Everybody Has A Time ...

Evening All, 

Someone once told me when I was much younger that the phone seldom brings good news when past nine at night. And oh how right they are. 

After a long week at work I was ready to settle down with Mr. Warehouse, chill out with a drink or two over dinner and discuss our busy weekend to come. What with my Daddies big 5-0 party on Saturday evening I was looking forward to getting glammed up and seeing some familiar faces again. Getting my nails done and having a hair-cut I was excited to spend my weekend with loved ones. But as I snuggled into my boyfriends chest, man-boob and all, I could hear my phone vibrating on the side. Flicking on the light, my ringtone kicked in for another repetition I raced to the kitchen to pick it up. It was my Dad. I answered thinking it was something about the party. It wasn't. As I walked back to my bedroom of my small, dark flat I perched myself on the edge of the bed. Feeling hot all of a sudden and with prickles beginning in my eyes I listened carefully to what I was being told. 

My grandfather has not been well for a long time. Ever since I was small I can remember him bribing me or my Brother to get him tit-bits from the kitchen or fetch him something from around the bungalow he shared with my Grandmother. I never remember him being the active type to walk around the garden let alone run after his grandchildren. But as I got older he seemed to take more of a back burner in my life-story, forever there but always playing the part of a extra rather than a starring role. I still loved him, but I suppose a older child, and being the only girl in the family, I don't think he really knew what to do with me. Becoming a teenager I was always rebelling and whilst he was there to stick his ore in a few times I knew that the majority of the time he probably knew best. After retiring and not keeping as active as he was working as a refuse collector for the local council back home he grew larger than he ever had. A mixture of nothing to do and a constantly well stocked cupboard made his weight balloon and over the next few years his weight would fluctuate between looking like a Christmas Turkey and looking like a Turkey whom had got a lucky escape from the December oven. Always being clinically termed "morbidly obese" it never seemed to bother him and I suppose as his family it never really bothered us. Until that was he reached a point of no return. 

With the lack of exercise my Grandfather's legs started to become sore. in time they became infected and had to be dressed and redressed several times a day. At one point us as a family were left wondering that if the infection got any worse that it may lead to amputation. Whilst on crutches the Doctors still encouraged my Granddad to walk, even if it was to the kitchen or to the top of my grandparents highly maintained garden. But he failed to listen. On the odd occasion he could be found in the kitchen standing up or sitting on a stool peeling vegetables for dinner or preparing something yummy for lunch, but more often than not he would be in front of the Telly or on the computer. After progressively getting worse over the next few years he was in and out of hospital with heart problems and even referred to the UK's leading heart hospital in Harefield, just outside of London. Worried we all might loose him I made sure I put in the effort to see him and the family when I could. After a triple heart bypass surgery to fix the dodgy ticker I thought that this would be it and he would not only be back to his old self but be more conscience about what he puts in his mouth and how much more moving he should be doing. But alas, as yet again this fell on deaf ears. 

Last year Granddad had a fall as he was getting in and out the shower. Breaking his leg clean, his Femur was too broken to stand on and so more crutches and a brace was used. Taking its toll on Grandpop's heart he was rushed into hospital again after being allowed home, but after dying on the operating table and having lost more than six-pints of blood, we were lucky as a family to still have him alive. You could say he was a fighter, but if you could fight off death, you could fight off the fat attacking your organs. But even after all of that there was no change in his spirit and after much consideration he was put into a local care home so that the adequate care could be given. And there he has stayed for the past few months.

I try to visit as much as I can and do when I have time but with life as busy as it usually is you could sometimes go weeks forgetting to even call or text. With the lack of "get-up-and-go" Granddad became sneaky, asking family members to smuggle in sweet treats like nuts, seeds, berries and crisps. When he approached me I stood my ground and whilst it was one of the hardest things to do I knew I was doing him good. But ever since that moment My Granddad whom I love and care for dearly has been stand off-ish and is quite frankly rude in some circumstance, leading me several times to put him firmly in his place. The family agreed that for too long we have been soft and that now, more than ever, we needed to take a tough love approach to Granddad and his behaviour. That was until he was rushed into hospital on Friday evening suffering from too much fluid in his lungs and with his heart not strong enough to pump it out I listened intently to what my father told me next. 

"Your Grandfather is going to die. It could be weeks, it could be months, it may even be years - But he is dying" My Dad said out loud. My heart nearly stopped. As I croaked out past the growing frog in my throat I took in and accepted fully what I had already known for months, if not years. "He is dying" I thought. "He is actually, really dying and there is nothing I can do to stop this?!" Hanging up the phone I sat bewildered for a moment. Somehow I had always known this would be the result of over eating and under moving but to finally hear it from the source of a Doctor, passed through the ears of a family to the granddaughter was hard to take in. I am only twenty-three, soon to be twenty-four and never have I ever experienced a death this close. Rising from the bed I went to make a cup of tea, sweet with lots of sugar, a proper little, china tea-cup and all. Coming back to bed I climbed in next to Mr. Warehouse and thought about what was next. With the words solidifying in my head I was left with more questions than answers. "Do we just wait? Wait until another nightly call comes along to inform us that we are no longer with Granddad?" I wondered. 

"Is this really the next chapter in my life? The next thing to go wrong?" mixed round my head with questions about why Mr. Warehouse was here - Was he next in what was seeming to be a long list of boyfriends that only turned up to help me through a difficult point in my life. Mr. Ginge was there when my parents divorced and when I was chucked out by my hateful mother. Mr. Workaholic was there throughout the years of torment form my mother and the separation from my baby brother. Mr. Coffee, Mr. Sick and Mr. Woof were their to fill the gaping hole that Mr. Workaholic had left when we separated. Mr. Cheese was their when I moved into my first ever flat and when I changed careers from stressful credit control to where I am today. Is this the tale of Mr. Warehouse? I hope not! I was starting to really like this one?! The good egg I thought. Maybe "The One"?  I don't want to loose him, but at the same time I have some slight issues with relying on people to be there for me. What with my Grandfather being in hospital all I wanted to do was be enveloped by my boyfriends and his protecting arms, telling me that fairy-tales of how it would be all OK. Equally though I wanted to push him as far away as the moon favouring myself and my own company in comparison to leaning emotionally on yet another boy who would break my heart. 

"Why do people have to get old?!" I sobbed into my cooling tea-cup, feeling very much like a child whom had just found their goldfish belly up. "Why does this have to happen now?" I sniffled for now I am in the knowledge that my Grandpop's will never see me get married. He will never hold his great grandchildren in his arms. He will never come round and throw himself into my sofa in a house I have just bought. No, he will never see those things. Not only am I feeling angry and bitter that he has let this happen to himself, selfishly not only letting our family down but more disappointingly, letting himself down. We have always been a big family and with weight being a constant issue for us all, I think it is safe to say that this has given us a gentle nudge to do something about it before it gets to the stage whereby we are all too old and frail to stop it from killing us. 

After speaking to Mr. Warehouse and Miss Tweedle-Dumb well into the small hours of Saturday morning I soon feel asleep holding my tea-cup, now empty. Upon waking everything seemed normal, until Mr. Warehouse mentioned the night before and suddenly it all came flooding horrendously back to me. Gathering myself together, Mr. Warehouse and I packed for our weekend away back home in Luton and with plans to see my Granddad on Sunday I was hoping for some fun to brighten my mood. And Saturday night certainly did not disappoint! Squaddies dressed in offencive camp outfits, high-heeled tumbles and even the odd boogie on the dance-floor it was a definite winner in terms of pick-me-up's. With all the old faces from my childhood I found myself getting wasted with the best of them, and even had a cheeky "Special Cigarette" with my Dad's best friend from Somerset. 

But as I write to you now, eyes heavy with the call of my bed, I am only thinking of one person. Whether it be in two weeks or in two months, I can almost guarantee that by the time Christmas arrives, there will be one less Santa in my world. 

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx