NoJo
Happily Marred
- Joined
- May 19, 2002
- Posts
- 15,398
This is a short piece by my father who died yesterday of lung cancer, aged 87. It was done at the request of the hospice who were caring for him, when they learned he had been a professional writer (journalism, then TV and film) for fifty years.
He dictated this, improptu, to my mother,being unable to type due to his advanced illness.
29 October 2002
They asked me to write a few lines about breathing. Why me? Maybe it’s because in a few weeks I shall have had eighty seven years practice. Breathe in! Breathe out. Breathe in! Breathe out! Boring!
Mind you, breathing runs in the family. My father, who was gassed on the Somme fought a losing battle against it. Years later, in the Western Desert I had a couple of breathing “episodes”.A Jerry bomber got lucky with a direct hit on my tent burying me and a couple of other RAF erks alive. Fortunately, it was soft sand and we managed to scramble out to tell the tale.
Later, having driven Rommel out of Libya I decided to take a swim in the placid Med only to find myself being sucked down by a voracious whirlpool. I was on the point of breathing my last when a sergeant of the Tees and Tyne’s, obviously a stronger swimmer than me, pulled me out and left me gasping on the beach.
Not that all the breathing associations are negative. Jimmy Greaves dribbling past four men then nutmegging the goalie. Breathtaking! The Wimbledon final between Borg and McEnroe, rally after rally of breath- taking tennis. And the breath-taker of them all, Maria Callas singing the title roles in Bellini’s Norma, Verdi’s Traviata and Puccini's Tosca.
My attitude to breathing changed dramatically when a number of high-powered consultants send me a message “Come in XYZ (me) your time is up”. They diagnosed lung cancer, emphysema, an aneurysm of the aorta and angina, to mention but a few. Thus proving what I have long suspected, that I, like Aristotle, am mortal.
Since the same consultants had dubbed me “an unsuitable case for treatment “ I had to devise an alternative strategy regarding death. Easy. I do my best not to think about it; to carry on as near as possible with the way I normally live.
I do not want to know how many shopping days I have to Xmas. On the other hand my family will expect me to make the brandy butter as ever and I’ll not let them down. Again I don’t anticipate inviting my friends to watch the next World Cup in four years time but I do intend to be present at my grandson’s barmitsva in the Spring. This modus vivendi , however, relies upon my breathing and that’s when my wife comes in. She drives me to parks, the Heath and other greeneries where, after walking fifty yards, I sit down, gulp air and listen to the birds.
Breathe in! Breathe out! Breathe in! Breathe out! Congratulations! Brilliant!
He dictated this, improptu, to my mother,being unable to type due to his advanced illness.
29 October 2002
They asked me to write a few lines about breathing. Why me? Maybe it’s because in a few weeks I shall have had eighty seven years practice. Breathe in! Breathe out. Breathe in! Breathe out! Boring!
Mind you, breathing runs in the family. My father, who was gassed on the Somme fought a losing battle against it. Years later, in the Western Desert I had a couple of breathing “episodes”.A Jerry bomber got lucky with a direct hit on my tent burying me and a couple of other RAF erks alive. Fortunately, it was soft sand and we managed to scramble out to tell the tale.
Later, having driven Rommel out of Libya I decided to take a swim in the placid Med only to find myself being sucked down by a voracious whirlpool. I was on the point of breathing my last when a sergeant of the Tees and Tyne’s, obviously a stronger swimmer than me, pulled me out and left me gasping on the beach.
Not that all the breathing associations are negative. Jimmy Greaves dribbling past four men then nutmegging the goalie. Breathtaking! The Wimbledon final between Borg and McEnroe, rally after rally of breath- taking tennis. And the breath-taker of them all, Maria Callas singing the title roles in Bellini’s Norma, Verdi’s Traviata and Puccini's Tosca.
My attitude to breathing changed dramatically when a number of high-powered consultants send me a message “Come in XYZ (me) your time is up”. They diagnosed lung cancer, emphysema, an aneurysm of the aorta and angina, to mention but a few. Thus proving what I have long suspected, that I, like Aristotle, am mortal.
Since the same consultants had dubbed me “an unsuitable case for treatment “ I had to devise an alternative strategy regarding death. Easy. I do my best not to think about it; to carry on as near as possible with the way I normally live.
I do not want to know how many shopping days I have to Xmas. On the other hand my family will expect me to make the brandy butter as ever and I’ll not let them down. Again I don’t anticipate inviting my friends to watch the next World Cup in four years time but I do intend to be present at my grandson’s barmitsva in the Spring. This modus vivendi , however, relies upon my breathing and that’s when my wife comes in. She drives me to parks, the Heath and other greeneries where, after walking fifty yards, I sit down, gulp air and listen to the birds.
Breathe in! Breathe out! Breathe in! Breathe out! Congratulations! Brilliant!
b
