It’s been a ‘Stop the Clocks’ kinda week. You know, like that poem, the one that goes something like; stop the clocks, cut off the phone, stop the dog barking by giving it a bone, and let the planes flying overhead write on the sky that he is … … … …
… … …
… … … he is … … …
… … … you know.
I still can’t say that word; not about him, not yet. There has never been, and never will be, a kinder, or more vital, human being than A. Almost a week later, I am still being choked by grief, and shocked by its strength.
Strength. That’s a good word for A. And selflessness, and fairness, and honesty, and humour, and courage. That’s five more. There are so many. So many. You know when people write, ‘There are no words’? Well, there are. There definitely are. In fact, there are countless words. But that fact is itself the problem: suddenly, every word, everywhere in the whole world, is inadequate. The jaws of the universe open, and swallow up all of the words, and all that is left is the void.
Cancer took him. Fast. His wonderful wife now stands, reeling, in its wake. There are not enough hugs, or thoughts, or words, for her. Lord knows, she deserves them and more; I wish I could give her them, give her help, give her something. But nothing – nothing – will bring him back.
Yesterday, in the queue at the supermarket, for a fleeting moment, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of A. Then, the moment was gone. And I paid for my groceries, and carried on living my life. Because that’s what it’s for.*
Today, F, who cares** for my ailing mother, turns 65. I wished her a heartfelt ‘Happy Birthday,’ and then, in the next breath, like a selfish git, I panicked that she could be about to retire! We could be losing her help very soon! What would we do without her? It turns out that I can breathe an egocentric sigh of relief: F has one more year to work before she reaches her statutory retirement age. Disaster averted – for now. As F said, however; it’s amazing how quickly the time passes.
Despite this universal truth, those of us who do not die young (as only the good do, it’s said) are now living longer. This has turned out to be rather inconvenient for most governments. Hence why F can only retire at 66; or why my retirement age (so I believe, anyway) will be 68. Hence also why governments, now more than ever before, want us to save. After all; legalised asset stripping is a far more palatable alternative than admitting that inequality has become an economic runaway train, and stopping it in its tracks.
Speaking for myself (a mostly reliable perspective), the cosy fantasy of saving for a comfortable and enjoyable retirement has very little appeal. I know, beyond any doubt, that riser-recliner chairs, no matter how expensive, do not stop pain, or restore mobility. I also know, and have seen many times, what remains of human beings, rich or poor, after death.
That world cruise you have been saving for? Maybe you will be able to take it. Feel better yet? Or; maybe, you won’t be able to take it. In which case, that ship might as well depart from another planet.
That charity bequest you are planning? That will become a teeny, tiny droplet in the ocean of inequality, the swirling vortex of numbers on screens the world over, the river of imaginary ones and zeros that eventually, helplessly, hopelessly, trickles and dribbles back into the cesspool of collective self-delusion we call ‘the economy’. Cash is king, they say? Cash is nothing.
The truth of the latter statement is, in my view, borne out by two facts: firstly; nobody injects puréed tenners as an analgesic; and, secondly, nobody wants a hug from a computer screen when they know they are dying.
There. That’s what I think. Make of it what you will, if you have chosen to read this far.
I do now know one thing though. Thanks to A, that wonderful, irretrievable, human being whom I was privileged to call my friend, I now know: what you want most, when the end is near, is an ice-cold can of cider. And kindness.
On that note; I hope you all have a very happy birthday (whenever it comes), and a life surrounded by love. Live your life, love your life, and share your love. And, if you have a moment and would be so kind, please raise a glass to A.
* Thank you, Aunty L, for this advice. Your words really reached me.
** And I do mean cares. She cares for Mum in every way, plus a few more. We are incredibly lucky to have her in our lives.
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