, but as long as I wasn't a blubbering wreck it was ok. Then at half-ten I had a call, again from Maureen, saying that Dad's care would be withdrawn as soon as the whole family knew. I told my boss, and work kept me on the move for another half-hour; I knew it was busywork but it gave me time and some space to think.

Dad was a great teller of tales, a trait I've adopted myself. He was always ready to talk to me about what his life was like as a child (riding, literally piggyback, in a field, and being knocked off when the porker went into the pipe connecting to the other field the farmer owned), what happened to him when he met Norah ("Now, Myd, keep it tidy", his mother said, fearing that the lovers would jump the gun) and throughout the rest of his adult life ("Tell me, Taffy", his foreman asked, "Is there anything you can't do?" Mydrim sucked thoughtfully on his pipe, blue eyes twinkling. "Not bloody much.").

But some things were not talked about. Dad was 83, part of the generation lost to the Second World War, and his birthday was in early November, far too close to Remembrance Sunday for comfort. I remember standing in the garden in Fareham, right under the flightpath that the WW2 aircraft were using to get to the 50th anniversary of D-Day. We wanted to honour him by watching it with him, but he wasn't interested. He was too obviously still stepping on that phosphorous mine on Salisbury Plain or wherever, getting the long scar up his leg, and being lucky enough to survive long enough to father...well, his four children, and me by extension.

So when I looked up at one of the displays showing destinations, with a little clock in the top left corner, knowing he was drifting away, reading that it was eleven minutes past eleven; wouldn't it be just like the old bugger to salute his old friends just as he was joining them? I'm not sure if that's exactly how it turned out, but I think that's the story I shall tell. It's oddly appropriate.

I've spent the time since then at Mary, Stu et al's. I can't thank them enough for everything they've done for me this year, since everything broke over my head, but I'm planning on trying. I'll post on here, partly to help me mourn and deal and partly to keep my friends up to date.

Daniel.

Comments

[supermouse.livejournal.com]

I'm sorry for your loss.

My email is supermouse at therodent dot org dot uk if you want to email. I'll pass other contect details on to you that way.

I don't know what to say, except I'm sorry this year has had so much in it. *hugs*.

[shinydan.livejournal.com]

as soon as I'm at a machine where I can respond, I will. Thank you, SM.

Dan. *hugs*