Stan is a friend of his, and by proxy of mine, too. He and his long-time girlfriend/fiance Ann are...were...regulars in many of the Kidderminster pubs; the King & Castle (next to the railway station: The Grandpapa's 'local') especially. They ate, drank and socialized to the excess and were...are...very very much in love with both one another and life. Everyone who knows them adores them, and Stan and Ann adore...adored...them right back. Parties were a common thing, as were day trips and holidays. In-spite of their various ailments and age (advanced, in Stan's case) their lives were a hotbed of activity (no pun intended; their regular jaunts to a hotel in a nearby town that boasted not only king-sized beds but a walk-in shower that could comfortably house two people at the same time notwithstanding).
Stan is...was...nearly 90 and with a myriad of health problems - including stomach cancer - that steadily got worse in his final years, though he never complained about them. He was a quiet, well mannered man; a gentleman, just as the Grandpapa is.
Ann is about 25 years Stan's junior and until recently was his carer as well as his partner, though she is equally frail in her own way; in particular one of her hands was butchered when she was in her 30's by an incompetent surgeon and she was left partially paralyzed, having to give up the job she loved and become one of . She is also what used to be commonly known as a "jolly drunk"; a nicer way of saying that someone is an alcoholic, but an alcoholic that stays pleasant and non-violent and confrontational (albeit in Ann's case becoming increasingly ear piercingly loud as the day progresses and the tally of red wines and whiskies goes up) no matter how many drinks he/she consumes. She doted on her elderly sugar daddy and looked after him as well as she knew how - catering to his every whim - until the care became too much for her and had to be handed over to professionals a little over six months ago.
He went downhill rapidly after that. No sooner had he been transferred to a home so that he could receive round the clock nursing care that his mind began to deteriorate (a coincidence that hasn't gone unnoticed) and before too long he barely knew what day it was, or who Ann was, or what a knife and fork were for...
...I didn't go and see him.
My visits to see the pair of them when times were good were rare and sporadic, in part because it was difficult to fit the time in, in part because I'm not comfortable with large crowds - which they were almost always surrounded by - and finally in part because it was incredibly wearing to both cope with Ann's shrill shouting (she really IS loud. Painfully so) and their constant urges for me to allow them to buy me food and drink; especially drink. It's sad because not only are...were...they really lovely, but because (strangely) they thought the absolute world of me. But that was the way it was. The Grandpapa understood that and in any case, as I said; they were surrounded by admirers all the time anyway.
Then, when Stan got sick enough to be 'put away' as Grandpapa put it, my seeing of them dropped off completely, because... well because selfishly I just couldn't do it. The Grandpapa hinted, and told me, even, that it would be nice if I visited, that (while he was still there enough to do so) he asked after me, but I didn't, because I couldn't bear it. I couldn't bear to see that lovely, soft spoken man degraded to the degree he had been. I just couldn't. And now he is gone and it is too late.
UGH. I fucking HATE that death exists. WHY does everything and everybody have to DIE? WHY does it even exist?? Why does life and death have to go hand in hand, and why HAVE life if you're going to die anyway?? I am so sick and tired of it! And I think of The Grandpapa and The Grandmama and they are both in their 80s now and how much longer will it be before I lose them forever? Or my mum? Or my darling Bingo... And the idea of death scares me so much; it scares the crap out of me because I know that one day *I* will die too, and I'm frightened of that, because how will it happen and when? And will it hurt? Will it be quick or slow? How agonizing and terrifying it must be to take your last breath and then not be able to take any more: like asthma times several billion. And the stupid thing is that I can accept the idea of life after death for other people - heck, I can even sense it on occasion - but not for me. And on the few times that I allow myself to think about it - like right now - another part of me CAN accept there being an afterlife for me and that's perhaps even more terrifying than not existing any more, because what if I go to Hell? I just...UGH!
I can't talk anymore.
Thanks for listening, Blog.
Alice x
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