And so, Another Eulogy

Having already written, delivered and published eulogies for my parents and my partner, I thought it only right to add that of my late mother in law, who died last month. Whatever pretensions I may ever have had as a writer (ie, none) this would not have been my chosen specialist area.

Pamela Joan New 1934 - 2023 

This is the eulogy I never expected to have to give. Ordinarily, it would have fallen to Paul, the son Pam loved so much, but sadly he’s no longer with us, so I am hoping that I can do both of them justice today. Please forgive me if I have forgotten or missed anything about Pam, whom I was fortunate enough to know for 35 years.

Pam was born on 30 December 1934 in Wincanton, the only child of Frank and Gladys. The family lived on Mill Street in the town, although they stayed in touch with their extended families in Nailsea, Yatton and Clevedon. They were frequent visitors to Nailsea, where Frank’s family had lived for generations, and she was especially fond of her aunt Hilda, who ran West End Stores. She also had many cousins on the Payne side of the family, some of whom are with us today.

In 1956, Pam married local lad Ronald New and the couple moved to Bristol, where Ron worked for the GPO (later to become British Telecom). In 1965, they adopted a son, Paul, and the family made their home in Headley Park, in a home with one of the finest views of the city.

When Paul was very young Pam worked part time, temping, but in later years she joined Royal Mail Customer Services, from where she retired with 20 years’ service. After her retirement she kept active, volunteering with the WRVS at Bristol Royal Infirmary for several years.

I first met Pam in 1988 – Paul and I had met at Manchester University, and he took me by train to meet his mother and to show me his home city. At Stafford station he spotted a fruit machine in need of emptying and hopped off the train, leaving me potentially heading for a city I’d never been to and trying to locate a woman I had never met!

Thankfully, he made the train connection and I met Pam, thus starting a relationship which lasted until her recent death. Pam’s mother Gladys was by this time in a care home in Clevedon, having been diagnosed with the same dementia which Pam subsequently developed. Pam made weekly visits from Bristol to Clevedon to visit her, initially on her moped and later in her little Fiesta – it was only after she moved to Nailsea that I realised quite what the journey ‘up over Failand’ entailed on a moped! Paul and I visited as often as we could for the ten years Gladys lived at the Belmont care home in Clevedon and as a result, I was fortunate to meet most of the extended Payne family at family parties prior to Gladys’ death in 1996.

When she and Ron divorced in 1981, Pam had started to indulge her passion for foreign travel – firstly with Paul and later with Brian Evans, the man who was to be her partner and constant companion for 30 years. Together they visited all parts of the globe and had many tales to tell of cruises and excursions.

Her retirement allowed her to continue this, and to make frequent visits to Manchester to see her grandchildren Megan and Josh grow up. She also had the benefit of additional ‘grandchildren’ in Aneurin and Huw, Brian’s grandsons, who were just across the Pennines in Leeds. Meg and Josh were extremely fond of ‘Uncle Brian’ and we were all deeply saddened when he was diagnosed with cancer. Pam spent much of the time that he was ill caring for him in his home at Whitchurch (they always maintained separate homes) and after his death, she returned to Headley Park only to find that it no longer felt like ‘home’ and so began a new chapter in her life.

At the age of 77, she upped sticks and moved back to Nailsea, where most of her family hailed from. The Bakers had been resident in the West End of Nailsea for generations and she and I were able to piece together much of the family history, thanks to Aunty Hilda’s role as custodian of family documents and photos. It is Pam’s wish to have her ashes interred in the family plot at Holy Trinity church where her grandmother Annie, grandfather Charley and Hilda all rest. 

The move was the best move she could have made at that time. She was very happy in her bungalow on Ashton Crescent, and she was also close to several of her cousins. She attended Holy Trinity and became active in social events there. Her cousin Brenda and her husband Dave were always at hand when Pam needed help and we are so grateful for their love and support when we were so far away.

In 2018, her memory started to fail and she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. Unable to continue to live independently, she moved into residential care at Silver Trees Care Home in Nailsea, where she continued to have fun, make friends and have a very good quality of life for several more years. Meg, Josh and I are extremely grateful to all the staff there who made her time with them so rewarding, and for the kindness and support they have shown us as a family over the last year when we were dealing with Paul’s illness and our grief after his death.

She remained unaware of the tragically early death of her beloved son almost a year ago. I consulted family members and we all agreed that it was kinder not to tell her, as it would have been terribly upsetting for her to no good purpose. Her memories of him, while they remained, will have been of a devoted and loving son, who cared for her in her failing health as she had done for her mother. The children and I have done our best over the last eleven months to continue this legacy on his behalf, and I hope we have done him proud.

Pam’s was a life well lived. From rural Somerset to the Taj Mahal and the Great Wall of China, she was always delighted by the world around her and by those she loved. She was delighted to learn that Megan did indeed “have a boyfriend” (a frequently occurring question) and in the short time he knew her Logan has been a great support to us on trips out and looking after Pam with us.

And while I will now have my birthday back (we were both born on 30 December) it will be especially poignant from now on, as Pam will no longer be there to share it.

 

 

Fathers Day: an Abundance of Care

As this is their first Fathers Day without their dad, here is what my kids felt about him.

Read by Megan at his funeral in December 2022.

Despite his lifelong assertion that “Your mother wanted kids, I wanted cats. I lost.”, Paul was a devoted and incredible father right up until the very end. He was the best dad in the world, though not in the sort of way you reward with a cheesy Poundland mug (though I may have tried a few times!). Those that knew him will know he’s not much of a touchy-feely person, generally leaning away from hugs and avoiding expressing any genuine emotions in a way that people could hear. He always proved his love in other ways -- secretly spending all day on a train to and from Bristol to collect Josh’s beloved cuddly toy that had been left behind after visiting grandma, or letting me punch him because his exaggerated groans of agony would make me laugh until my bad mood went away. He chose not to treat his children like inferiors, always inviting them into the grown-up conversations and giving them the opportunity to try and understand, even if they ended up not doing. He was a man of carefully measured words and carefully considered actions, characteristics that made him perfectly suited to fatherhood even when he (continually, and only half-sarcastically) claimed to have no clue. No declaration of love could ever mean more than a great lover of cinema taking his children to see Happy Feet and, even worse, Mrs Brown's Boys: D'Movie. He was good at using his own experience of (undiagnosed, but agreed by pretty much everyone except him) autism to advocate and encourage Megan and Josh whenever others weren’t sure how to. He indulged plenty of ridiculous things, like a phobia of doors and a desire to take every bus route in Greater Manchester, but he did more than that as well. He was the best at problem-solving and seemed to always know how to work through situations where emotions weren’t the solution. He often claimed that he was getting carers’ allowance without ever doing any caring, but it wasn’t true -- both of his children would agree that much of their continued survival stems from his abundance of care. For all his wonderful acts as a dad, the best thing he ever did was relinquishing his dream of naming a child Colostomy. Paul lives on through a shared phobia of moths, a dark sense of humour, a perpetual willingness to pop to the shops, and all the love and strength he left behind. These words aren’t something he’d necessarily agree with, and he might visibly cringe if he heard them said aloud, but they’re the truth. He was a better father than he ever gave himself credit for.

2022: Review of the Year

“And worse I may be yet: the worst is not
So long as we can say 'This is the worst.”

Shakespeare, King Lear

 I didn't blog at all in 2022. See below for the reasons:

Preface: December 2021

On a pre-Christmas trip to visit my mother in law, the clutch went on our car. It had to be towed back to Manchester from the West Country and no-one could fix it until the new year. When we hired a vehicle for 24 hours to do the last-minute Christmas Eve Stuff that couldn't be done by public transport, the vehicle hire firm accused me of putting a scratch on it (I still dispute this) resulting in a lost deposit.

January: Car Troubles

It took most of the month to find someone who could do the work, either because of being busy or unable to do the more-complex-than-just-a-replacement-clutch job. 4-figure bill in the end.

February: Illness

My partner started to suffer from  reflux-y symptoms. Eventually persuaded him to consult the GP who suspected a hiatus hernia and did tests to rule out "anything more sinister." Referred to hospital for further investigations.

March, April, May: Backlogs

Covid restrictions and associated backlogs meant nothing else happened while meals became more and more difficult until he was on a soup-only diet (although chocolate always stayed down)

June: Hospital

Attended Manchester Royal Infirmary for an endoscopy but couldn't view the stomach due to the discovery of a large tumour in the oesophagus preventing anything non-liquid getting in there (which explained the soup and chocolate). Referred for more scans/tests at MRI, Trafford General and Salford Royal. 
SatNav getting a lot of use

July: Plague

Outcome of scans = yep, definitely cancer. Two options:

• Nasty, long operation, requiring up to a year recovery.
• Chemo

The week he was due to go in to have feeding tub fitted prior to the op, all four of us finally succumbed to Covid (my fault - I went out for one evening) during the deadliest heatwave in living memory.

Finally admitted to Salford Royal for feeding tube fitting, during which they discover the stomach (which is needed to create a new oesophagus) also has some 'suspicious cells' meaning the op is now not viable. Stent fitted instead, which means at least he can eat real food again, albeit overcooked and chopped up small.

August: Chemo

First round results in a fair amount of persistent hiccupping and throat restriction, making life very unpleasant and his lovely voice changing (luckily temporary)

September: Car Troubles II: the Legend Continues

Second round leaves him feeling slightly chirpier, with signs it's having some effect.

Then some arsehole of a joyrider takes a corner too fast and totals the car. Lucky it was parked and there were no pedestrians about for him to kill. So sorting out insurance and police report at the same time as attending hospital appointments, which I could have done without.

October: More chemo, more pain

Find another car but by this time he's too weak to walk around the hospital on his own due to backache and persistent cough that's developed so become very familiar with the Uber drivers who do the hospital circuit (some are very good and drive in a way that minimises bumps and swerves for a clearly in-pain customer; others, less so). 

November: All hell breaks loose

Backache/cough prove to be symptoms of the cancer having metastasised at an alarming rate.

10th - visit the Christie for bloods/pre-chemo consultation. Told too ill for chemo and sent home with Oramorph and steroids to try and get fit enough for treatment.

11th - reacts badly to Oramorph, starts seeing things and becoming confused. Macmillan nurse calls emergency ambulance as blood sats drop to mid 60s. Admitted to MRI and taken more or less straight to Resus and put on saline drip, Now not recognising me, being aggressive to staff (proof that something is badly wrong) and hallucinating. Put on saline and wait for a bed on the ward. 

12th (his birthday) moved to the ward; had a comfortable night and I'm told to visit him at 2pm. At 10.30am, get a call to say he's taken a turn for the worse and can the family come in? We arrive about 11am at which point they're still in active treatment phase. No sign he knows we're there or has seen the (very fine) card son has made for him. By 2pm, nothing working, so put on end of life care. Daughter asks to leave at the end of the day and goes home with fiancé (who spent 8 hours sitting in the corridor waiting for her because it was family only and he didn't feel he counted). 

13th Son and I spend all day with him. We are top of the waiting list for a side room anywhere in the hospital (one never becomes available). Pain medication seems to be barely touching him and seems very distracted (am told this is just the body reacting in spasms and he's not as uncomfortable as it looks. At 11pm we're asked to step out for a bit so they can "make him comfortable". We both know what that means and when we return he is, at least, less disordered and seemingly calmer. We wait.

14th - at around ten past midnight he leaves us. Have a verbal altercation with a patient on the ward who has been awful to everyone for the whole time we've been there and chooses that moment to complain about all the noise (my son in tears at the loss of his beloved dad). Tell him in no uncertain terms how unpleasant and obstreperous he has been to the staff and how selfish he is being. Grief certainly focuses the mind!

Go home to sleep, after which lovely neighbour helps me do all the immediate stuff which needs doing. Rest of the month telling people he's died, transferring all the utilities to my name so we actually have heat, light, cooking, etc and arranging a funeral. In Manchester. In December.

December: Grief, Funerals and Christmas

The three of us put together a funeral service which we hope reflects the man he was, led by my oldest friend as the celebrant. Despite his assertion that no-one liked him, many friends and former colleagues come to the service and share wonderful stories about him.

Emotions still a bit wobbly, as everywhere we go reminds us of him. 

Christmas a bit weird but not as bad as we'd feared it might be, Developed some new traditions along with the old.

Marked my 60th birthday as a widow - not something I would have predicted.

I have always hated New Year's Eve and this was especially to be avoided. I think I've succeeded in not wishing anyone a happy new year this time - I wasn't feeling it and had a weird feeling I might bring down a year like the one I've just gone through if I'd wished anyone a happy new year!

So, gentle reader, that is why I didn't post anything in 2022.