Death and the Guinea Pig.

(right: Albert in former days)
Despite the fact that there is now some glorious sunshine pouring down from the blue (ish) sky I am definitely feeling a bit low today.
This is largely due to lack of sleep (Daughter #3 had a rowing 'head race' which necessitated a 4.30am wake-up to get us over a hundred miles distant for 8am start) which was compounded last night by being woken with a start at a loud noise (drunkards down the street) and an inability, it seemed, to get back to sleep fully.

Coupled with this, I went out to the guinea-pigs' hutch at bedtime and found Albert, the littlest fellow, inert and cold.
This wasn't totally a surprise: he had been failing gradually since before Christmas. I'd been bringing them both in faithfully every night and ensuring that they both had plenty of fresh greenery in their diet (g-p's, like humans and unlike many other creatures, cannot manufacture their own vitamin 'c') and keeping their quarters spotlessly clean. Alas, to no avail! Sometime whilst we were in Lincolnshire he shuffled off his mortal coil and headed to the Great Clover Patch in the Sky.

As usual, I got quite weepy (I don't even manage to dispose of the deceased goldfish without a snivel) and called upon the Husband to prepare a suitable grave under the back lawn, where so many other Small Creatures lie.
Albert was still reasonable flexible, and his little head lolled over my wrist as I lay him gently in the ground. I had to leave at the moment of inhumation itself to comfort a sobbing Bright-Eyed Boy who had just been made aware of the situation, and to dab my own eyes.
It's very strange but even had Albert still been warm, it was obvious that he was quite dead - there is something that leaves the body at the moment of death that is perceptible even if your were not a believer in the soul. It is a life-force that exits, a vital spark that seems to be more than just the sum of biological processes. The essence of Albert himself had left the building.
Alfred, big, daft, pink-eyed and pinked lipped ('like a woman, m'lord') appeared agitated. When I put him out in the hutch on his own this morning (life must go on, even for guinea pigs) he snuffled about where the body had been laid before retreating to the bed-department, no doubt to have a little weep of his own (anthropomorphism). I shall feed him spinach for his tea to strengthen and sustain him in his loss.

Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep

Went to visit my old friend's grave today. I haven't been back since she was buried fifteen months ago. I was pleased to see that there was a lovely headstone, engraved with a kingfisher (her favourite bird, the sight of which once persuaded her in the depths of despair away from the river), a loving dedication and the full text of Mary Elizabeth Frye's poem 'Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there, I do not sleep....'

The sun was shining, a gentle wind was blowing small clouds across the sky.

I am not ashamed to say I did just that.

R.I.P. my dearest friend....

A Handful of Days

My poor old uncle, aged 83, long burdened by Parkinson's Disease and cancer, and who recently had a nasty fall that rendered him unconscious for a few days, revived sufficiently yesterday to tell his wife and doctors "No more".
No more meds, no more food. He has decided to turn his face to the wall and slip away. He has had enough, and I can't say I blame him. Despite everything, his intelligence has remained intact, and until very recently there were traces of his habitual dry wit and self -deprecating humour. An active and fit man, with an encyclopaedic knowledge of miltary history, his illness has mostly entailed an agonising curtailment of his former pleasures. His wife of over fifty-five years, herself a cancer survivor, was still (quite voluntarily) pushing him round in a wheelchair until a few weeks ago, but her increasing frailty would have soon made a nursing home an inevitability for him. He knew that, whatever, he was not destined to return to sleep in his own bed. He is currently in a side room of a small local hospital, tended and as comfortable as he can be. According to my mother (his sister) the nursing and pastoral care is exemplary and it is close enough for family visiting to be easy. But we are talking of less than a handful of days here. A gentle slide into the void, tenderly held in the arms of Morpheus, the quiet extinguishing of his light.
Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord. May he rest in peace.

Bloody, bloody, bloody....

The sudden death of 'the King of Pop' at fifty has been for me yet another unwelcome intimation of mortality. This, plus the recent passing of an old friend and my own confrontation with the (happily unfounded) possibility of illness, has had the unpleasant effect of bringing me up short to look at the briefness of life in an uncomfortable, clear-eyed way. And I don't like it much. I am well aware that I am growing ever older - I'm showing the signs of age that we all do: loss of skin tone, grey hairs, excess weight, age spots (sounds lovely, doesn't it?). But more uncomfortably, I've become pathetically obsessed that every little ache or pain or cough is an ominous portent of Something A Lot More Serious, and that really, really bugs the hell out of me, that little old granny of twittering caution and alarm. I've always been what you might call 'insouciant' (some might say cavalier) about my health and illness in general, not giving much thought to what I've taken into my body. And now it all seems to be coming back to haunt me, all unwilling, in the dead of the night - hypochondria - big style. I lie there awake and uncomfortable and fret. Dawn arrives, and I haven't been back to sleep, so I start the day irritable and lethargic. I'm restless but unmotivated, bored with the quotidien but incapable of showing initiative.

Mal de siecle and it's only 2009! Pass Les Fleurs du Mal, I've come over all Baudelaire!

Lumps and Bumps on Life's Road

Went to my old friend's funeral today. It was beautifully done and I'm sure she would have loved it. These things are never easy though, and this one - for many people, and a variety of reasons - particularly so.

I'd had a very stressful couple of days for a quite different reason: a routine medical screening was swiftly followed by a recall to look at an anomaly. The clinic involved was absolutely marvellous, but the hierarchy of tests involved just lead to a mounting sense of panic and, by the end of it, a feeling of inevitable doom. It was with immense gratitude and relief that I heard from the doctor that the area of concern was in no way sinister and required no further exploration. Having spent a couple of nights of broken and troubled sleep, waking to a sense of panicky disbelief and unreality, I walked out of the hospital practically kicking my heels together (as did the husband, whose two hour solitary wait had seemed intolerable). I am so, so pleased that everything is fine and feel so much heartache and empathy for those whose diagnosis is not so favourable. Including my poor old friend, who must have gone through a similar experience, but with no happy outcome. Things are pretty peaceful tonight: I am anticipating a long, quiet night of dreamless and restful sleep. I hope that she too is resting peacefully, under the heavy blanket of earth that covers her, calm, healed, untormented at last. We knew each other for over twenty years and I miss the old times and her wry humour and her unconditional friendship. So much.

R.I.P.

An old friend of mine died of cancer at the early age of 49. We'd become friends when our children were born within a few months of each other, and in the old days we spent many, many hours in one another's house. Various changes in circumstances, some very painful, meant that we lost our connection over the years and parted last year on acrimonious terms, for which I take full and abject responsibility.

Still, I often thought of her with affection and hoped that she'd eventually come through her storms, although the omens were not good. But she did not, and when I think of her I feel very sad and wished I'd been a better friend and had managed to hug that slight frame one last time.

Apocalypse Again

Ruminating on my earlier post linking Advent to the pre-Apocalyptic period of trial, followed by the climax of the Big Day, it occurred to me that our lives observe a rythmn of waiting/enduring/struggling/suffering followed by relief/release/discovery.
Consider: from our earliest moments.....the egg ripens (waiting) before it bursts from the ovary (release). The sexual act (struggle?) culminates in orgasm (relief/release). Pregnancy (waiting) and birth (struggle) brings forth new life (relief/discovery). Childhood is followed naturally by adulthood. Death follows the self-same process, we either die after a life unpunctuated by illness (waiting), after a terminal illness (suffering/enduring), or following trauma (struggle/suffering) which may be protracted or brief, inflicted by others or ourselves . Which begs the question, do we achieve simple passive relief/release at the moment of death, or is there a moment of revelation, an unveiling, apokalupsis, when all that has preceded finally falls into place and we begin a new ascent murmuring "Ah....now I see......"?