Still Here

To Live Fearlessly in Hope

One day you will tell your story about how you overcame what you went through and it’ll be someone else’s survival guide.

- Brene Brown

The Welsh motto on my cap reads:

Araf deg mae mynd ymhell

Benthyg dros amser byr yw popeth

A geir yn y byd hwn.

Which translates as:

‘Go slowly and go far,

Everything you have in this world is just borrowed for a short time.’

It’s two different mottos which I put together. It makes sense to me. Taking one’s time to go far is the sense of transcendence that comes with living under the aspect of eternity.

Introduction

This December (2021) is something of an anniversary for me – it is five years exactly since I suffered a massive and near fatal heart attack; I have a chronic heart condition as something to remember the event by. Although I wasn’t quite aware of it at the time, I made it through by the skin of my teeth. I finally made it to the Liverpool Heart and Chest Hospital – after days of stalling, in the belief that I had a frozen shoulder and that the searing, agonising pain would pass (!). I remember medical staff, family, and friends all being most worried as to my health. I think I was the least worried of all. I felt I was in safe hands and that whatever could be done would be done. At least I was no longer in pain; and people were concerned. I distinctly remember keeling over a few days into intensive care, waking up with a number of nurses with awfully worried expressions on their faces around me. My first reaction was still to joke: ‘you all look very worried.’ It may have been gallows humour on my part, the witticisms of the condemned man. I knew I was in trouble. I heard one nurse in the background describing what had happened to the doctor who had just appeared on the scene, no response from me with my eyes rolling at the back of my head. I was then informed as to what had just happened to me. That was yet another close escape, closer than I realized at the time. But I survived to joke another day. In the next few days I was told that heart surgery was ‘too risky’ to be undertaken, and that the best way to address the problem was by a combination of medication, diet, and exercise. And a drastic reduction in levels of stress! Which was more easily said than done, given that no-one knew at the time the extent to which the normal affairs of everyday life cause me no end of difficulty (that’s before we even come to the inanities and insanities of people absorbed in a world gone maaad!) The medics and the medication can only do so much; the rest is in my hands. I found that people and relations to people is much the hardest part to handle. There is much that I can do, but much that is out of my hands. I was excellent on diet and exercise. I cut the bad foods down and even out, and bought weights and an exercise bike, hitting 15km in 30 minutes each day. But people! Jesus wept. People are the bringers of stress. People don’t listen, people don’t learn, people never are as they ought to be. I explain what I need, what I am comfortable with, and what upsets and irritates me. People nod and agree, express sympathy and feign understanding – and then carrying doing what they always do regardless. I have certain needs and need to be careful to secure them, but people insist on imposing their own interests, demands, and timetables. People would ring me constantly, even though I had told them I don’t use telephones and have to unplug my computer to take a call. Then they don’t lift the phone when I call back! They are always busy, asking if it is OK for them to call later. Then they don’t call! I need people who say what they mean and mean what they say: but people don’t. It is the same with interference when I am working and writing. I was working on a substantial piece of writing with another person acting as editor. The problem is that said person insisted on editing before I had even written the text to be edited! I say clearly that I am writing and will report back when finished, only to receive constant messages asking for an update. I rush the work out to bring the messaging to an end, only to have the flaws in the unfinished, unpolished writing identified. I know!! What do you think I was working on?! People don’t understand that I find such a thing stressful and so continue to message. And the result of that was that I ended up being rushed to hospital by ambulance again just before Christmas 2018. I discussed the problems with stress with the doctor I saw in hospital. She asked me if I had been diagnosed to this effect. I hadn’t. But I knew that constant stress through being at cross purposes with others causes me an anxiety that is chronic and that it was this causing my physical problems. Frankly, having always been a walker (I have never driven) and having done 100-500 press-ups a day since being a teenager, I was and remain pretty fit. So where on Earth were these physical problems coming from? I underwent a series of tests in 2019 and passed them with flying colours. I was on the treadmill for the physical tolerance test for hours (OK, fifteen minutes at accelerating speeds, but extremes magnify the truth). I know all about stress and managing stress. I know the truth, but others don’t. I can tell people about my health needs, but far too many don’t listen, don’t understand, don’t learn, and therefore don’t change their behaviours. How many chances are you expected to give people before pulling clear? I have been far too permissive in the past. Giving people too many chances sent me back to hospital in 2018, and then again in 2020. If loneliness and isolation are killers, then so too are people. There’s the paradox for people like me.

I should have learned the first time, December 2016. My uncle visited me in hospital. Sat by my bed he asked/stated: ‘are you going to listen now?’ This heart attack had been coming. In truth, looking back, I am 99.9% certain that I had had a heart attack shortly before Christmas 2007. A family friend had witnessed me shuffling slowly home, barely able to breath. It was the same experience, only much worse, I would have in 2016. I distinctly remember lying in bed thinking to put on my best green shirt, so that at least I would look good when discovered. I was taking short shallow breaths at best, my chest seized up in pain, suffering attacks that would have me raising my body up. I remember thinking that the next one will finish me off. Bizarrely, it never occurred to me that this was a heart attack. Even more bizarrely, I survived. That was 2007. I remember the events leading up to it. My mother had died the previous year and I had split up from my partner. She had been talking weddings and I had been stalling for time. All this loss was playing on my mind and I was dreaming of possibilities of turning the clock back, rewriting the past to deliver the happy ending that was never remotely on the cards. Absence and distance allow you to torture yourself with worlds that never were and never could be. The attack I suffered put an end once and for all to delusions of ever revisiting the past. You can’t live in the past, only die there. People behaved no differently in the past than they do in the present you seek to escape from. I was happy to see another Christmas. I got away with it. But I had learned no lesson. That was 2007. I carried on with my stress filled life.

It was exactly the same December 2016.

Given the extent to which I have approached the world in my writing voice, it should come as no surprise that I described the process in which I was having a heart attack in words. Instead of approaching people who were medically qualified and fully capable of understanding the problem and taking appropriate actions to remedy it, I was exchanging messages with a friend on Facebook. Bizarrely, rather than mention the excruciating pain I had been suffering for two or three days, I spent twenty minutes or so talking about the photographs I had been scanning. Seeing as I could neither sleep nor rest given that I suffering from constant pain, I had the genius idea that scanning photographs in the most awkward of positions – the scanner on the bed and me propped up on the floor – might bring some respite. That makes no kind of sense to normal folk, of course, but is quite typical of how my thought processes work. My life is characterised by a general stupidity interspersed with enough occasional flashes of genius to keep me going and people guessing. Very often, the unorthodox works well for me. It’s all I can do in any case.

Heart Attack December 2016

The words I wrote as I suffered a heart attack have been recorded for posterity. They were very nearly the last words I ever wrote. I present these words below, removing the baffled comments of my friend. After an eternity commenting on the scanned photos I was sending one by one, I suddenly decided to express some concern as to the rather parlous state of my health. I quote:

Peter Critchley Tuesday, December 20, 2016 at 12:49pm

“I don't want to sound dramatic but I'm in agonising pain at the moment. My left shoulder has got cold in it. I think I overdid the Mersey Ferry - it's a cold wind up there. I'm getting horrid chest pains and feeling sick and faint. Not slept all night. Feeling cold and clammy.”

[A few days earlier I had been on the Mersey Ferry in the early evening. It was freezing up on top and everyone with a modicum of intelligence – which was everyone, in truth – fled downstairs in search of warmth. I remained alone on top, the last of the tough guys, drinking in the sights. It was a great view. It was not a particularly wise thing to do, but most enjoyable. I like Liverpool.]

Peter Critchley Tuesday, December 20, 2016 at 12:51pm

“I'm twisting around in pain

can't lie down

pain in shoulder

sweating yet cold”

[I now know from cardiac rehab to ring for an ambulance immediately whenever suffering these conditions in the slightest. I have learned to identify the signs and act on them. This was a full-on attack. To be blunt, you really don’t need rehab and education to tell you that pains in chest and shoulder causing you to writhe in agony need to be dealt with and quickly.]

Peter Critchley Tuesday, December 20, 2016 at 12:54pm

“I needto li down”

[‘I need to lie down.’ I have kept the words as written as a permanent record. My spelling and grammar, not to mention volume of words, are actually hugely impressive given that I was suffering a massive heart attack at the time of writing.]

Peter Critchley Tuesday, December 20, 2016 at 2:29pm

“still in agony cancelled deliveries of paper”

[Remarkably, rather than call for an ambulance and seek medical help, my main thoughts were for my job. I had finally accepted that I wouldn’t be capable of doing my rounds, so emailed my company to cancel my deliveries and arrange to take time off work. That’s dedication, thinking of doing my job despite agonizing pain laying me low.]

Peter Critchley Tuesday, December 20, 2016 at 8:13pm

“The heating has been off all day. My dad went out. Too painful to even move down to sort it out. Like a sword through my left shoulder. I have reappropriated my nice duvet. Of course, in looking for any kind of a position to rest, I kicked out the plug for my computer and so ran the battery flat. When things go wrong ... still in horrid pain, this is not nice.”

[My dad would switch the heating off whenever he went out. We lived a frugal existence, keeping costs at a minimum, winning little victories and enjoying our little pleasures along the way. I was unable even to move downstairs to switch it back on, even though I was freezing. I simply put extra blankets on my bed. Not that I could rest or sleep. I was actually on my bedroom floor in search of some kind of comfortable position.

Peter Critchley Tuesday, December 20, 2016 at 8:15pm

‘Very curt "the papers have been stopped" from the company - nothing else. They couldn't care less.’

[All that concern I was showing for the company I worked for, and they expressed zero concern for me in return. Years later I received notification of ‘essential worker’ status from the company, receiving all manner of thanks and praise, but no pay rise. And a year later I was made redundant.]

Peter Critchley Tuesday, December 20, 2016 at 8:26pm

“I think the cold got in on the ferry, agonizing. Not like the frozen shoulders

feel really cold, can't settle in any position

not flu, head and lungs fine.”

[My concerned friend had suggested flu. I knew it wasn’t that. I had had frozen shoulders in the past. And, deep down, I also knew it wasn’t that. This was very different, another scale of pain entirely. The sheer intensity of the pain should have told me that this was deadly serious. But frozen shoulders remained the only thing I could think of.]

Peter Critchley Tuesday, December 20, 2016 at 8:31pm

“just feels in the bones, not sure”

[This pain cut deep. I felt as though I was in the grip of something, something that was squeezing the life out of me. It was like my body had been seized and was now in a vice-like grip of some force. I was not in control of my own body.]

Peter Critchley Tuesday, December 20, 2016 at 8:32pm

“not really tired, despite no sleep it's just that horrid searing pain from the left shoulder, hits me across the chest.”

[It’s impossible to spell out the symptoms of a heart attack in clearer terms than that.]

Peter Critchley Tuesday, December 20, 2016 at 8:33pm

“I should have put the central heating on, but too painful to move

I just put my head down wherever I could wish I could just lie and rest but can't”

[That’s more than enough to have warranted the calling of an ambulance, and quickly! Frankly, every minute of delay in this situation is inviting death. I have given a perfect description of a heart attack. Only the tough/stupid can be so self-consciously aware of pain and suffering and still take no action. I don’t know whether to salute my good self or admonish the idiot within.]

I was told it may be a virus, take vitamin C and get some sleep. I knew this didn’t come remotely close to identifying the problem.

Peter Critchley Tuesday, December 20, 2016 at 8:34pm

“feels nothing life [sic! It felt like death!] a virus sleep is somewhat impossible”

[Diabetes and mechanical shoulder pain were then mentioned, in reference to my known health conditions. I knew that it wasn’t any of these things. Clearly, I should have acted in light of that knowledge instead of waiting for things to blow over. I am, of course, a world-class ostrich.]

Peter Critchley Tuesday, December 20, 2016 at 8:36pm

“indecent hours! I call them ungodly. never had pain like this not feeling thirsty, not feeling hungry, have been tired but not this time, always have blurry vision, no weight loss, some tingling/numbness I have rather been overdoing it. I can only work at a certain pace now, easily tired

this house is way too much for me. too big a job. so break it into little chunks, that's all I can do”

[These are just some of the problems causing stress to turn into chronic anxiety. Anxiety drains the energy. There is good stress and bad stress. Good stress is the way that events inform the mind and kick-start the body into appropriate action in response to external stimuli. Having taken appropriate action, the body then calms. I never calm down. I live a life of high intensity. Good and normal stress for me soon develop into an anxiety that never goes away. That’s chronic anxiety. I have no boundaries, no brakes, and no filters, which means that a mass of information comes at me from all sides at once and explodes exponentially. It is like flicking a switch entering a building and having every light in every room coming on at once, leaving you having to choose which room to enter. And after years of struggling with this, taking it to my doctor, we have finally located the source – I was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Condition in September 2021. As much as I need to monitor my behaviour and act in light of that awareness, so people need to adjust their behaviour accordingly. But why should they? It's not their problem. Relations to others, though, cause me life-impairing and even life-threatening stress and I need to be careful.]

Peter Critchley Tuesday, December 20, 2016 at 8:37pm

“oh the fires all firing now, been back since about 4

still feel cold mind”

[This is me announcing my dad’s eventual return from the great outdoors, his turning the heating back on now that his Christmas hunting expedition was over. It didn’t make much of a difference. I still felt cold – and feverish – and was still in pain. Good grief, man! How many warnings do you need? Call an ambulance! Call a cab! Call the midwife! Call anyone! ]

Peter Critchley Tuesday, December 20, 2016 at 8:39pm

“gee, I was really getting nostalgic for my old pillows thrown out last year, they had a way about them, let my head settle into them. couldn't rest my head anywhere”

[My dad had thrown out my favourite old sponge pillow last year. I had had it years and it was somewhat falling apart. But it was comfortable. I like the familiar and resist the new. Little works for me, so I tend to cherish and treasure that which does. And as I was to find out when moving house in 2021 that my dad hadn’t thrown the pillow out at all, merely put it away.]

Peter Critchley Tuesday, December 20, 2016 at 8:41pm

“Here you go, one for later, one to keep Ralph Vaughan Williams, The Lark Ascending

[I like this piece of music. It had been on Classic FM when my friend had recently visited, so I thought it would be of interest. As for the classical snobs who look down their noses at Classic FM and feel the need to condemn others’ musical tastes, all I can say to them is count your blessings that that is all you have to worry about - there are far more important issues in life. Suffering serious chronic illness grace of a lifetime of hard work, my dad liked to relax listening to Classic FM. Your taste or otherwise is of zero importance, your lack of empathy and humanity says it all.]

Peter Critchley Tuesday, December 20, 2016 at 8:42pm

“should do some ransacking and pirating

looks nice that bed in the ice box

looks snug, feels ... not quite an igloo

like a box

it'll be more roomy with the clear out”

[I’m referring to the back bedroom which, frankly, is freezing cold and without heating. But it was beginning to look like my last hope for some rest. That room also contained boxes and bagfulls of old family treasure, the kind of stuff that other people would call rubbish and throw out, but which we retained to give the archaeologists of the future something to do. You could have got an entire series of Time Team out of our house. It’s my mordant humour at work. Frankly, that room could have served as a morgue.]

Peter Critchley Tuesday, December 20, 2016 at 8:45pm

“that wood panelling outside my door is for the new sink, I have now been informed. I thought they were skirting boards. another little job to come

it can wait”

[It says a lot about my oddity that, despite being at death’s door, I was unravelling the mystery of the wood panelling that was ranged across the entrance to my bedroom door. It had been there for that long that I had forgotten what it was for. It was a job in the house we were intending to do one day, if we ever got round to it. We never did and I forgot what the job was in any case. The problem with another day is that that day never does come. The road to Hell is paved with good inventions.]

Peter Critchley Tuesday, December 20, 2016 at 8:48pm

“anyway, I'll see if I can get my head down.”

[And with those words that was the end of my communication with the outside world for that day. I tried to see out the day by getting as much rest as I could. Given the scale of the attacks I suffered in the night, these could have been my last words.]

Wednesday, December 21, 2016 at 7:56am

I received this message early the next morning:

‘Hi. Are you feeling better this morning?’

[The idea that I would be feeling better indicates the extent to which neither of us had the first idea of the seriousness of the situation. Frankly, I did know, my body was screaming the message at me loudly and clearly.]

Peter Critchley Wednesday, December 21, 2016 at 12:08pm

“the stabbing pain in the shoulder has gone, to be replaced by tight chest pains making it hard to breath. I still can't really lie down to rest. although I did sleep a little last night, to be woken by the chest pains, no rest since. got to go out after, too.”

[Un-bel-iev-able. That’s a heart attack, or a series of heart attacks. Plain and simple. It’s like describing a great big grey thing with tusks and a trunk, just not calling it an elephant. What little sleep and rest I got in the night was broken up by what I refer to as ‘chest pains.’ Good grief. To be fair to my friend, that’s a fairly neutral description. I remember those ‘chest pains’ very well – they were quick and forceful attacks on top of severe and constant pain. I hadn’t described what had happened exactly. Even so, the difficulty in breathing, resting, the description of being woken by chest pains - these are not even euphemisms – these are heart attacks. Incredibly, my first thoughts were for the trips out to buy stamps, send final Christmas cards, and pick up medications at the chemist. And the fact is that, somehow, I made those trips, told no-one I met on the way, and just about survived. Let’s be honest, some people just don’t have the sense they were born with.]

Peter Critchley Wednesday, December 21, 2016 at 12:19pm

“so how was my little woodland paradise?”

These were my last words, accompanying a photograph I had taken from the visit to Anglesey and Snowdonia the previous week.

As last words go, I think these sum me up very nicely. Wales has always been my dreamworld. I nearly ended my days with visions of Wales as my dream of Heaven. And now, five years on, having survived this drama, and two more heart scares that were to come in 2018 and 2020, I now live in my little Welsh home in paradise, surrounded by headlands, seas, seals, and goats. I don’t quite see it as an ending – I have a lot of living to do – but it’s very happy. I think I’ve earned that happiness the hard way. Hence the motivation for writing this credo.

I had spent days in agonising pain, unable to sleep and rest, feeling cold and feverish. Instead of seeking help, I waited for the pain to pass. I didn’t even rest. Ludicrously, I went out to the Post Office to buy stamps and post Christmas cards – one to the family friend who had spotted me struggling in the street in 2007. I then slowly made my way down to the chemist for my medications. Incredibly, I didn’t even think of telling anyone at the chemist of the intense pain I was suffering. I distinctly remember saying to my dad when I finally returned that I should call a doctor: ‘I’m dying here.’ He insisted that I make the call. My genius idea was to ring my medical centre to see if anyone would see me. The receptionist, luckily, sensed that the situation could be somewhat serious and asked me to take a taxi down, whilst she would see if a doctor was available. I got the taxi, giving the taxi driver a great tip (I couldn’t be bothered counting money), telling him as I got out ‘I may live now.’ It was an attempt at humour, but I was so obviously in trouble that the taxi driver raised only a nervous smile in response. I was incredibly lucky in that I didn’t have to wait long and a doctor was available. Even when I have a doctor’s appointment at this place I can be waiting forty minutes. I was cool and calm, relieved in thinking that at last the issue was about to be addressed. I was so cool and calm, in fact, that it took the doctor a couple of minutes to realize the gravity of the situation. She questioned and I answered without any hint of panic or stress. I had been making her smile with my usual jocularity, only for the expression on her face to suddenly change: she cautioned me most solemnly that she believed that I was having a heart attack. I can’t quite remember my exact response, but it was my usual witticism, something along the lines of ‘oh, I’ve never done that before,’ ‘well, that’s something new.’ I was still cool. She administered some spray under my tongue to open the arteries, I started to feel dizzy, and she helped me lie down before I keeled over. The ambulance was called and I was taken away, sirens blaring, every bump in the road being hit at every opportunity. The paramedic joked about women drivers. I was even joking to the paramedics. One of their nephews was thinking of doing philosophy at university. If you are mad enough to contemplate doing philosophy in the first place, then you are mad enough to do it regardless of any cautions against doing it. But I issued the caution all the same. I mentioned my Director of Studies laughing at me when I asked him what you do with a PhD in philosophy. Because, of course, doing philosophy is an end in itself, with no need of any independent justification by way of money, work, respect, relevance, popularity. I loved being described as the Socrates of St Helens, until I remember what Athens did to him. I gave the paramedics my epitaph when it came to philosophy: ‘none the wiser.’

When I was first brought into A&E a doctor examined me and gave me a brief summary of the state of play. He told me that it was ‘probably too late,’ before dashing off to fight fires somewhere else, promising to return later. I distinctly remember those words ‘probably too late.’ I have reason to. I took those words to mean that I was being taken into hospital to die, with there being nothing that could be done other than ease the pain. As I lay there alone, I went over my life in quick outline. I thought that, in terms of the writing, I hadn’t done too badly at all. My work was quite good, in fact. There was no worry or anxiety on my part, no sadness, just peace, once I had done a quick reckoning of all that I had done. Maybe I had not had time to absorb the shock of what I had been told. It’ll soon be over, no time for long reflection. I hadn’t done too badly, I thought. I’d done quite a lot of good things along the way and not too many bad things. I’m probably guilty more of sins of omission than commission, always intending to get round to doing the things I know to be right. Like fixing up that wood panelling outside of my bedroom door, if I could remember what I was supposed to fix it into. The words ‘could do better’ were always written in my old school reports, and those words still applied. Always busy, always in a rush, I tend to put the things I need to do back for another day. But I was full of remorse and contrition, and some of it quite genuine, so felt I had done OK. But maybe I am somewhat biased in the matter. Then the doctor came back to elaborate on his first assessment. As he spoke, it started to dawn on me that I wasn’t going to die after all, so I asked for clarification. By ‘too late’ he meant that I had delayed so long in seeking help that there was a likelihood of permanent damage to the heart. This must have been one of the few times in history when news of permanent heart damage came as something of a relief. It seems that, not for the first time in life, I had misunderstood what someone had been saying. I thought I’d been told that I was a gonner and that there was no hope. ‘Dear me, no,’ said the doctor. He made it clear that I should have rung for an ambulance much sooner. With a pained expression on his face he asked me why I hadn’t rung, given that the pain must have been excruciating. I must have an incredibly high threshold for pain, he said. Or an immense fear of telephoning and seeking help from people I don’t know, I felt like adding. I’m tough. Tough. Stupid. But tough. ‘I’m the last of the tough guys,’ I boasted to my dad as I entered the house having carried not one but two carpets a mile back from town. That was just over week before I suffered the heart attack. I was doing miscellaneous other jobs around the house, working at a frantic pace. Tough indeed. But not very wise.

After a short wait in A&E, I was taken into intensive care. One of the staff had offered me his mobile phone to ring home. I had never used a mobile phone and didn’t know what to do. Rather than admit that, I declined the offer, saying that my medical centre had contacted my dad. It either didn’t or, more likely, my dad was so shocked that he blanked all the information out. He knew I was going to the doctor but for some reason he didn’t know where I was or why. I have never found out exactly what happened here. I should ask my brother, he may have an idea. All I know is that as a result of yet another of those misunderstandings and cross-purposes that have characterised my life I managed to be officially classed as a missing person for a day. I was in intensive care and no-one there knew quite who I was whilst family and friends didn’t know where I was. In fact, friends didn’t even know I was ill, missing, or anything, because no-one had told them anything. I was oblivious to all of this drama that was going on. The first I realized that there had been a panic and a crisis going as to my whereabouts was when one of the nurses came bursting into intensive care all smiling to tell me that my sister-in-law had made contact and that someone had claimed me at last! And then, just as quickly, she popped off, leaving me baffled. I hadn’t even known that I was missing. I was too busy being tested, prodded, and pricked on the hour every hour to be too concerned. I knew who I was and where I was and that I existed, and that was more than enough. To be honest, I’d never been in contact with so many people for a long time. I thought it all rather exciting. It may be a sign of how bad a state I was in that no-one thought to pester me too much with regard to contact details. I swear I had given them, so I can only surmise that my dad was in shock. It does indeed seem that my dad had gone into meltdown back home. It must be significant that it was my sister-in-law who finally tracked me down.

I can remember the days I spent in hospital very well. I was well looked after, with all kinds of people fussing around and making sure I was at peace. OK, if not at peace, then at least alive. I didn’t get too much peace, being prodded and probed and monitored. I have to say that whilst I started off being a good patient full of good humour – earning the praise of my nurses – I did end up being rather tetchy. This should not be surprising. I suffer from constant contact with people, I dislike the new, cling to the familiar, and suffer from noise stress and sensory overload. There were good times and bad times. I shall take my time in hospital on a daily basis, drawing whatever moral may be drawn as I go.

Wednesday 21st December 2016

I was taken into intensive care, and tested on the hour every hour. It was a long night. I had barely slept in days and now I was to be tested and pricked and prodded every hour without fail. Just as I was managing to get some rest, the nurse would get me up. In the end I just made a joke of it, it’s that time again. I know the nurse appreciated that, hating to disturb people and be a nuisance when only doing their job, ensuring that you are alive and well-ish. At some point, I’d say around midnight, a nurse came in to tell me that contact had finally been made with my family! At 5 or 6am, I remember being half-asleep and the nurse coming in to prod and prick me and deciding to leave me alone. Gee, I really needed the rest and some sleep at this point.

Thursday 22nd December 2016

Still in intensive care. It was pretty boring when I was alone, since there was no television, no computer, nothing for me to read. But first one and then another nurse stayed with me. And we talked. One nurse was from India. The conversation took a spiritual turn. She asked me if I was religious. She liked the things I was saying, they gelled with her understanding of life and its meaning. This nurse wrote me a nice note saying it was a ‘privilege’ and an ‘honour’ to have cared for me. So I think my general good humour and odd insight struck a chord. The other nurse talked to me about the state of the hospitals, telling me that I am better here than the Royal Liverpool. We spoke about the health system and the pressures on the staff. Such conversations were actually something new for me, so that was something. But the noise was now starting to get at me. I suffer from noise stress and go through life wearing earplugs. The slightest of sounds can echo in my head. So I was now starting to suffer. I had visitors this day, my dad, my brother and his wife and my niece. My dad was cheerful. He seemed pleased to be back in contact, seeing something and someone familiar and tangible. And my jolly mood made him all the jollier – all was well in the world after all. I can’t quite remember anything of the conversation, other than the difficulties in parking. They had brought me a book, Erasmus and Christendom, and some stuff, including a nice T shirt and earplugs.

Friday 23rd December 2016

I had survived! And so was being made ready to leave intensive care. It is possible that I have the date wrong on this. But either this morning or the previous morning, I was got out of bed to sit up in a chair as the nurse prepared some medication or other. I felt dizzy immediately but instead of saying something I sought to brass it out. As soon as the nurse demanded any kind of action from me I felt myself keeling over. She tried to help me back on the bed as she called help. The next thing I was aware of was waking on the bed with three worried faces looking down on me, one speaking to me in an attempt to communicate. In the background I heard another nurse informing the doctor as to what had happened, with the nurse directly in front of me telling me directly. I made light of it all. After all, I was still here and didn’t know what had happened. But it seems that it was a whole lot more serious than I knew, with me lost to consciousness, eyes rolling at the back of my head. A close escape, then. It is highly probable that this event happened on the Thursday rather than the Friday, making an extra day in intensive care entirely understandable.

This was also the day I attempted to wash myself. I have to be brutally honest and say that, suffering from excruciating pain for days, I hadn’t been too concerned to wash myself too carefully in the days leading to my admission to hospital. I was getting rather self-conscious at the close attention of so many females and so felt the need to make the effort to smell somewhat better than I probably did. The nurses brought me a bowl and soap and such like and pottered around me as I got on with the job in my own inimical style. I found the experience most unusual. I am more nervous of having my eccentricities observed than I am of my actual person. I like to wash without getting my hands wet, which has me employing some rather eccentric techniques. How that works out is a mystery to everyone but me. What the nurses made of it I have no idea. I guess they see all kinds of people doing all kinds of things in all kinds of ways. But here and there, in some of the remarks they were to volunteer in coming days, it became apparent that they thought me quite the most unusual sort of person. Most certainly a one-off.

At some point in the afternoon I was moved over to a room of my own. It seems like another day to me, but you have to remember how early the days start in hospital, and the way that this always seems to be even earlier for night owls like me. Sometime around 3 or 4pm my uncle visited. I was involved in one of my usual mishaps when he arrived. I had been having a look at the nice bathroom that came with the room and had got all knotted in all the wires and things that were still connecting me up. The alarms went off and the nurse came running. As my uncle stood and watched at the door, the nurse had me turning round and round in an attempt to become unknotted. It soon became apparent that I struggle to tell left from right, with the result that I ended up becoming even more knotted than I had been before. The nurse firmly planted her hand on my head to stop me turning and then turned me in the right direction. I do things differently. On the odd occasion I get something right, I am a genius. In the main, though, I am rather eccentric.

I had a good long chat with my uncle. He told me that I work far too hard, that I has written far too much over the years. And he asked/told me: ‘are you going to listen now?’ He knew as I knew that this attack had been a long time coming.

I think it must have been today that my dad, brother, sister-in-law and niece visited again. But Christmas Eve makes more sense. Except that my brother came alone one day, for a short while, noting that there was no-one in the building. I would suggest that that visit was on Christmas Eve. So maybe my uncle’s visit needs to be put back a day. I just remember the ward sister and the nurses enquiring as to why I was receiving no visitors.

A doctor came to check on me. He saw that I was still wired up. I said I felt OK enough to go home. He asked me why I had not been out of bed and moving around and I complained about being all connected up. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he said, without explaining whether he meant the wiring or my inactivity. I got the impression that he felt I was OK. I got it into my head that I was able to go home. I like the familiar, I like to be at home, and I enjoy Christmas. ‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas.’ I like Elvis’s version of that song. I remember my brother telling me that the song had once been banned, since the people singing it never go home. Which was a cheery thought.

I was also reacting badly to the noise being made by other patients, both the woman next door and the man over the way having shocking coughs. I hate the sound of coughing! Hearing a cough is like having a stake driven through the heart for me. I was now starting to feel the stress growing. The earplugs my sister-in-law had brought were not the most effective. I needed headphones. I had a television, which was a good thing, but to hear it I had to listen to the coughs and noises outside. But at least I had a room of my own, with its own bathroom and a television. And I was being waited on, served meals and drinks. That can’t be bad at all. But there was another reason I wanted to get home – the nurses were detecting that I was running a temperature. I knew that I feel stress in social situations and I suspected my blood pressure would run high simply by being in close contact with so many strange people. New situations stress me out. I was getting a feeling that with nurses on the lookout for high temperatures that I would never get out. I felt that I was in a catch-22 situation – my numbers wouldn’t reduce so long as I was in a situation that could have been designed to send my stress levels through the roof. My blood sugar level figures were not the best, but they were stabilising. I was relieved, thinking that I was back with a chance of going home for Christmas. Then a new nurse came on duty and expressed her concern at the same figures. And my temperature! Of course my figures were going through the roof! I was under an impossible strain. We had a heated exchange of words. Or, more accurately, I volunteered all the hot words whilst she listened coolly and silently. I wanted to go home. ‘Do you want to know what I think? she asked softly but firmly. Yes, I said. She told me that many times people have felt OK and have gone home early, only to be back in hospital in no time at all, all the good work undone. ‘You may well be right,’ I conceded. I later found out that I had been going toe-to-toe with the ward sister, not a fight worth having and not one I was likely to win. I had the feeling she had been called in over Christmas and I was the first patient she saw. Or maybe I was just being awkward. It has been known. It’s a form of self-preservation. I was reacting against her negative assessment of my state, so shortly after having received what I felt to be positive news.

Saturday 24th December 2016

I felt OK. I was informed I had a phone call at reception, so I wandered out to see what was occurring. The first person I saw was the ward sister, who greeted me with a broad smile. It was good to see that she held no grudges and was prepared to look beyond our rather heated debate the previous night. I was back to my amusing and entertaining best. It doesn’t take much.

Christmas Eve was a very long day indeed. In retrospect, it seems like three days in one. I was now getting most stressed out by the constant testing revealing a spike in temperature. I was now anticipating being tested. I had gotten it into my head that I was too warm. I like to be snug and wrap up well. I felt that was making me appear more feverish than I actually was. And so, genius as I am, I had taken to lying down on the bathroom floor in an attempt to cool down, whenever I knew that I was due to be tested. It didn’t make any difference, other than boosting my stress levels even further.

As the hours passed, I slowly reconciled myself to the fact that I wouldn’t be going home for Christmas. A young lady doctor appeared, nervously, at my door. I say doctor. She didn’t do any examining or testing, but she did have a white coat on. She rather nervously informed me that should the tests go well tomorrow I may be able to go home. She didn’t look or sound as though she believed a word of it, and I didn’t believe it either. I suspect that she was telling me this to put me at ease and stop me complaining and stressing out. I speculated that someone had to pretend to be a doctor and fob me off with a false prospectus and she drew the short straw. That white coat didn’t look right on her. I think she normally came round with the tea. As it happened, next day was Christmas Day and I saw no doctor and had no test at all.

I reconciled myself with Christmas television. I don’t watch TV much so I have no idea about the new shows and stars. So I watched BBC 4 and the nostalgia shows. Steptoe and Son was fantastic, the episode ‘Oh What a Beautiful Mourning’ and others. Then there was a Top of the Pops of past favourites. I greeted Slade’s ‘Merry Christmas Everyone’ like the old friend it is. I loved it back in ’73 and love it to this day. That was about 11-30, the time I would normally be at Midnight Mass. It was a mass of sorts.

But talking of past favourites, how sad it was to hear of the death of Rick Parfitt, also by heart attack. Those damned things are lethal. I was always a big fan of Status Quo. The world won’t be the same without the old Quo. I always loved ‘Living on an Island.’

My mood was not improved when I learned that the woman next door with the hacking cough had been allowed to go home to spend Christmas Day with her family. She sounded a whole lot worse than me. How could she be going home and not me? Good grief. But at least it promised a good and quiet Christmas Day!

Sunday 25th December 2016

Father Christmas didn’t come, and neither did any doctor. So I wasn’t going home. But a nurse did come and check me out early on. I was watching the news on television, with the death of George Michael being reported. ‘Poor George,’ I said, as the nurse checked me out. She briefly looked at the screen and then carried on checking if I was still alive. I guess she sees the same thing every day. But I was beginning to wonder who would be next.

I was never a great fan of George Michael, I must admit. I had been put off him by an unfortunate experience I had with a train carriage full of teenage girls in St Helens in 1985. I was on my way to Liverpool and these girls were in the seats behind me. There must have been half a dozen of them. It sounded like more. They were Wham fanatics and insisted on singing every damn Wham song they knew all the way to Liverpool, which was a lot of songs and an awful long twenty minutes or so for yours truly. Imagine cats being strangulated whilst having extremely hot and extremely blunt instruments applied to delicate places. It was worse than that, much worse. That said, George could sing. 'Last Christmas' is a great song, and this was poor George’s last Christmas. And he was absolutely outstanding at the Freddie Mercury Tribute concert in 1992. In my not so humble opinion as a Queen fanatic, I think George was the outstanding performance of the night, delivering an impeccable version of perhaps the greatest of all Queen songs, Somebody to Love. Fantastic!

I’m not sure who was in the worst position here, me or my dad. The previous year I had spent Christmas Day alone at home. I had been invited for Christmas dinner at my aunty and uncle’s, only to be informed late on the evening of Christmas Eve that there were 'not enough chairs.' I know. I didn’t enquire further. My dad was picked up in the morning when I was still in bed – I had been partying long into the night with Midnight Mass – and was brought back only at 10am. Now it was his turn to be alone on Christmas Day. He later told me how miserable the day had been. I, at least, had an eventful day. I decided to relax and enjoy myself. There didn’t seem to be any staff around, so I wasn’t under threat of being tested to the ends of my admittedly limited patience. It was quite the day. I received a menu for Christmas lunch, if you please. I’m pretty hopeless with menus, but it all looked rather grand. And I received a priest of my own, saying mass. I was the last person he was to visit, so I had the honour of receiving his mass sheet. Excellent. I was somewhat nervous for the reason that, however regularly I turn up for training at my little church, I do struggle with instructions and the order of service and tend to follow what the others are doing. But at least I had something of an excuse for my usual incomprehension and befuddlement. And then a brass band turned up at the end of the corridor playing Christmas songs! Gee, I’ve never heard a brass band for years. They used to come round every Christmas, a tradition that ended sometime in the mid ‘80s, which is a shame. That rather warmed the cockles of one's heart. And then a nice young lady paid a visit. She was all smiles, wishing me a Merry Christmas. I think she was visiting all the poor souls who were alone at Christmas and I was very happy to see her. And she left me with a present! How charming. It was soap and deodorant… Useful, I thought. Like socks. You need soap and deodorant once in a while. And then there was a rather ample Christmas dinner. With a trifle. Very amply sufficient.

In between the visits, confession, and entertainment I enjoyed the television. In the morning I watched Shrek, a favourite film which my mum loved. I knew the film well and enjoying hearing all those favourite lines, savouring the memories associated with them. I’ve always loved A Christmas Carol, especially the Muppet Christmas, the definitive version… I had never seen the musical version starring Albert Finney. I’m not too keen on musicals and this had never appealed. But it was on and I had nothing else to do so I gave it a go. What a great film! I love the film now. And I love the song ‘Thank You Very Much.’

It sounds a bit bizarre

But things the way they are

I feel as if another life's begun for me.

That’s pretty much how I felt then and how I still feel. I felt as though I had been given a new life, this time blessed with full conscious awareness of the preciousness of the gift.

Next up was the Wizard of Oz. Oh no! Not that again! I’ve seen it a million times. The way to approach films like this is the way to approach very familiar songs – instead of remembering them, see and hear them as if it’s the first time. The great films like the great songs retain a never-ending freshness. That said, I bathed in the warm memories of all the times we had all watched this film in the past, memories of those Christmases when everyone I loved and who loved me in turn were all still alive. It’s a great film. I can’t say I’ve ever been much of a Judy Garland fan, but when she sang Over the Rainbow she pretty much summed up everything I was feeling.

I enjoyed the Queen’s speech. God save the Queen! There’ll always be some kind of sanity and stability so long as the Queen is around. And then there was the other old stalwart of Christmas television, ‘Singing in the Rain.’ I have to confess I’ve never much liked this film. I did like it once when I was young, and then it just started to annoy me. But it was on and I was something of a captive audience. Frankly, I am miles behind the times and nothing current on any of the other channels remotely appealed. It’s an entertaining film, it has to be said. And ‘Singing in the Rain’ itself, both song and scene, is just so utterly joyous and life-affirming.

All in all, it was a very good Christmas Day. "God bless us, every one!"

That said, the ward sister did express some concern that I had no visitors and demanded to know ‘why?’ She was rather stern of manner as she voiced that single word question. I continued along the lines of witty evasion, saying that compared to last year my Christmas diary was full this year: I’d never seen so many people at Christmas! I had spent the previous Christmas Day all alone until late at night. I am used to being alone. It’s no great strain. Much the greater strain for me comes from the inconstancy of people. I’m just a terribly argumentative and cantankerous person, I told her, smiling incorrigibly. Frankly, I was thinking of my poor dad all alone at Christmas. At least I had a matron to amuse and entertain. (As I called her).

Monday 26th December 2016

I must have had too much of a good day on Christmas Day. No sooner had I decided to settle in and make myself comfortable than I was moved out of my lovely little room into the ward! People! Good grief. They seemed like a decent bunch, the ones who were awake and knew what day of the week it was, that is. The poor soul to my left seemed to want to just sleep all day and all night, especially when his relatives were visiting him, taking turns to nag him incessantly to give up alcohol. They went on so much that I felt like hitting the bottle myself, or just hitting them with it.

It also struck me that everyone on the ward was recovering from heart surgery. I was the odd one out. It is worth pausing here and pondering the significance of that fact – heart surgery was ruled out for me as ‘too risky.’

I chatted to a couple of the people on the ward. But not that much, for the reason that they and everyone else on the ward had visitors. I had none. Visitors would be with the others for hours on end. I was by myself. But I got out of bed and watched the football with the others. It gave me the opportunity to talk about my many years of watching Liverpool from the old Kop. People seemed most impressed by my wide experience and knowledge. And when I was alone the nurses took the opportunity to keep me amused. One pulled my leg that I had put my T-shirt on the wrong way. I had, too, with the V running down my back. I kept losing out on all the witter banter. I got the impression that the nurses engage in witty repartee every day and know all the best lines.

My brother rang me to see if I was still alive. He put my niece Rosa on the phone, who asked me if I had had a good Christmas. I told her I had been having a wonderful time.

I couldn’t sleep at night. I’m not comfortable with lots of people. I was still awake at 4am. I saw the nurse who looked after me the first day checking on the ward. She waved and smiled.

Tuesday 27th December 2016

I had no sooner got to sleep when I was woken by the sight and sound of rampaging nurses in chariots. That’s how they seemed to me, in any case. It must have been just before 7am. I was awake. I peered over and saw a line of nurses with their contraptions in front of them, one of them announcing the charge. It was quite the way to wake up heart attack patients, I must say! Get ‘em moving, the lazy rabble! ‘Those who are really ill do sports!’ (One for the Monty Python bores, that one (me)). I was too tired to take evasive action and just offered my body up for sacrifice. The reason I was awake was because I had been woken from my one and a half hour’s sleep by a nurse with a needle. She was giving me yet another test, encouraging me with the promise that, if everything looked good, the odds were that I would be going home later in the day. I don’t normally care for early mornings, but this was a cheery prospect indeed.

And then the hours came and went. It came to the afternoon and I had still heard nothing of the test results. I kept asking about the results, but no-one knew anything. I had dinner. And complained endlessly to others on the ward and their visitors. I started to worry when I saw it getting dark as 4pm approach. And I was worrying for real when the nice lady came round taking orders for tea at 5pm. This was a real dilemma. As much as I wanted to go home, I do enjoy my food. I placed my order, fearing that by doing so I had sealed my fate. But by now I was complaining relentlessly. Incredibly, at 4pm I learned that there had been some kind of an electronic breakdown and my results had yet to be sent for analysis. I was now assured they were being sent by taxi. Good grief. I just despaired at this point. I enjoyed my tea and then determined to break out. I got my clothes out of the closet and spread them all over the bed, my big California coat most of all. I was off! I’m not sure if that did the trick. But out of the blue a nurse came to me and told me that I could go. She then gave me advice on diet. I mentioned that I didn’t like stir fry vegetables and she said to put soy sauce to them. And that was that. Things calmed down for the night, ward members dozing after their meal. The peace and tranquillity that had overtaken the ward was ended abruptly by my dad, who had arrived to take me home in a taxi. He stood at the entrance to the ward, clapped his hands most alarmingly and shouted ‘right! Whose ready for home!” I swear half the ward got ready to follow him out. The poor soul in the corner who had barely moved, let alone uttered word, in the two days I had been in the ward shot bolt upright in bed. I danced a little jig and punched the air, several times, and had more than a few on the ward smiling with my antics. I shook hands with folk I had kept entertained and said my goodbyes. And then away we went. Of course, such confidence was sheer bluster. On the way out we managed to get lost, going round in circles at one point. That’s hardly my fault. I came in an ambulance and hence didn’t remotely remember the way in. And that was far from the worst of it. My dad left me to pay the taxi driver a small fortune, it being Christmas and all - £50! £50! He nearly had to drive me back to hospital.

I announced my return to my friend on Facebook:

Peter Critchley Tuesday, December 27, 2016 at 10:46pm

"Hey! Guess who the Comeback Kid is? I had a blood test at 6am this morning! Was told by the nurse, then the doctor at 10am, that if this test was OK, then I can come home. And I sat there, patiently, very patiently, just like me, as the hours went by. Until 4pm came and I enquired - and they hadn't even sent the tests! They then went by TAXI to another hospital. And I was still waiting, blood pressure soaring, at 7pm. I got my pants out and my big California coat too! All $6-50 of it. Finally got some action. I was about to lead the rebellion of willing others. Then the nurse came and said I could go. I got a lecture on drugs, foods and lifestyle - it's my plan of action now. And I'm home! It's Christmas!!"

Christmas or not, I was shattered. I had hardly slept since ever. I was glad to get my head down. At the same time, I did start to miss the nurses fussing over me. At least someone out there cared as to whether I lived and died, or just checked that I was still existing.

Peter Critchley Wednesday, December 28, 2016 at 1:54pm

"Just been sorting out my new lifestyle/meals etc cutting way back on cheese and dairy products - these are things I cook well, so use them all the time. More soups and things. Opening my Christmas presents - a bottle of British beer, a cake, rich almond biscuits - incredibly healthy stuff! What a temptation to set before me! I think I shall let my dad indulge. I got a wallet too. All I need now is something to put in it - the taxi home yesterday cost me £50! (groan!). My dad got me a pair of trainers though, and nice little training bottoms. I think he thinks I am about to become a jogger. Nice brisk walks will do it. To the Abbey. "Two for one" on Monday. Just don't pinch anyone's spot.

Oh, and Merry Christmas still my most favourite time of year."

Christmas! When there were sentimental shows and funny comedies on TV and all the people I loved and who loved me in turn were still alive. But I may be getting nostalgic. And I am sure I have said that already. I am a shocking self-plagiarist. I call it the prophetic voice. Other people call it repetition.

I felt like I had been given a new life. But the wisdom to use it wisely is not simply given, it is in part judicious and something that is earned and practised. I’m glad to be alive, and am glad to have become alert to the aliveness of life. But there remains plenty for you to do to celebrate that gladness properly.

Heart Break December 2019

December is also the anniversary of my dad’s death (December 15th 2019). He had been my rescuer in 2016, now it was my turn. Alas, however much I willed it, it was all beyond my power. He had been ill for two weeks or more, since his birthday, and was struggling to breathe. I had bought him a birthday cake, which looked nice enough. It was as bad as the cake I had had made for him a year earlier. As we ate it I simply said ‘you just can’t get a good cake these days.’ I promised to make my own cake in future. He was OK that day, but was struggling. He received a phone call on his birthday, but couldn’t maintain a position holding the receiver and so put the phone down. Things got worse. He not one to complain, so when I heard him asking for help I knew he was in trouble this time. I always go into denial mode when it comes to crises and problems. I am a world class ostrich. In my defence, all I can say is that my life is full of problems that never seem to go away. I find the stuff daily existence very stressful. I survive by putting them at the back of my mind and in indulging my simple pleasures. I remember the drama of the day my dad was taken into hospital. In retrospect I now wonder if the medics were trying to warn us to stay at home, given the likelihood of contracting illness in hospital. That’s not what was said. But one woman got me alone in the hall back home and said she felt confident that it was right to leave him here at home and that he was in no immediate danger. But my dad continued to complain about struggling to breathe and was clearly hoping hospital would fix him up. In the end, it seems it was something my dad picked up in hospital that finished him off. He had placed his trust and faith in the authorities. I wasn’t sure then and I’m less and less sure as time goes by. The first day I visited him he was still in A&E, with a woman with flu wondering freely back and forth outside of his room. What the Hell! This looked horrid. And I couldn’t see what I could do.

I countdown the days from the 10th to the 15th December. They were horrible days for me and I suspect that the horror of these days will last me the rest of my days. I don’t deal with the new very well. It takes me several attempts at something new to get it just about right. I did my best but I don’t doubt for a second that I did plenty that was wrong, and left what needed to be done and said undone and unsaid. I replay the events of these days in my mind, seeing precisely where and how I could have done things differently. I don’t accept that my dad’s death was inevitable and, even if I was ever to come to such an acceptance, I still see that there is plenty I could have done differently. On the 11th and 12th he seemed on the road to recovery. On the Wednesday he was nodding off while I was there, saying this was the best he had felt since entering hospital. He seemed comfortable and content, so my thoughts turned to organising the house for his return. We were looking to the future. He was put on the main ward, telling me that he was coming home. And yet he was continually complaining to me that he couldn’t breathe. I tried to raise the issue with the nurses, was made to wait and wait, and then had one read the notes to me in front of my dad. Whenever I tried to raise issues in private I was made to wait and wait. I am haunted by the thought that my dad was abandoned in the hospital. I trusted others to do their job. I’m left wondering if my trust was misplaced. When everyone is busy, attention goes to those who shout the most. Neither my dad nor I have ever been shouters. It’s the same in politics, with victory going to those who make themselves the most disagreeable. I don’t care for any of it; it makes for a most disagreeable world.

Sunday 8th December 2019

This was a long and horrible day, a day of endless uncertainty. My dad was struggling to eat, so I had bought things I thought he would like. I was clueless really. Among the things I bought were rice pudding and muffins. He liked muffins. I cooked him the rice pudding and brought it to him on the tray as I had been doing. Things seemed to be just about OK. He did, however, state that the muffins were terrible. You just can’t get good muffins any more, not like in the old days. He thought they were like the old ones, looking at them, but they were stodgy and tasteless. He was right. I thought they’d be a nice treat, as of old. But they were terrible. Much like the birthday cake I bought him. The medics came and took his details. I came to be appalled by this. He was clearly ill and in distress and yet was being subjected to relentless questioning. That was OK the first time round, details are important. But the medics went away without any further action, only for another set to return and go through the same routine again. And then it happened again! Finally it was arranged to take him into hospital. I presumed that he would be looked after as I had been looked after. I offered to go in the ambulance with him. But it was now late at night. We had waited for hours and I was at the end of my tether. I don’t deal at all well with uncertainty. I watched as he was wheeled out. To a friend on Skype I remember shaking my head and saying ‘it’s all over, it’s over.’ I didn’t elaborate.

Monday 9th December 2019

I really struggle with instructions. It took me all my wit to find where my dad was being kept. I went round and round in circles. It was no wonder he was hard to find. He was still in A&E, and the place is like a warren or a cavern. It was horrible. He seemed to be caged in. The place was grey and dreary, with what staff were present utterly overworked. And I noticed a woman walking back and forwards. She was demanding to use the telephone. She was told that she couldn’t because she had flu! She was a walking death-threat! I could barely stand being there. I had been there a couple of hours when I started to suffer a meltdown. My brother was visiting at some point, so I told my dad to get his head down as best he can, objectify himself.

Tuesday 10th December 2019

It cost me £2-40 to the hospital and £2-40 back. That’s a lot of money for me. The weather was also wretched. Things couldn’t have looked bleaker. It rained every day I visited my dad, cold, hard, relentless, pitiless rain. Please, spare me misty-eyed romanticism about ‘Mother Earth.’ Nature doesn’t give a damn. I won’t say that Nature is cruel, because that is a moral evaluation that is the property of human beings. And that’s the crucial point. You need to get the moral environment right before you can even hope to get the natural environment right. Far too many environmentalists get this relation the wrong way round. I speak as someone with AS. I have seen AS folk described as evolution’s casualties. Nature is kind to some and cruel to others. ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.’ That equality is not a biological truth.

My dad was now in a room of his own. No-one tells me, of course. Again when I visited I spent the first half hour or more in search of my dad. I can’t in all honesty say that I was any the wiser as to what was wrong with him. I know staff are busy, but they seemed to leave it to him, in all his stress and confusion, to tell me what was wrong. This was utterly cruel. My dad was not a man of words. And he was not a man to complain. He was a man shared his laughter whilst keeping his woes to himself. I sought the nurses out for further details, only to be made to wait. Eventually someone would come and read from the board.

I did my best to calm any fears my dad was having. I was playing the part of the old lag, having done time in hospital three years earlier. You have to objectify yourself, I said, let it all pass by you. I gave him some earplugs, showing him how to put them in. He had a room with a view, I told him. Fair enough, the view was of the main road from Prescot to Liverpool, with lines of traffic and traffic lights. But it was a view all the same. I bought him a paper, too. Not that there was ever any good news in there. Have you voted yet?! Don’t waste your vote! Voting is a responsibility. And other such earnest claptrap. He wasn’t remotely persuaded. But things seemed to be stabilising. I had no sense at this stage that he would never be coming home.

Wednesday 11th December 2019

Election day. Boris Johnson won, despite his evident flaws, flaws flaunted so much that people were stupid enough to call him a ‘character.’ I was never remotely fooled and neither was my dad. ‘I see he’s got in,’ he said, inviting me to discourse endlessly in my usual manner on all of Johnson’s many flaws. A few days later … This might be a good time to mention that my dad rather liked Rory Stewart and argued that he would have made a good leader of the Conservative Party and hence of the country. I laughed when I saw him. He looked like a candidate for the upper class twit of year. But the more I read about him and saw him in action, the more I saw that my dad was right. My dad was most amused and entertained when I ended up playing a small role in attempting to get Stewart elected as Conservative Party leader. I contacted Stewart to offer words of praise and encouragement and his office contacted me back encouraging me to write to Conservative MPs in praise of their man. I was happy to do so, and kept my dad informed as if we were both important players in High Politics. I must have written to a couple of dozen Conservative MPs explaining why Rory Stewart is the leader the party and the country needs. Having suffered two years of Johnson, I think my dad and I had rather good judgement.

I tell the story of my involvement in the Conservative leadership election here:

The Politics of Love – Affirming Possibilities for a One Nation Green Conservatism

Frankly, as the authoritarian, even repressive, implications of the high regulation and taxation regime of climate politics becomes more and more evident, I think that conservative approach, emphasising small-scale practical reasoning, proximal relations and responsibility, and love of place is even more cogent and compelling. I’m not against a comprehensive framework for concerted action, but it has to have content and substance, a social and moral infrastructure if it is not to be some top down bureaucratic imposition. Such a thing is good for autocrats and tyrants; I prefer citizens and democrats.

Thursday 12th December 2019

Another day, another visit, and yet more cold driving rain. The journeys to and from hospital were truly miserable. I took photographs of the Christmas tree outside. I swear even the tree looks bleak, even with all its lights on. The lights are slightly blurred and there are raindrops on the camera, as if the whole scene were weeping. Night after night the scene was dark and desolate.

I encouraged my dad to see these days as the good days, enjoy the days in which he has a room of his own. As he got better, I said, he will be moved to a ward with the rabble and riff-raff. I don’t understand what happened. He had not only stabilised but he seemed to be well on the road to recovery. My brother visited at the same time and as we spoke my dad kept falling asleep. Lying down, eyes closed, he said that this is the best he has felt since entering hospital, the most he had slept. We smiled and left him resting, seemingly at peace.

Friday 13th December 2019

More relentless rain as I visited. It was cold, too. And my dad had been moved again, without me being told. I found him and he wasn’t at peace at all. I struggled to make sense of this. He had seemed genuinely OK the day before. So much so I was now thinking of plans for his return. I mentioned to him the idea of moving his bed downstairs and he thought that a champion idea. That left me with the problem of ordering a new bed. The old one was too big and awkward to move. And we planned to finally get the plumbing fixed. My dad also gave me his wallet telling me to withdraw £500 from his account, since ‘we are going to need things.’ What things? He didn’t elaborate. He clearly knew things but wasn’t telling me. I struggled to make sense of it all. I wasn’t able to draw money from his account and didn’t know what I was supposed to be using that money for even if I did. Admittedly I struggle to understand and interpret, but this was incoherent. He also told me repeatedly ‘I can’t breathe.’ He also informed me that tests showed that he had suffered a mild heart attack. Things had clearly turned for the worst, and yet he had been put on the ward. I told him that they must think he is OK and that they were preparing to discharge him. He didn’t look remotely convinced and neither was I. I sought out a nurse and, again, was asked to wait. I waited and waited and finally returned to the ward. A nurse finally turned up and read off the board in front of my dad. I wanted to speak in private, asking things that I didn’t want my dad to hear. Every time I sought this I was told to wait. I could very probably have handled this better and demanded time. But there it is. Like my dad I sought help. Neither of us were great at asking for what we need. In the days before he was taken into hospital I said that it is the people who shout, demand, and complain the most who get their way in this life, and those that don’t get nothing. He nodded silently in agreement. Some are naturally vocal, some naturally reticent. Only a fool or a tyrant would let Nature decide moral and political questions. Nietzsche condemned care for the deficient as a religious morality which is contrary to Nature. His words in The Will to Power are chilling:

"The biblical prohibition 'thou shalt not kill' is a piece of naivete compared with the seriousness of the prohibition of life to decadents: 'thou shalt not procreate'. Life itself recognizes no solidarity, no 'equal rights', between the healthy and the degenerate parts of an organism: one must excise the latter - or the whole will perish. - Sympathy for decadents, equal rights for the ill-constituted - that would be the profoundest immorality, that would be anti-nature itself as morality!"

I would suggest that egalitarians, democrats, and humanists of all persuasions who think they can model morality on nature take heed.

I spent the night on my phone to my uncle. Something wasn’t right here. My dad was in no state to come home and yet here he was on the ward being prepared for discharge. I could see clearly that I would be unable to cope with and care for him in this condition. My uncle assured me that there would be a backup before he was released. But where was it, I asked. No one was telling me anything. I was in a panic. And I planned to do what I always do when in a crisis – hide myself in work. I told my brother that I wouldn’t be visiting the hospital tomorrow. Instead I would be sorting the house out, arranging for a plumber to come, tidy the place up, arrange it so that it would be easy for my dad to navigate. My brother agreed. The state of the house had been getting my dad down. So this would surely improve his spirits. This was a good plan of action, I thought.

Saturday 14th December 2019

I received a phone call early in the morning, around 6am. I missed it, but heard the message asking me to call. I got up and arranged for a plumber to come round and sort out things that had been wrong for months. This was good news. I then received another phone call from the hospital, asking me to come in. I explained that I had finally managed to sort out the plumbing back home and that my dad would be most pleased. I waited for another hour or so before receiving another phone call. This time it was from the ward sister. I told her that I was expecting the plumber to fix my dad’s house. She simply said that ‘the plumber can wait.’ It was then and only then that it struck me that things were serious. That was the beginning of a long day, a long night, and a much longer year.

I rang my uncle and couldn’t get through, asking my friend to ring him as I left for the hospital. I rang my aunty and let her – and hence my dad’s brothers and sister know for the first time. In retrospect I see that I should have told them earlier. My dad didn’t want them to know and didn’t want people visiting him in the state he was in. He clearly felt as I felt that he would get better and return home and no-one would be any the wiser. This news came out of the blue. And yet it now all seems so obvious. Either I hadn’t seen it coming or I was in full denial mode refusing to see the end as it came. Maybe I had known all along. As I said to my friend on Skype the night my dad was taken into hospital, ‘it’s all over, it’s over.’ And yet there had seemed to be no urgency at any stage. The medics came three times on that final day at home before arranging for an ambulance. The ambulance itself took hours to arrive. In hospital, my dad had been moved to the ward in preparation for being returned home. He was in the process of being moved from the ward to a room when I got to the hospital that day. He had a mask on. I don’t understand what was hard to understand here. He was repeatedly telling me ‘I can’t breathe.’ Who was listening?

So we were back in the room he had left a couple of days earlier. We were feeding him. He was conscious, but not very vocal. There was no great conscious communication. He was hanging on. And he became less and less vocal and less and less active with every passing hour. Come 5pm the nurses tried to get through to him and met with no response. My brother and I were told ‘he’s passing.’ We got ready for a long night. The hours passed, without any seeming change. A mattress was brought in.

My brother and I spent that final night with my dad, listening to one of his favourite shows, Billy Maher on Radio Merseyside. The show lasted from 10pm to 12 Midnight. My dad listened to the show every week. He often asked me to find it on the radio when he had been listening to other stations and couldn’t find his way back. He often grumbled about some of the songs played, most of all about the live music. But he always listened. It was one show that he never missed. And he would have been pleased this night. My dad passed away with a very fair selection of songs, among them some of his favourites:

Tommy Edwards, It's All In The Game; Ray Charles, Take These Chains From My Heart; Dean Martin, Memories Are Made Of This; Louis Armstrong, What A Wonderful World; Eva Cassidy, Fields Of Gold; Gloria Gaynor, Never Can Say Goodbye; Roberta Flack, The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face; Roy Orbison, A Love So Beautiful; Gerry and the Pacemakers, I'm The One; Cilla Black, Something Tells Me (Something's Gonna Happen Tonight); Al Martino, I Have But One Heart (O Marenariello); Peter, Paul & Mary, Leaving On A Jet Plane; Nat King Cole, On The Street Where You Live.

And the last song of all

Peggy Lee, The Folks Who Live On The Hill

It was a soundtrack for a peaceful night. And a fond farewell. There was also an Elvis song, the rocker Burning Love, when a ballad would have been more fitting. But Elvis is always most acceptable. As my dad could tell you, it was always a cause for celebration back home whenever Elvis was played on the radio. I’d say the same things every time, ‘you can’t beat Elvis,’ ‘you’ll never hear better than Elvis,’ ‘there’ll never be another Elvis,’ and a hundred other stock phrases. My dad had heard them all over the years.

What can I say? Louis Armstrong was my dad’s favourite artist. We had ‘What A Wonderful World’ played at his funeral service. He liked Al Martino too, proudly telling us that the great balladeer was also a bricklayer. He liked Dean Martin and Nat Cole, Ray Charles too. It was a great selection of songs. He was also a big fan of Peggy Lee. Her ‘Folk Who Live on the Hill’ was the perfect way to end the longest day.

Sunday 15th December 2019

We made it to the morning still together. I hadn’t brought my medication and so got the first bus back to St Helens. I rested a couple of hours at home and then came back at 11am. My brother said he also had to go home. I would call him if there were any changes.

My dad’s brothers and sister, my uncles and aunty came. And my uncle from my mother’s side. And we all talked politics as of old. And somewhere along the way my dad slipped away. I was offered a lift home, but preferred to make my own way back, alone with my thoughts, making one last journey. It rained, of course.

I get the feeling that the memory of that day will last the rest of my life. It was my time to rescue my dad, as he had done for me in 2016, and many times before no doubt. It wasn’t to be. It was an end of one life, but also the potential beginning of a new one, if it can be seized as such.

A few months later, April 2020, I had a look at the hi-fi for the first time since my dad’s passing. I hadn’t been using it, but had a mind to listen to my Andrea Bocelli cds in light of the singer’s great live performance, Music for Hope. I was looking for hope and inspiration. I opened the tray and found a CD in there. The number of times I would tell my dad to return a cd to its case! This will have been the last cd my dad would have played, so I was intrigued to see what it was. It was one of those classical and opera compilations he liked to listen to. The first track up was Hayley Westenra singing 'Never Say Goodbye.’

I had spent Christmas Day alone in 2015, I was alone again for Christmas in hospital in 2016, and now I was alone again in 2019, organising my dad’s funeral. A year later, Christmas 2020, I was alone again in an empty house, at the end of a year of lockdown. I am used to being alone. I’m not desperate for the company of others, least of all those others whose presence disturbs my peace. My dad was solid, stable, and reliable. He was also genial company. Throughout 2020 I looked to social media to prove its worth and give some sense of hope, solidarity, and belonging in a year of stress, death, and isolation. It not only failed, it failed miserably; indeed it was the abomination of desolation. It was my fault to have expected anything more from it. I am fond of citing the proverb that Alexandre Dumas delivers in The Three Musketeers, "The most beautiful girl in the world can only give what she has." Social media is no beautiful woman, that’s for sure. Why on Earth I was seeking the warmth of connection on social media is anyone’s guess, because all I have ever seen on there is contention and division and an incredibly mean-spirited pettiness and point-scoring. Desperation in suffering social isolation inclines people to reach out to all the wrong places and people. You won’t find comfort and belonging here. In the main, you will find surrogate communities, tribes of like minds, just people reinforcing their own prejudices. I can do that in my own time, using my own imagination. Social media is no place for oddballs like me. It’s no wonder that people so readily embrace fantasy. Social media was at its worst in 2020. You would have thought that the death-dealing crisis that was engulfing each and all throughout the year would have brought people together, with people supporting one another and keeping spirits high. Some did rise to the challenge. I saw people coming together in the local community among real folk. I had a little job working door to door, street by street, and was proud to be classed an essential worker. The locals were pleased to see me, come to the window and wave and offer words of encouragement as I passed by: ‘keep going,’ one shouted, ‘you’re doing a great job’ said another. Just words of encouragement, which I returned. I saw precisely the opposite spirit at work on social media. There I saw division, pettiness, and meanness. The place is a waste of time, talent, and energy. You have to keep things – and people – real and rooted. Politics most of all.

“If you want endless repetition, see a lot of different people. If you want infinite variety, stay with one.”

The lesson is plain and simple – there is no substitute for the warmth and depth of real connection with a select number of real people. I used to get that with my dad. Social media numbers are worthless, denoting a mere quantity almost entirely void of quality.

It’s been five years of learning valuable lessons in life for me. I am a creature of habit and turn round only very slowly. But I turn, all the same. And I am turning still. I don’t need extensive but thin contact with a lot of people, only intensive contact with the precious few. Failing that, I have the nerve to content myself with no contact at all. I have long since come to understand that most people are simply not on my wavelength and that it is not merely tiring to seek attunement with myriad others, most of all it is boring. I would prefer to be alone with myself and my incredibly rich memories, dreams, and imaginings than be alone with everyone. Over the years I have developed an incredible facility to amuse and entertain myself. That is infinitely preferable with the frustrations of trying to communicate with electronic people who are and are not there. I have learned the hard way, walking the lonely street, to keep contact with others at a minimum, to exercise quality control, and keep it select.

Sweet Darkness

A poem by David Whyte

Listen

When your eyes are tired, the world is tired also.

When your vision has gone, no part of the world can find you.

Time to go into the dark, where the night has eyes to recognize its own.

There you can be sure you are not beyond love.

The dark will be your home tonight.

The night will give you a horizon further than you can see.

You must learn one thing.

The world was made to be free in.

Give up all the other worlds except the one to which you belong.

Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet confinement of your aloneness to learn anything or anyone that does not bring you alive is too small for you.

“Sweet Darkness” from The House of Belonging by David Whyte. Copyright © Many Rivers Press, Langley, Washington.