The day I was reminded that 'Casualty' is not real life

When my Nanna phoned me at the pub last night, I thought I was in trouble for not calling her. I went straight on the defensive: I was sorry, I hadn't had a chance, I'd barely had a lunch break, I'd had meetings all day, then I was at a football match and now I was at the pub. 

And then I let her speak and she asked me to come to hers and stay the night because she was getting chest pains. 

My heart skipped a beat, though not in a medically dangerous way that hers might have been doing. 

Just the day before she'd said she was feeling "permanently under the weather". 

Had she jinxed herself? 

I practically fled the pub, and was storming the wrong way in Bethnal Green when I got a reassuring call from my mum. Don't panic. Yes the doctor said to go to hospital, but she had had these pains before and there are complications with diabetes that we couldn't know for sure that this was a serious heart problem. 

I calmed down. My cantankerous grandmother was refusing to go to hospital but she had good reason not to panic the same way I was. 

After a change of shoes at home (heeled boots are not practical if you need to run around after an invalid) and picking up my stuff I arrived at hers. She was gasping for a cup of tea, and it wasn't long until she hit the wine as usual. So far so normal. 

She was breathless and groaning. I hooked her up to a TENS machine and we watched Silent Witness. We went to bed at midnight and I got a lie in, as I was working from home. 

She'd slept fitfully, and phoned the doctors who sent an ambulance. The pain was still there, and they needed to be sure she wasn't having a "cardiac episode".

The paramedics were great. Cheery, pleasant, accidentally turning on the ECG machine with an automated voice exclaiming they were "starting CPR".

No one outside of my family appreciates the hysterics we go into when explaining how my uncle once tipped my nan out of her wheelchair, giving her a black eye. They transported her very carefully in the wheelchair and subsequently the trolley bed. 

So, we're at hospital. I'm waiting in the relatives room. It can only be described as a roomy broom cupboard with a sink and a sofa. I shared with two women whose parents were in. They were in their 40s or 50s. They discussed Cornwall and how hard these doctors work. They blamed Theresa May for the shortage of doctors. One by one they got called to go into their loved ones. 

I sat in the broom cupboard for an hour before someone asked if I was Joan's granddaughter.

A quick aside: when the paramedics called my nan Joan I thought she'd given them a false name. I had forgotten that's her real name, not Alison (her middle name ) or any variation of Nan I come up with (nan, nanna, nanny, trouble, mischief) 

She was in a gown, on a bed. She has a chest infection (Again? Still?) and she needs to be admitted for intravenous antibiotics. 

This soon became oral antibiotics because her right bundle branch block wasn't too bad, and the chest infection was likely causing the pain. 

Then there might be fluid on the lung. 

An ultrasound revealed there wasn't, not really? 

And finally another blood test revealed that yes it was raised (not sure what, something to do with her heart and her blood?) but not significantly enough to keep her in and we could go merrily on our way. After I'd waited half an hour to pick up her two new medications. 

As I write, dear reader, she's drinking tea and being fussed over by her cats. And granddaughters. 

In Casualty everything is much more dramatic. Because it's a drama. 

But life isn't just a drama. It's a comedy as well. 

Back home I announced Claire would be coming over for dinner. And Nan said "oh, to see you?"

"No Nan! To see you! You've just been in hospital!" 

Are you there deity? It's me, Emma.

Good evening deity, I trust you are well. I hope you enjoyed the fascination we all had with your fog, and the great photo galleries it created. 

Do you like the winter? Do you even have a favourite season? I'm not a fan of winter, but there is one jumper I am looking forward to wearing. It belonged to my granddad. 

You would already know that, if you existed, because you know everything. Deities are all-seeing, all-knowing. Some of them even preside over a heaven, in which case you might be hanging out with my granddad. Not that my granddad ever "hung out", but you know what I mean right? Of course you do. 

It's been a year. I can't say it's been an easy year, and I know I've been so busy at times to stop and reflect. I know I'm lucky to have the family I do, and the friends that I have. But I still miss my granddad. We all do. And one of the hardest things I've had to get my head around as an Agnostic verging on Atheist, is the utter absolution of death. That's it. You die, you're dead. No heaven, no multiple brides, not even a purgatory. My granddad is just gone. 

So it's on days like this when I want to believe in a deity. I appeal to you, if you exist, to let my granddad know that we miss him. That we loved him very much, and he will forever be in our hearts. 

Also please tell him that setting up a Facebook account was the best thing he could have done to encourage my nana's stalking tendencies. Thanks a bunch, Terence! 

Can we do it all again?

What do you do when it's all done?
What do you do when there nothing left to organise, or plan?
When they have been commemorated or celebrated and cremated and then...
What's left?
When you're not building up to the funeral of someone you love, and worrying about whether it's going to be done right. 

Then what do you focus on?

Suddenly you're back in the real world: the world you rediscover the day after they die, because the day they die the world stops.
But the world keeps on spinning as if they never left and the next day you find it's business as usual, except you have an event to organise. 

And when the date comes and goes, and the event is over, then the really real world comes back. 
And it's actually business as usual.
And suddenly business as usual seems so fruitless and pointless and you're inconsolable and inconsolably angry for no reason and you're feel like you're stuck in a dead end which wasn't signposted as a dead end so surely there's another way out.
But you can't find it. You don't find it. Things are "normal" but they're not.

You're so irreparably changed that suddenly you can't stop thinking about the next one. 
Wondering who will be next and how that event will go and how they would want it.
And whether you'll do them proud.
As if they could ever be proud of you for accurately planning and executing their funeral.
As if your choice of flowers, or words, or music, affects how they feel about you.
It doesn't: it's all for you, about them. 
It's not about doing them "justice". 
It's not about saying goodbye to them in the appropriate manner.
It's about doing whatever you need to do, to say what needs to be said or what you want to say.
It's about realising that life is short, even if it's 80 years long, and if you don't say it now it may remain forever unsaid or unheard. 
And if it is too late for them to hear, saying it anyway, to people that will hear and will listen and will understand. 
Because then you've heard it said aloud. And you know it to be true. 
And since anyone so loved is gone but not forgotten, you have still said it to them, and they have still heard. 
They hear you because they still live in you. When you breathe, laugh, smile. Cry. 

They are a part of you in a way you cannot alter.
They always will be.

I love you, tomorrow/You're only a day away

I feel I want to fold in on myself. 
Fold myself up until I'm small enough to slip into someone's pocket.
And stay there, warm and safe. In the dark, with only a crumpled receipt and some spare change to keep me company.

Unless, of course, the pocket has a hole in it.
If that is the case, I might think I'm safe and warm in the pocket, and once my eyes have adjusted to the gloom, I'll go exploring.

And that's when the floor will give way and I'll fall through it, and be trapped in the lining with no way out.
Unlike the pocket, the lining isn't comforting.
The lining is that feeling when you're in a maze, and you're actually trying to find the middle, or the way out, without cheating, but you can't and you're trapped and you start to wonder if this is where you'll be for the rest of your life. If you'll ever see the outside world again.

Like the hole that you might disappear into, when someone you love dies it leaves a hole in your life.
A rip in the fabric of space, and time.
A rip in the fabric of you.
Suddenly, you are the pocket, and the hole is where your granddad used to be. And whenever you go anywhere near it you get the sense of emptiness, of a never-ending gloom. 

Tomorrow is going to be awful. There are no two ways about it. I am going to be crying or on the verge of tears from the moment I wake up. There'll be moments throughout the day when I think that maybe the tears have dried up, and then they'll spring afresh in the wells of my eyes and come streaming down my face and it'll be all I can manage not to let out a heaving sob.

I want to fold in on myself. I want to save the memories of my granddad that are inside me and if I fold myself up and shut down from the outside world they will be safe. And warm. Protected inside. 

I don't want to lose them like we've lost him. Because now the memories I keep of him only live in my head. They are gone from his. 
He is gone.

When he was in the care home, he said, "I'm ready to die tomorrow, but tomorrow never comes."

Tomorrow came for him, and now tomorrow comes for us.

Memories Follow You Around

I thought I saw my granddad driving through Carshalton High Street today.

Of course it wasn't, and the random man was probably mildly disturbed by the woman staring at him.

This is not my first great loss, but it feels like it. Both my dad's parents have passed away, but although I liked them and had a decent relationship with them, it was nothing like the one I had with my granddad. That's why it feels like my first great loss.

But whilst I had a really big cry after losing each of my other grandparents, since my granddad passed away I haven't had a really big cry. Perhaps because I had a really big cry before. And perhaps because I cried a lot when we were there for his final moments.

I cry little and often.

I have been struggling to get to sleep since he passed away, and there are myriad of reasons for this. My mind races when I try to lie down and go to sleep because I know that if I'm thinking, I'm living.
Because there's so much I want to do with my life, and lying there, going to sleep again, I worry that I won't be able to do it all.
And as my breathing quietens and slows, it reminds me of the way his noisy, chesty breathing started slowing, and quietened. Until it stopped.


He could be harsh, and strict. He hated people crying, at least when I was younger. He was intolerant of foreigners and same sex relationships.
But he was always the granddad with the silly jokes, that my sister and I rode like a horsey when we were kids. No wonder he had two knee operations!
And boy did he make a mean Chinese. Boxing Day was never the same again after he stopped doing it.


It doesn't feel real. It doesn't feel like he's gone for good, just that he's not here. We're planning a funeral for a man that I saw die and yet he doesn't feel dead to me.

The old cliche of "he'll always be alive in our hearts" is true.
I can only be grateful that I was with him at the end, that he knew he was loved, and I will be eternally grateful for having had him as my granddad.

All Men Must Die

He is going to die soon. It could be this week, or next week, or the week after. But it is going to be soon.

It is going to be before any of us are ready, because no one can ever be ready for this.

I have never seen cancer up close before. I hope I never have to again. Sometimes I feel like I shouldn't share this, that this is something to be kept private, these last moments with my grandfather. But I find it hard to talk to individuals about this. It's easier sending it into the ether. 

All men must die. But if this is dying, it is ugly and messy and distressing. 

It is not how I imagined death: a calm cold, quiet that gradually falls upon you. This is an upsetting fading. This is my grandad only being my grandad for an hour a day, and being a vacant, elderly man who mumbles and mutters and groans for the rest of it. A man who asks for a piece of the mountain in the picture on the wall, and accepts a bottle top the same colour as the mountain. 

Today I told him we love him. And he said he loves us too. 

But even men who love and are loved must die. 

Not Yet

I never knew watching someone die would be so tiring. 

Being on alert for their mutterings and mumblings, to respond to their half-crazed conversation. 

My grandad used to read my blog. Once I think he even sent the link to The Telegraph because he thought it should be published. 

I have many and more memories of my grandad. He was a lot of fun when we were kids, but he was strict too. He couldn't abide crying. But he mellowed with age, and in the past two months I've seen him cry more than I ever did the previous 25 years of my life. I'd cry too, if I was given a death sentence.

But this is my grandad now, in his final days. This elderly man who talks to people only he can see about things that aren't happening. This man who looks at me, but doesn't see me. Who tells me I'm lying about who I am, but calls out for me when he's distressed. 

This man who tries to call people on his catheter, and needs new boots to see the captain tomorrow. This man who has been husband, father, grandfather, brother, uncle. This man so well loved, will be so sorely missed. 

But not yet.

#WorldMentalHealthDay

Last night, shortly after I'd settled into my bed, I heard what at first I thought was my sister arguing with my dad. Question Time was on, and she was still downstairs cooking something for her dinner today, so I figured they were just having a heated debate about something. Then after a moment or two I realised I recognised those noises - they were the noises of utter desperate crying.

I literally leapt out of bed and ran downstairs, to find my sister crying into the shoulder of my dad as he hugged her.

I stood there until they parted and asked "What the hell happened?" I was so bemused - I'd been upstairs about 10 minutes and when I'd left them all was well.

And then my sister said, "Dad asked me why I was cooking."

Now, that doesn't sound like a reason to burst into tears. But my sister had started cooking a bit before, and told our dad she was cooking something to eat for her dinner tomorrow [Friday] night. 

Dad: Oh right. Where are you going tomorrow night?
Claire: I'm going to a gig at Wembley. I'm seeing a comedian, Miranda Hart.
Dad: Ok.

So how, approximately 15 minutes later, had my dad forgotten this entire conversation and asked my sister again why she was cooking? He is not elderly and suffering with memory problems. 

The simple fact is that he is an alcoholic and he was drunk.

My sister leaves early in the morning for work, before my dad, so she often doesn't see him until she gets home. And by the time she gets home he's already had a glass of wine or two. At weekends he gets up at 10am and starts drinking about 1pm, unless he's driving somewhere. Added to which my sister works alternate Saturday mornings. This means that on average, my sister sees my father sober for about 9 hours a week, give or take. 

There are 168 hours in the week. So that (if my maths is right) means my sister sees my father sober for less than 6% of the week. 

He repeatedly forgets conversations we've had, because we only really get to have conversations with him in the evenings, by which point he's almost near the end of the first bottle of wine, or starting on the second. He frequently falls asleep at his desk downstairs, or even at the dinner table. I've found him asleep downstairs at 1am. He has even fallen asleep whilst eating his dinner.

Our father is an alcoholic. Addiction is a mental health issue. And today is World Mental Health Day.

My family has had a range of mental health issues on the years, the most significant being depression. My sister has been recently treated for it, my mother has had it, her mother has had it, my uncle has had it, and my grandad currently has it. So literally everyone on the maternal side of the family. I was treated for "behavioural" problems that was probably depression when I was younger. This had made us - especially my sister - hyperaware of the strength of our mental health, and protecting it. And right now my sister's mental health is not being protected. She is not in any regular counselling and whilst she is not being treated for depression now, that is not to say she cannot be treated for it again. Living in a house with an alcoholic father who has pointedly said he doesn't care if his drinking kills him is not the easiest, most loving environment for my sister. It's not the one she needs as she delves into the working world, having got through her depression and graduated from one of the toughest universities in the world.

It's not that we don't love our dad, and we don't doubt that he loves us. He just needs alcohol more than he sees the need to grow old and see us through life as far as he possibly can. 

And we said as much last night. He did his sad puppy dog face when he knows he's in trouble, and he went and sat down in his computer chair, hanging his head. It was hard to know what to say. So we just told him the truth: that it is hurtful and painful for us to accept that he doesn't care about us enough to care about living. "What if we have kids", Claire asked. "Will you be around to see your grandchildren? Don't you want to see how we turn out?"

Both my sister and I are worried about our drinking habits. Having seen what wine has done to both our parents (our mother's drinking habits have significantly improved since she got a new boyfriend, because having her two daughters intervene and cry about how much she drank was not enough to make her stop or even cut down, but a disapproving new boyfriend was), we are worried about becoming dependent on alcohol. On "needing" alcohol. It is an issue we will probably both be concerned about for the rest of our lives.

That is why treating mental health is so vitally important for everybody. It has been the "underdog" of the NHS - never treated the same as physical health. But my father's addiction to wine is going to have physical implications - he is overweight, and he is doing daily damage to his organs. Can you see how connected everything can be?

And there's the rub. Our mental health adversely affected by the mental health of our father. Aspects of our futures wrapped up in actions of an alcoholic. 

For my father, his future lies at the bottom of his second bottle of wine. At the 4th, the 8th, the 13th. 
7 days a week, my dad drinks about 2 bottles a night. 

If a vampire were ever to attack, I'd be surprised if blood flowed from my father's veins. Instead the vampire would probably just get drunk.
Then they'd have something in common with my father.


Update 12/10/14: On Friday night (10th) I was leaving to go out. My dad had arrived home from work and when I said "I'm off to Sutton." he asked "OK, are you meeting Claire there?" I started to say "No Claire is in London" and halfway through I realised this question meant he didn't remember her telling him where she was going. And I had a bad feeling he didn't remember their argument either.
I was right. Saturday morning, when we all got up, Dad admitted that he couldn't remember Claire telling him where she was going...and he couldn't remember their argument. He looked sheepish (as he had done Thursday night), but at least this time he was sober when we told him the reasons why we had argued - his drinking, how it affects us, and how horrible it makes us feel.
He's on glass of wine number "no idea" (his words). I estimate 2nd or 3rd. It's 7pm.

It's Been A While

I haven't written in this blog for a while. A whole month in fact. Sometimes, a week won't go by that I don't have some thought I want to put down in here. But my Head Aches blog/vlog has been taking priority.

I want to explore that concept of priority. It's hard to know what are your priorities, and the difference between what they are and what they should be. Most of us feel strong obligations to one thing or another: work, family, money. My strongest obligation at the moment is family, particularly my grandparents. With my grandad now in a care home, I need to be around to go and see him, and also to take my nan to see him on occasion. My sister only gets the opportunity to see them at the weekends, and if I was working full-time I would be in the same position. 

I'm struggling with not working. The thing is I'm not not working, I'm just not in my usual environment of a full-time 9-7/8/9 job in TV. I'm having to work off my own initiative to work for my friend on her business, on a film project. I have to sit myself down and say "Right, today I need to get this done" or "Ok this afternoon I'm going to get that finished."  It's not easy, and the house can be full of distractions like the washing up or the hoovering. Often I go and sit in my local library to be free of distraction. But I am going to have to learn how to work from home.

Much as I miss working in TV, and I miss the money, I want to be volunteering like I do each week - something that working in TV would not allow. I want to be around for my grandparents, because we don't know how long my grandad has got, and my nana is now alone in her house. For a woman that does not want to make her own family, I am curiously devoted to the one I already have.

When I got home in May, I felt like I'd made the wrong decision coming home, and my plan was to get back to work and save up enough to get away and out of the country again to somewhere else by the New Year. And then my mother told me my grandad had cancer. Lots of cancer. Cancer that will kill him (though won't technically won't kill him). Terminal, aggressive, untreatable cancer. They started chemo in order to give him more time. But only a few sessions in they said it was too aggressive and chemo would make no difference.
There was no more bargaining for time. This is it. 

And so he sits in his care home, in pain, uncomfortable, but being given more care and attention than we could if he were at home. He says he's ready to die tomorrow, but tomorrow doesn't come.

But I'm not ready.

Having a family is so selfish. You create people who are bound to you by blood and more often than not care about you like no other in the world. And sometimes your kids die before you and that's tragic, no parent should have to bury their child. But why should the children have to bury the parents? Is it part of growing up? An inevitable part of the human experience - the loss of a loved one. An experience that cannot be ignored, that cannot be got around. Unless you are an orphan hermit perhaps.

And I can easily empathise with people, fictional or otherwise. Watching the beginning of season 7 of Castle I was crying even though I knew what was going to happen. But the heartbreak of Beckett's face - it cut through to my own heart.

I'm not ready for this loss. How can I possibly become ready?