Last week turned out to be one that I wish had never happened.

 The bad news about my brother, Michael that started during the stay at Pete and Lynn’s prompting my rush back to the U.K., continued and just got worse.

The previous phone conversations with my sisters had half prepared me, so the impact of the first hospital visit wasn’t as bad as it could have been.

We arrived, direct from the airport, to find Michael in a very poor condition. He was on life support and heavily sedated to the extent that he wasn’t aware of much at all. I hope he knew we were there, I think so, but can’t be sure.

Then 3 days later, he’d gone.

Right now, I find it quite difficult to reflect on all of the weeks’ events, but some of the feelings that I can recall, are those of stacks of emotion, masses of care, huge amounts of bravery and just a certain sense of irony.

The emotion was inevitable and obvious, affected us all and was, at times, very difficult to cope with.

The genuine care and concern, something that seemed almost second nature, and continually shown by the Harefield hospital  I.T.U. nurses, was very comforting, and something that always amazed.

The quiet inner strength and bravery of Carol, my sister-in -law and her family was something that was just there all the time, and a reflection of Michael, and the sort of family they are.

And the irony, well, it was there in a number of ways. The fact that this was happening to a bloke who spent much of his life keeping one step ahead of problems that would have floored many of us, yet never once feeling the need to look over his shoulder. Then there was the speed of it all. It had the effect of depriving him of the chance to metaphorically raise two fingers in, what I know would have been, his inevitable gesture of defiance.

 He would have known that this would have had the effect of defusing the situation by depriving this, obnoxious and devastating, disease of its’ emotional strength, by confining to the realms of being, just something else to deal with (I can see that familiar shrug of his shoulders right now) How many of us, I wonder, have that sort of ability?

And what about the irony of me rushing back from Portugal, and experiencing a train journey that I know would have made him smile. The archaic nature of it, the laid back conductors, the rustic rolling stock flying along with doors and windows wide open, all the time feeling  like they were  looking for a chance to  throw themselves off the rails. This would have compared well with some of his earlier journeys and been turned into a topic for good a story.

And then, perhaps, the biggest irony of all. Here was someone coming from a family, fairly renowned for dodgy hearts, yet his own was refusing to give up and put up the sort of fight that raised the eyebrows of those around and caring for him.

Kind of think that says’ it all really