I am now officially an orphan and, without offspring or any plans to spawn them, the last of the Lindsays. My dad, Robert, passed away around 2am this morning in Monklands Hospital at the age of 85. He had been diagnosed with bladder cancer almost a year to the day after my mother was cremated having admitted defeat in her own long battle with bowel (and lung) cancer. Long before then, losing the love of his life had led my dad to also lose the will to continue the struggle against the passage of time ravaging his body. A sad but all too familiar tale. Nearly two months in hospital, during which he endured several episodes of delirium as a result of urinary infections, had hastened what were previously only early signs of dementia. By the end, he thought he was living in the parental home in Glasgow he vacated in the 1950s and no longer even recognised his own wife, Marie, in photos - although he did appreciate looking at “the pretty woman”. Fortunately, his final weeks did not appear to be spent in the kind of prolonged, constant pain and slow disintegration suffered by my mum. Indeed, several nurses spoke warmly of the constant stream of jocular quips he managed despite his predicament and, typically, he always perked up when an especially pretty one entered his part of the ward. However, as with my mum, the end came as a relief, partly for me as I did not want to see him suffer, but mainly for him. Dad had long said he wanted to go as he no longer enjoyed life no matter how we tried to introduce some modicum of pleasure to what remained of an existence seriously curtailed by two crumbling plastic knees, shakily arthritic hands, memory loss and bodily functions that no longer followed orders. My own holiday - and marriage - plans have already been put on hold numerous times as my parents’ care took priority. So I must thank my dad for leaving us on the last day possible to arrange a funeral in time for Agata and I to fulfil a commitment to head for Mallorca next Wednesday, 3 September. Hence, the funeral has been pencilled in for that morning at 9.45am in Daldowie Crematorium, Uddingston, on the outskirts of Glasgow. I will confirm as soon as the procurator fiscal decides that the recent hospital procedures were not at fault (I am sure the doctors at Monklands did all they could).
Posted on: Thu, 28 Aug 2014 12:08:44 +0000
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