Open Writing

Through the high level of fitness I developed from running daily, my personal confidence grew, my work improved, and I was able to cope with stress and pressures in the office.

I visited a colour consultant, who counselled me on what clothes I should buy which were most suited to my body style and skin tones. She classified me as a “winter man” and offered to take me shopping for shirts, ties and a suit. I declined but went out on my own and the marked improvement in my appearance created a lot of interest at work.

I had finally emerged from the desolation of male menopause into an age of mastery. Things worked well, I enjoyed my life and had never felt better.

It all came crashing down on me when Alex – my wife – became sick and was diagnosed as having an ovarian tumour.

The family doctor told her she needed surgery immediately and had a 30 per cent chance of survival.

Without a blink she said, “I’ll take it.”

Her specialist told her the anaesthetists wouldn’t touch her until she stopped smoking. He gave her a gadget to blow into, telling her when she could raise a series of balls to the top, she would be able to withstand surgery.
This took a couple of weeks.

The surgery was not able to remove the tumour. There were two and they had reached out into her lungs.

She did not respond well to chemotherapy and resigned herself to death.

“What arrangements are you planning for my funeral?” she asked.

I replied I would have a reading from Ecclesiastes, beginning “Remember now they creator in the days of thy youth…” For music, a friend would sing Orpheus’ lament for Eurydice, and a Masonic friend would play a highland lament on the bagpipes.

“I want a funeral, not a fucking musical comedy,” she said. She said she hated her body and wanted to be cremated. The funeral should be simple and minimal.

She wasted away – couldn’t keep her food down, couldn’t bear to be driven past the hospital where she’d had the chemotherapy.

She’d burst into tears and weep. I developed a technique after consulting a local doctor, where I would ask her to lie down and close her eyes, then I’d take her for an imaginary walk in favourite scenes from my childhood on the North Durham moors. I’d describe the wild hyacinths in the wood, the smells, the sounds of insects, the tiny call of the skylark – just on the edge of hearing - the brown trout streaking along the burn at the resonance of our footsteps on the banks.

Then I’d take her for a drive around Parkwood and discuss various plants and trees in the gardens we passed. She’d always liked gardening, a passion we shared.

She apologised to me for being snitchy. “My darling man, what have I done to you?” she said.

I said she’d been fine, an excellent wife and I’d enjoyed our life together, wouldn’t have had her any different.
She squeezed my hand. “Not long now,” she said.

She died peacefully on a morphine pump at the Shenton Park Hospice on August 11 1990 at 3.06 am. Leon and I were in the room with her. I was holding her hand. She took two small breaths then was gone.

A bird called mournfully outside. Leon and I went home under cloudy skies and a light rain.

When we reached the entrance to our community housing, I noticed a cat had mounted his female, pressing her chin into the dust. Alex and I had always liked cats. I read that as a sign from above that life goes on.

About eighteen months later, I got a call at work. The arson squad were looking for me. My house had burned to the ground and I’d lost all my possessions. I’d let the contents insurance lapse.