Christmas Day. Thank God.

Christmas Day 2019 draws to a close. In the back room the fire's lit and a bunch of midwives perform, here in the front room Diana Krall makes me feel all warm and fuzzy in a nice way and nowhere near as warm as I would be in the other room. It's been a great day and I just overflow with thankfulness for the day currently passing.

Christmas Day continued where the eve left off. From about 2200 I'd had a bit of a turn, dizzy, light headed and nauseous.  Pretty unstable in all my ways. I'm told my  pulse was waaaaaay too high. Racing, thready and I'll call an ambulance. No, let the drugs work. If your pulse doesn't slow soon, etc., etc.. Fortunately it did and after much thanks sleep took over.

Until 0230ish. When the pain kicked in. It always does, only the timing and intensity varies. This was a full on Oramorph pain. This is dispensed in very accurate doses and administered by my chief administrator. It also requires her to be woken and the light put on. Thank God for her.

It takes a while for the effects to be felt and until they do it helps to keep the light on. Im not sure why but when its intense it helps to have a visual focus. On the chest of drawers in direct line of sight are photos of those most precious and every moment looking at them I find myself thanking God for every precious memory especially for last weekend when they were here and in my mind i find myself composing letters to each and sort of running them past God for His opinion.

As the pain continues the group gets widened to the wider family and friends but there comes a time when the pain becomes secondary to the elusiveness of sleep. At such times my eyes stray to a large photo on the wall and from there I spend hours retracing holidays, trips, revisiting the visited and remembering with whom. I thank God for every memory.

This morning the last awakening was about 0630 and only merited a couple of codeine. I can self administer these without waking the delight of my eyes. No sooner had I taken them when I was asked if I was ready for coffee. I wasn't but after 40mins or so I was. Coffee duly arrived.

The depth of gratitude for this is immense but the giving never stops. This morning it was accompanied by the news that my friend Terry in NZ had emailed and that, too was news worthy of much rejoicing. He's been hospitalized again but is being taken off his current chemo and put on gemcap or gemcit that I had. Currently at home with his wife and kids. Thank God for that. I did.

The curtains looked a bit odd so stretching out the opened gap revealed a dawn with something missing. Clouds. Moments later as the sun approached the horizon a cloudless blue sky was revealed. Wow! What joy. Thanks abounded and thoughts were lifted away from the offer of porridge to a consideration of the tin box on the drive.

This is rather special once thawed out. It's rapid, comfy, handles beautifully and makes all the right noises. Early Christmas morning and once warmed up we pootled off. There was some traffic but not much and none that interfered with our progress. Horsepower, torque, heated seats and airscarf combine in perfect harmony. It's quite economical too, for what it is. Today economy suffered as our pace was determined by the noise. The rumble of six cylinders gives way to a gentle grŕrrrrrowl, then the note gets angrier and then deeper and much louder before screaming in delight. Maybe that's me! But today the noise was sublime and the fuel gauge responded accordingly. The feeling was wonderful and I can't help but to thank God for the privilege of having a wife who owns one! We enjoy all manner of experiences and speed is just one of many, isn't it?

We ended up here. Haytor. It was not planned but only yesterday Lesley phoned to make sure all was well. Asking about our plans I offhandedly remarked that I was hoping to walk up Haytor but seeing as going up a flight of stairs needed copious puffs on the puffer it wasnt going to happen so I guess it was subconsciously in my thoughts.

But then I suppose it's never far away from them. We used to take the kids up here on the last day of the summer term and contemplate the next six weeks as we drank fizzy stuff and ate pasties. This continued until they were of an age when the answer to most everything that involved parental accompaniment was met by a largely unintelligible negative response.

One year they went up there and left me hobbling alone in the car park on crutches having broken my pelvis coming off a motorbike.

The last of the consecutive trips was shared with my sister and her family on the day we retired. Cold, grey drizzle, good Champagne from plastic cups and pasties. We've been back at times since most memorably on a wet evening as dusk settled on the Sunday after Paul had died.

Today I didn't expect to get out of the car but I did. One step after the other and we got to the usual spot at the base of the tor. Why should I have been surprised to be offered my puffer, pain killers, anti sickness pills and a bottle of water?

From here the view is a bit special. I've watched Hercules and jets from above as they blast through the Teign valley, I've heard a Maserati on full bore split a dawn apart, watched the Tour of Britain pass the KoM line, watched mists lift and fogs descend but today was special. The unexpected always is.

I can't put into words the weight of raw emotion or the depth of gratitude except to say that tears were shed on both counts.

Today the view reminded me of a quote from a Sister Catherine

One of the more useful consequences of having an incurable or terminal illness is the way it tends to change one’s perspectives. So many of the things we tend to worry about or waste our energies on become unimportant or, at any rate, secondary. Family, friends, community, and for the religiously-minded, God’s judgement — these are what we really value and sometimes fret about in the small hours. With energy at a premium, there is none to spare for self-indulgent moaning about what others are doing or not doing. Every moment is precious because we are living on the edge of eternity.
www.ibenedictines.org/2019/12/16/living-on-the-edge-of-eternity/

Walking back, pressing the roof switch and firing it up for the return was pretty much silent, apart from firing it up, obviously.

It didn't take long to get home and coffee followed, a phone call from my sister, then my brother and speaking to dad. Txts and photos from the kids, a fabulous dinner, a video call from a 3 3/4 yr old and his mum and then a phone call out of the blue from a dear friend who I was at school with half a century ago.

I thank God for all of it, every single thing. It's wonderful and we haven't got to the best bit, namely that today is when we remember the time when God became a man, lived perfectly, died awfully and rose spectacularly so that you can look at the edge of eternity and delight in the view.

The only thing I puzzle over is when you are overwhelmed with unsolicited and unmerited goodness to whom do you address your thankfulness if you dont believe there's a God?