Applied for new job. Appears like a dream job on paper. Wrote to
contact at said place and she said they're terrible employers
and advised me to steer clear. I ignored her advice; a poor
employer beats one that won't give me enough hours and might
let me go.
Went to another funeral on Thursday gone. The mother of four
friends of mine (all siblings). Dawned on me how weird this
recent period of time has been. My dad called to tell me my
cousin (32-33, I think) has stomach cancer.
Anyway I'm not doing too bad all told.
May 12
I wrote to my friend Elizabeth yesterday. She asked for the latest.
It all came out of me. 2200 words. Here it is with some redacts.
Dearest Elizabeth
Before I write anything substantiative about myself or the last 18 months, I'd like to say two things:
Firstly, thank you. Thank you for your check-ins and saying-hello and your comments and your likes and the most miniscule of contacts. They have not gone unnoticed, and they've really helped keep the old dander up.
Secondly, I'm not entirely sure what I am about to write here, but I have the distinct feeling that it won't be terribly upbeat and might go on a bit. There's no expectation on my part that you will respond or offer any particular advice, and knowing simply that you'd read it would constitute the greatest support.
I'm going to go through this chronologically, as best as I can remember, because everything is all mixed into each other. What you know already I am not sure, as no one knows all of this and everyone I know seems to be aware of some of it.
The beginning is December 2019. My parents come to visit Nat and I in Liverpool for a Christmas dinner at a nice restaurant in town. In the back of my mind is my dad's mobility, as he's officially retired with an industrial injury, but he's fine and as such we have a nice day walking, drinking, and nattering. We inform my parents that we're planning on getting married and everyone is happy. N and I head off to Prague for a lovely holiday, although I throw my back out in a bowling alley in the hotel that spoils the first half of Christmas Day.
Over the next six weeks I'm writing modules ahead of teaching and trying to find an hour to re-read my thesis ahead of my twice-delayed viva. You messaged me to wish happy birthday, I see from combing through old messages, and then N and I head out to the Liverpool Philharmonic and then on to an overrated restaurant for dinner.
I head home the next day. It's Storm Dennis and all the trains are fucked. N calls when I have passed Runcorn to say her uncle has called to tell her to ring home. "This is weird, why would he do that?" she asks. Because it sounds very serious, I say.
N rings me back 2 minutes later: her dad has died. He has committed suicide in the garage. I get off the train in Crewe and head back to Merseyside. I intercept her at Huyton where she is now taking a train to her dad/stepmum's home near Preston. Her expression of complete uncomprehension is one I won't soon forget. In a daze I jump a train home later than day but end up on the non-stop to London.
The funeral and all the immediate grief and family stuff is really difficult. Already schisms are opening up over the estate (there are debts, legal issues, I won't go into it) and factions are forming. Promises of togetherness are made, only N is unaware of the insincerity that these moments bring, so the gradual reneging of all these promises have wounded her a bit more.
N and I go to Belfast. The trip was designed as my viva celebration weekend, but the viva hasn't happened. Nat is still desperately sad and small things set her off, not least that her parents are both from the six counties and there are lots of little reminders of youth. On the way home, the first case of COVID-19 is found in Belfast and that more-or-less sets the tone for everything since.
Eventually i. I do my viva by Skype (bit combative, especially as I knew I had passed) ii. I move to Liverpool to be with Nat. I've no sense of whether work wants to keep me on or not, so I try to apply for work and fail miserably as no one is taking on. I can't claim benefits as, technically, I am still a student until my thesis corrections are signed off. [REDACTED SECTION]
Work hires me back on in October in a salaried, rather than hourly-paid, position, though it works out approximately the same financially. This is all nice - I get a title now - but I've moved a 2.5hr commute away. I beg for lectures to be i. in the afternoon or ii. on the same day. They're both at 9am, so twice a week I am up at 4.45am to make a 6am train. And that doesn't always get me in on time, owing to the vagaries of infrastructure.
Around this time it becomes apparent that my mum is ill. Everything here is very uncertain, and no concrete timeline is available, but Jess (my brother's girlfriend) has a clear memory of my mum walking around in high heels in April 2020. In June she suffered a fall out of the back door and onto the concrete patio, and she is informed that at some point she has suffered a stroke. Her legs are not working as they should, but everything seems otherwise fine. We are in approximate consensus that this something like a slipped disc or a nerve issue.
Attempts to concretely diagnose the issue are hampered by mum's refusal to get in the MRI machine. There is a non-claustrophobic version, she is informed, but there's a long waiting list. A few more falls, each more injurious than the last, and she gets bumped up the waiting list. But still no diagnosis.
N and I cook family dinner for Christmas at my parents. I've only been zooming (the act of making haste, not the webcam app) in and out of the house so I haven't taken a close examination of my mum's state. She can't eat without assistance now, and her confidence is at rock-bottom. We've gone all out for a nice dinner, and everyone is appreciative, but there's a pall of sadness over the whole affair. Nat and I go home and watch the Vanishing (1988, *****+, "incredible") and have sex for the last time in absolutely ages.
Third lockdown I start to get cabin fever. N and I have argued a fair bit during 2020 as two independent beings get used to another person fucking up the program, but it gets a bit vicious. My previous tactic (gentle passivity) has been ground down by Nat's (goading) and I let rip a few times. Liverpool - where I have precisely two friends that are mine alone - is starting to feel like a prison and I am constantly pacing the yard irritatedly. Moving work online was more of a curse than a blessing, despite the commute.
In early February mum finally goes into Salford Royal for tests where, after some time, a diagnosis of Motor Neurone Disease is confirmed with a prognosis of 2/3 months. At first, over the phone, she is distraught and embittered. She cries so much I can't make out what she is saying.
Late in the month she returns home to a makeshift ward in the lounge. Though it is apparent that during this time she was in pain, I have some positive memories: some acceptance had been gained, however sprinkled with righteous bitterness it was, some plans had been made, and visitors came and made for a generally upbeat daytime. My dad was suffering in the night as mum's demands grew, so I would come and do some overnights when I could. We would chat as if chatting to a friend.
In very early March mum went into Wythenshawe. ML, our bassist, had his father die of the same thing. I spoke to his mum for practical advice and I recall her saying that Alan died in Wythenshawe. Two days in Wythenshawe my brother messages to say I have to get to the hospital. I put on good clothes and N and I make our way over in rush hour traffic. She hasn't died, but she is infinitely worse than when I last saw her. My understanding of exactly what has happened is unclear, but I suspect that the home stay was the last free time before a serious introduction of palliative medicine. She had attempted to scream so much that her voice was gone, and her mind was somewhere between narcotised and frightened. It was the most distressing moment of the whole thing.
Wythenshawe decide that it is time to send mum to hospice. Hospice rules dictate that only one visitor is allowed, and then two people at the end. My dad calls to ask me to, basically, stand aside. I want to remonstrate but I think better of it at the time. Instead I take a solo train ride back to Wythenshawe to spend an hour with mum in silence, saying what I think are goodbyes.
Mum goes to hospice and then, for reasons I am again unaware of, is released back home. There is some relief on my part as I get to see her again, but it is clear that her pain is tremendous and the drugs that local nurses can give become increasingly ineffective at giving her any rest. Her mind has come back, though she is mostly drugged out of her wit. I do a series of increasingly gruelling overnights where she cries because she can't shit. Her stomach swells up and the night nurses are called twice in the wee hours. On the last occasion, one nurse says it's probably time she went back to hospice and I agreed. So I said my goodbyes all over again.
As she's in hospice N and I go away for the weekend to north Lancs to stay in a holiday let owned by her mum and stepdad. I am so wound up by everything - the rural smugness, the inability to do anything, hanging out with her tosser stepdad, the anti-vaxxers I meet on a day out in Skipton - that I literally walk out of the holiday and leave N behind. Still got some fences to mend with her family about this, but getting that bus out of the village was like winning the lottery.
While in hospice my dad chipped away at the guardians of the rules and in the last 10 days or so I got over every other day to see her. Less than half of the time she knew I was there, but she was much more peaceful and much of the anxiety that had gathered hurricane force inside me started to subside. On the 9th of April I made a solo trip to see her and said goodbye. Later that day my brother came to pick me up to drive me back and we missed her last breath by five minutes. My dad had been there, and I'm glad I wasn't in that respect. Her face had changed so much over 4 months and she'd been in so much pain that I was glad that it was over.
During the last 8 paragraphs N and I had also been looking for somewhere new to live. The nice little mews house we rented had been sold and the new tenants wanted 50% more, so we were cast out. We've got a place now and it is as good, but I completely buried my head in the sand during these episodes. I can't thank N enough for sorting it all out. Some of the places we looked at that cost more were utterly gruesome and I felt my sense of gaoldom in Liverpool increasing. Right now it is stable.
The funeral was as mum requested: simple, inexpensive, and everyone had to go home after as mum didn't trust wakes ("why would you have a party after someone died?"). There are not too many legacy issues to clear up: they didn't have much money and lived month-to-month on pensions that were adequate for their lifestyle. One possible issue is whether what mum had was genetic, and that is something I am in the process of trying to discover. This leads us down the path of other arguments had with N about family and future, but I won't go there too much. You can probably imagine.
I'm attempting to bring my dad more into my life. We had him for dinner on Friday and he was so tense. He literally wouldn't sit down for 90 minutes. After a couple of beers and some old photos he warmed to N's gentle therapy and nice pork/fennel dinner. Sadly my brother rocked up honking his horn, just as dad was beginning to show signs of comfort and relaxation.
That brings us up to date, really. No news on [name of band] for reasons you might expect, and I've applied for two new jobs. But really I am trying to emerge from the cloud of anxiety, sadness, and grief that the last year and a half has been - not always for me, and N's grief still looms large as she shoulders the big sister role for her 16 year old kid brother.
Did I really just write 2200 words on a train from Worcester to Liverpool and yet I maintain that I can't write a novel? Have a word with yourself.
Please please please tell me about you.
May 24
A long day, a difficult day.
Without going into it too much I think I have caught my brother attempting to steal from my dad.
A sneaky bit of white collar crime, forms filled in without anyone knowing about it.
If never caught could have been as much as 15000 quid.
The rage and recrimination are too dense to deal with.
I keep trying to find out ways that my discoveries don't add up to what it looks like.
Unsuccessfully.
I left my dad's in such a fit of pique that I walked 3 miles to the next railway station home
Rather than the one near the house
On the way I saw the person I used to be in love with for the fourth time in two months
This time it just meant nothing at all.