Media vita in morte sumus
There was a time when I would have questioned an entry like this by any other correspondent. I mistakenly regarded grief to be a very personal matter, not something one pasted to the world’s wall beneath the glare of a spotlight. Maybe there was also a tiny element of ‘Oh, get over it’ when I witnessed people being permanently morose over some loss or other. When my mother died suddenly, aged 58, in January 1973, yes, there was a tidal wave of shock throughout the family. And yes, I do summon up her spirit every day; she meant so much to me, and I had fervently hoped that after her extremely difficult, poverty-stricken, hard-working life, that as I progressed a little myself then I might be able to intervene and provide her with something memorable; maybe a few trips somewhere, a holiday. Yet what made my Mother happy was summed up in one word: Family. She loved the closeness we enjoyed, and above all, she truly loved our little Sarah, the Granddaughter she had always dreamed of. Yet could we have imagined back then, 40 years ago, that our lively, happy toddler, jolly Sarah, would have a lifespan 12 years shorter than her Nana? No.Thus this Father issues the familiar cry:No parent should ever have to outlive their children.
If you find the outpouring of personal grief distasteful, then stop reading now. It is one year ago, at 11.10 pm on December 23 2012, that I held the hand of our beloved Sarah for the last time, kissed her on her forehead as she breathed her last. That final few days in Mansfield’s Kings Mill Hospital with our poor, distraught son-in-law, Ivan, who had cared for her so courageously during those final difficult months, will never leave us. In the final weeks she had almost lost the use of her legs as the cancer shut down her lymphatic system, causing massive oedema. At the end of November she had finally received one of those ride-on electric disability scooters to get around town, although she never got the chance to use it much. We all went out to lunch for one final time a week before she was hospitalised, and although she had always kept her spirits up and never gave up laughing, on that day, getting her from her house to the car, she actually broke into tears. That week, after a long struggle, she had finally received a lump sum from her NHS pension fund after spending 30 years working as a nurse and carer. In tears that afternoon she said she would happily give every penny of it back just to have the use of her legs again. It made me wonder if, had we been very rich, if we could have afforded the best cancer physicians on the planet, and if they could have done anything beyond what the NHS had. But such speculation only adds to the bitterness. I knew as we enjoyed that final lunch at Larch Farm that Sarah was going to leave us. Her complexion had become sallow, yet I fervently hoped she might be allowed one more Christmas with us all. Fate killed that hope.
On December 21st, the closeness of old friends provided one last family gathering. Because our son Martin and his wife Jane don’t drive, their only option to get to Mansfield would have been via National Express, yet my dear friend of 50 years standing, Dave Iles, without prompting, volunteered to pick them up in Hull and transport them to Mansfield. It was an act of kindness which allowed the closest brother and sister relationship ever to enjoy one final glorious few hours of togetherness. Martin always called Sarah ‘the best sister any boy could have had’, and he was totally correct in that. They were so close, especially in their schooldays and when Sarah was working in her teens, and Martin was till at school, they were inseparable. The memories of those times are indelible. And so thank you, dear Dave, for providing that much-appreciated final link. Dave and his wife Carol know exactly what Wendy and I are feeling at this time. In November 2009 they lost their only child, Ben, who had just qualified as a teacher. He was 26. He had gone home one night and was marking his pupil’s books at the kitchen table, and died of a heart attack. Carol and Dave have never got over the loss, and now, more than ever, I understand why.
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| Dave, Wendy and I in happier days. |
Media Vita In Morte Sumus is the title and first line of a Latin antiphon, which translates as In the midst of life we are in death. So in the end, now that I’m 70, I ask myself, what is life? I suppose that, whilst we still have it to ‘enjoy’, we have a duty to fill it with all the love and affection we can muster. We must work hard at our friendships and our family relationships. Listen to those who wish to unburden their problems. Be patient. Remember to always say what you mean. If you love someone, tell them. Don't be afraid to express yourself. Reach out and tell someone what they mean to you. Because when you decide that it is the right time, it might be too late later. Seize the day. Never have regrets. And most importantly, stay close to your friends and family, for they have helped make you The person that you are today!
It’s a lesson we only learn when it’s all too late. I quoted Shakespeare (I have of late lost all my mirth… etc.) at Sarah’s funeral. Not because Sarah was in any way literary or intellectual - she’d rather have had Adam Ant or Blondie, (and she did, bless her!) but because grief, even though I’m a writer, precluded me finding a form of words which summed up the tragedy. As a PhD in Shakespeare studies, her brother Martin understood that only the Bard could hit the nail on the head so succinctly. You told us never to me miserable when you’d gone, Sarah. We’re trying, but old Will reveals my thoughts; (Act V Scene V Macbeth)
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| Martin with 'the greatest sister a boy could have.' |
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Bless you, my sweet little happy angel. Rest in peace, and I hope we meet again. We shall love you and remember you forever.
Sarah Ball (nee Bainton)
October 2 1966 - Dec. 23 2012.