annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Money money money I thought I'd posted this last night but found it here just now: I didn't have enough money for the funeral, to the tune of more than a thousand quid. I found a note on diaryland, from Marywa who doesn't have her notes turned on: "Please can you post a link to your paypal or something? I would like to send a gift to help with the funeral, and I'm sure others would too" I thought OK and added it to both of the blogs I'd just posted (diaryland and wordpress - still double posting, not sure why), felt a bit awful, so sleeping pill, sleep. Woke up early, phoned bloke at DWP and asked if he could sort out whether I was going to get a rebate on Friday - he said he'd check it and call back, but he didn't. Thought fuck it and posted begging post on Instagram, facebook and Twitter. Came back to over a grand's worth of donations. My sister's offer of £500 became elusive so we're not quite there but fucking hell. I mean. Fuck. Ing. Hell. I am so moved I don't know how to express myself. Donations large and small - from a fiver to £500. From family, from old friends, from family friends, from online friends, from friends of online friends. From people whose names I don't recognise, some of which must be real names of bloggers, or instagrammers, others I just don't know. It shifts my mood from lonely 'nowhere to turn' despair, into the warmest biggest hug I ever had. '''' So that was written on Wednesday night. On Thursday I wake up with the desire to tell people who'd been on the edges of Sam's life - her old MS nurse, the activities team at the old care home, who'd always been good to her, Lucy M, the Guardian journalist who sent me the pile of books to read to Sam. Lucy emailed me back quite quickly, saying how sorry she was to hear Sam had died, that she'd been off twitter for a while, had gone back and read down my timeline and could she retweet my post about needing money for the funeral. Of course, I said, and thank you. I went down to make some breakfast and I kid you not, when I looked at my paypal account almost an hour later there was three thousand pounds in it, three thousand pounds, in less than an hour, fuck ing hell. Again. It knocked me a bit sideways to be honest. There's been another two since then, since I said thank you, brilliant, we're covered, stop now. Another two thousand pounds come in in tens and twenties from people I don't know so I can't return. I'm going to give a big chunk to the MS Centre where Sam had her physio, and I was going to bung a bit to MS research, but JK Rowling donated £15million for that today so instead I'm going to try and think of a treat for the staff of the care home, but I'm overwhelmed. I came upstairs three hours ago to write my piece for the funeral but all I have is false starts. I've always struggled with important emotional writing. Maybe I need to do 'write or die' where you write fast against the clock and get a penalty in the form of a loud klaxon or something if you stop writing - I've never slowed down enough to find out what you get. I'm great at wittering on - I can blether for hours but I don't know what to say about my Sam. She's been gone so long. 12:19 a.m. - 13.09.19 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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