annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary

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A bit full on, tbh

5/4/24
I had the mole removed yesterday and it was much more than I expected. The people were really nice, the doctor, the nurse and the HCA, put me at ease, explained everything, chatted while the actual cutting was going on to distract me – the nurse had been to the school where I taught so we had a happy five minutes slagging off the ghastly headteacher – but it was still BIG. She cut away more than I expected, and gave me a list of prohibitions to match something much more serious than I’d bargained for. No exercise at all, no not even yin yoga, definitely not HIIT, only walking on level ground, no lifting things, no walking the dog unless I’m sure I can keep the lead in my left hand and she won’t pull (that’s a no then). No dancing, no swimming, no saunas. All of this for two weeks. I thought it was just going to be no swimming in the sea and I’d thought I would anyway, keeping my arm out of the water.
All of which distracted me from lovely, dearest Barb, who didn’t have the opportunity to not go dancing, but was allowed to die from her dodgy mole.
I came home and flaked right out, in bed by nine, asleep before doing the next day’s wordle which never happens. I’ve done it now, not going to break my streak of 61 days.
And today was Bill’s funeral, as lovely a funeral as a person could wish for – standing room only, packed, with people from every stage of his life. I read this and had people I didn’t know telling me how much they’d liked it all day.
Eulogy for Bill
Dear Bill, I never thought you’d really die. I mean, I knew you would in the end, we all will, but I thought this was going to be one of those familiar times when you were very, very ill, we all feared for you, you almost died, then recovered and lived to fight another day, another set of symptoms. I did have a flicker of thought that you might not make it this time, but dismissed it, of course you would.
But you didn’t and there’s a part of me that’s glad you don’t have to fight so hard any more, that you’re at peace.
I’ve known Bill forever, it seems, since we were in our 20s, long, long ago, before either of us shaped up, had kids, lived better lives. I didn’t like him much at first, to be honest. We met in the pub, the Lady Jane as was, where we all seemed to hang out much of the time. Bill was always drunk, but so were most of us in those days. We were part of the same crowd, many of us here today, the survivors. Too many have been lost along the way.
Although Bill was a big drinker, he was always kind. J, who was J Riddle then and is with us in spirit today from her home in Las Vegas, told me how, when she and P had to get married quickly, for P to get his Green Card, Bill threw them a party which she remembers fondly to this day. They were ‘just’ people in the pub but Bill was there, seeing an opportunity to do a good turn to another good person.
He chose life in the end and that was when I started to know him better, both living at MB’s, not going to the pub, sitting in the back room, shouting at the telly, smoking ourselves stupid, holding forth, putting the world to rights.
Late in life we both separately went to uni, got good degrees and sensible, grown up jobs. Toned down the swearing. A bit. Bill was with V, then their daughter M came along. It makes me so happy to know that Bill’s life was almost in two halves, that he did have that great second part, sober Bill with his family, his home, his garden. Travelling the world, visiting friends, surrounded by love and beauty.
While I was thinking about what to say about Bill I heard the phrase ‘it takes grit to make a pearl’ and that was Bill. He grew into such a lovely man. My kids all loved him, especially Sammie. As her health failed, Bill was always there for her, helping her fill in application forms for jobs she’d never get, supporting the walkers on the fund raiser we did to get her a van, raising tons of money. When Sam was 40 and fading fast, Bill came to Wetherspoons to help her celebrate – her face lit up at the sound of his voice.
His lovely voice – he could talk, could Bill. He could tell a story, hold an audience. Often funny, always a bit fucking sweary, frequently indignant, full of rage at the state of the world, but always kind and the epitome of punching up not down.
Before lockdown he started coming to the art group at the recovery centre and I’ve seen him there most weeks ever since, albeit on zoom. I’ve loved spending time with him, hearing him talk, seeing the beautiful art he made.
You were a pearl, Bill, a proper diamond geezer. You touched many lives with your heart and your humour. We miss you.
I’d like to finish with these lines which I read at my brother Andrew’s funeral, six years ago today:
Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,
Nor the furious winter’s rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

11:44 p.m. - 05.04.24

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