Thought for today:
"During mid-September, 2016 our beloved Rough Collie, Lady died. As the anniversary of her death approaches, I have found my thoughts going to pets and dogs this week more than usual. I absolutely hated having to live through the last two days of Lady's life, especially as her Mistress and my wife, Sheila, was in Singapore at the time having a 40-year reunion with some of her schoolmates. I was in a terrible dilemma as Lady was in considerable pain for two days before she had to be put down and Sheila was two days away from returning home to me and her beloved Lady. Lady did as I asked and hung on until Sheils'a return. Within the hour of Sheila returning home, we were making our last journey to the vets with our beloved dog. I still miss her and know deep down that I always will.
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This memory got me thinking about how important we often see last minute dashes to be at the deathbed of a loved one during their final moments and how disappointed we feel when we arrive minutes or a short time after they have breathed their last. The subject is one that is ripe with controversy. Just as some people are happy to look in the coffin of another for their final glance and farewell, others prefer to avoid the coffin ritual and choose to remember how their departed friend looked in happier times.
When my father was found dead at his home, he obviously spent his last moments alone. As he'd been in considerable pain for a year prior to his death, all his children, were greatly sad yet relieved when he died, knowing that he no would experience no more severe body pain. We realised just how much dad had missed the presence of mum after she'd died.
Mum was in the hospital when she died very young and unexpectedly at the age of 64 years. I left her after my hospital visit on a Friday evening, and being extremely occupied elsewhere the following day, we laughed and joked at her bedside before I left. I promised to visit her again in two day's time on Sunday afternoon and smilingly asked her not to die on me before I came back. My last sight of mum was her waving to me from her bedside window. She was smiling broadly. The following night witnessed a dramatic and unexpected decline in her health and she died early the following morning while all her seven children and her husband slept. On this occasion, I chose not to view my mother laid to rest in her coffin before her burial service. I am so pleased that I decided to keep my enduring memory of her as being one of a smile on her face and devilment in her eyes as this is how I always recalled growing up as a child.
I also had a close friend called David who died many years ago. He had been very ill for some considerable time and had been using an oxygen cylinder in his home for 18 months before dying. David was always smiling and wryly joking and for nearly twenty years after Sunday Mass in the coffee room, we would set the world to rights. When he eventually had to go into hospital for the final time, I was naturally concerned and being retired, I visited the Leeds General Hospital daily. David's wife, Patricia, had passed away from cancer some years earlier, and his two children lived at the other end of the country and couldn't visit him regularly. So, I became his number one visitor so to speak.
I recall the very last time I saw David alive. I'd visited him in the hospital, and as I walked into the ward I saw him chatting up an attractive looking nurse. David always held an eye for the ladies, and even when his wife was alive and sitting next door to him in church or the pub, she would frequently be seen tugging his arm with an audible 'tut-tut', to tell him to stop ogling some young woman. As David saw me arrive at his bedside, he apologised and said he had just ordered a bedpan. A nurse delivered his bedpan seconds later and drew the screen around his bed to give him some privacy. I naturally stayed on the outside of the screen as we continued to chat away cheerfully. For fifteen minutes we chatted before the ward nurse approached me and said,' He is often a good half hour on his bedpan and you might be as well going to the canteen for a cup of tea meanwhile'. Hearing these words, David said, 'Thanks for popping in, Billy (He and his wife went to the same Catholic First School in Heckmondwike and he's always called me Billy like my family members), call it a day and come back tomorrow. I've a bit of constipation and I'll be on this bedpan another half hour yet!' I left the ward smiling and the following day when I returned to visit David, I found his bed stripped; him having died an hour earlier. Today, I would much prefer having last seen and spoken to the David I knew so well. I was proud when his two children asked me to present his eulogy at his funeral service, as I'd also presented his wife, Patricia's.
One of the most poignant deathbed scenes I had to deal with was my dear Mother substitute, Etta Denton. I had met Miss Denton when she was 82 years old. She was visiting her friend, Mary Milner, a widowed neighbour of mine in Mirfield whose gardening I weekly attended as she was housebound. Upon being introduced to me by Mary, Miss Denton formally said, 'I live at Gothic House, Mr Forde and am in need of a regular gardener to tidy my garden. I'll gladly pay you for your services'. Being a mutual friend of Mary Milners I agreed. That decision was to prove momentous for me.
Having been introduced into Etta's life, I remained an important part of it until she died at the age of 94 years. We grew closer daily, and with my mother having died a number of years earlier and Etta never married, she effectively adopted me as the son she always wanted and never had, and I was more than happy to fill this role in her life. Etta had always feared having to one day enter an Old Folk's Home. I will never forget the day I informed her this would never happen if she didn't desire it and that she would be taken care of in my house and if necessary, be allowed to die there when the time came if necessary. The children already regarded her as an honorary grandmother.
When Etta was 94 years old, she fell and entered the hospital briefly. For the next six months, she didn't seem to properly recover her confidence. When it became apparent that she was near her end of life, I stayed and slept at her house for the final four weeks of her life. I recall her last night alive. It was around 2.00am when I suddenly arose from my sleep. I sensed that this was the moment so I entered Etta's bedroom and found her still. She had died with a smile on her face. Being her ' Enduring Power of Attorney', it was left to me to make the necessary funeral arrangements. I was as sad at Etta's death as much as I had been at my mum's passing. She kindly willed me 'Gothic House', a dwelling in a poor state that sounded far grander than its overall condition. It was around autumn and the apples from her four Braeburn trees that had stood there for forty years lay fallen in the overgrown grass. For a month I grieved and found that I was too sad to tidy up her garden one last time. Eventually, when the grieving was done and the time had finally arrived to 'let Etta go', I cut the grass, collected the fallen apples, cleared the leaves and sold the house.
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There is a time to be happy and a time to be sad; a time to hold on to what is dear in your life and a time to 'let go'. I have always loved dogs ever since my early childhood. A wet nose and a sloppy kiss when one returns home is literally as good a welcome as being greeted inside the front door by one's beautiful wife, barely clad and waving a finger in your direction before grabbing you by the tie and leading you to the bedroom in her most seductive manner!
All of us who have a loving pet that has been a great part of our lives for so long will naturally resist making that final decision to end the relationship until our pet's pain becomes too much to bear a moment longer. My own view is that a pet owner starts preparing for their pet's death as soon as the signs start to show. They instinctively begin to grieve from that moment, so that when that final journey to the vets is made, although very sad and filled with loss, the act of putting down own's loved one becomes more 'bearable'.
Ever since first learning that I had a terminal blood cancer, I instantly decided to tell my family and friends the actual situation so that during my journey of the final steps of life (however many it takes), when it eventually happens, it will not come as so great a shock, although a sense of loss will undoubtedly be there. I think that humans (who are notoriously bad for preparing for death and attending funeral services) should respond exactly as we do when coping with a pet's death, knowing that process to be a healthy one.
Those of us who have been privileged to know a creature who knows our very mood even before we openly express it and who is undoubtedly our main provider of unqualified love whatever the occasion or circumstances, will know how hard it is to 'let go' of such strength in our life. Yet, learning to 'let go' of significant things, events and people is essential to our coping mechanism and 'moving on'.
And when it comes to the death of a pet, partner, family member or close friend, 'letting go' is sometimes the kindest of all pain to feel. We will be left with fond recollection and eternal gratitude to have been lucky enough to have known such a noble creature who will forever remain a prime source of constant remembrance." William Forde: October 28th, 2014.
"During mid-September, 2016 our beloved Rough Collie, Lady died. As the anniversary of her death approaches, I have found my thoughts going to pets and dogs this week more than usual. I absolutely hated having to live through the last two days of Lady's life, especially as her Mistress and my wife, Sheila, was in Singapore at the time having a 40-year reunion with some of her schoolmates. I was in a terrible dilemma as Lady was in considerable pain for two days before she had to be put down and Sheila was two days away from returning home to me and her beloved Lady. Lady did as I asked and hung on until Sheils'a return. Within the hour of Sheila returning home, we were making our last journey to the vets with our beloved dog. I still miss her and know deep down that I always will.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
This memory got me thinking about how important we often see last minute dashes to be at the deathbed of a loved one during their final moments and how disappointed we feel when we arrive minutes or a short time after they have breathed their last. The subject is one that is ripe with controversy. Just as some people are happy to look in the coffin of another for their final glance and farewell, others prefer to avoid the coffin ritual and choose to remember how their departed friend looked in happier times.
When my father was found dead at his home, he obviously spent his last moments alone. As he'd been in considerable pain for a year prior to his death, all his children, were greatly sad yet relieved when he died, knowing that he no would experience no more severe body pain. We realised just how much dad had missed the presence of mum after she'd died.
Mum was in the hospital when she died very young and unexpectedly at the age of 64 years. I left her after my hospital visit on a Friday evening, and being extremely occupied elsewhere the following day, we laughed and joked at her bedside before I left. I promised to visit her again in two day's time on Sunday afternoon and smilingly asked her not to die on me before I came back. My last sight of mum was her waving to me from her bedside window. She was smiling broadly. The following night witnessed a dramatic and unexpected decline in her health and she died early the following morning while all her seven children and her husband slept. On this occasion, I chose not to view my mother laid to rest in her coffin before her burial service. I am so pleased that I decided to keep my enduring memory of her as being one of a smile on her face and devilment in her eyes as this is how I always recalled growing up as a child.
I also had a close friend called David who died many years ago. He had been very ill for some considerable time and had been using an oxygen cylinder in his home for 18 months before dying. David was always smiling and wryly joking and for nearly twenty years after Sunday Mass in the coffee room, we would set the world to rights. When he eventually had to go into hospital for the final time, I was naturally concerned and being retired, I visited the Leeds General Hospital daily. David's wife, Patricia, had passed away from cancer some years earlier, and his two children lived at the other end of the country and couldn't visit him regularly. So, I became his number one visitor so to speak.
I recall the very last time I saw David alive. I'd visited him in the hospital, and as I walked into the ward I saw him chatting up an attractive looking nurse. David always held an eye for the ladies, and even when his wife was alive and sitting next door to him in church or the pub, she would frequently be seen tugging his arm with an audible 'tut-tut', to tell him to stop ogling some young woman. As David saw me arrive at his bedside, he apologised and said he had just ordered a bedpan. A nurse delivered his bedpan seconds later and drew the screen around his bed to give him some privacy. I naturally stayed on the outside of the screen as we continued to chat away cheerfully. For fifteen minutes we chatted before the ward nurse approached me and said,' He is often a good half hour on his bedpan and you might be as well going to the canteen for a cup of tea meanwhile'. Hearing these words, David said, 'Thanks for popping in, Billy (He and his wife went to the same Catholic First School in Heckmondwike and he's always called me Billy like my family members), call it a day and come back tomorrow. I've a bit of constipation and I'll be on this bedpan another half hour yet!' I left the ward smiling and the following day when I returned to visit David, I found his bed stripped; him having died an hour earlier. Today, I would much prefer having last seen and spoken to the David I knew so well. I was proud when his two children asked me to present his eulogy at his funeral service, as I'd also presented his wife, Patricia's.
One of the most poignant deathbed scenes I had to deal with was my dear Mother substitute, Etta Denton. I had met Miss Denton when she was 82 years old. She was visiting her friend, Mary Milner, a widowed neighbour of mine in Mirfield whose gardening I weekly attended as she was housebound. Upon being introduced to me by Mary, Miss Denton formally said, 'I live at Gothic House, Mr Forde and am in need of a regular gardener to tidy my garden. I'll gladly pay you for your services'. Being a mutual friend of Mary Milners I agreed. That decision was to prove momentous for me.
Having been introduced into Etta's life, I remained an important part of it until she died at the age of 94 years. We grew closer daily, and with my mother having died a number of years earlier and Etta never married, she effectively adopted me as the son she always wanted and never had, and I was more than happy to fill this role in her life. Etta had always feared having to one day enter an Old Folk's Home. I will never forget the day I informed her this would never happen if she didn't desire it and that she would be taken care of in my house and if necessary, be allowed to die there when the time came if necessary. The children already regarded her as an honorary grandmother.
When Etta was 94 years old, she fell and entered the hospital briefly. For the next six months, she didn't seem to properly recover her confidence. When it became apparent that she was near her end of life, I stayed and slept at her house for the final four weeks of her life. I recall her last night alive. It was around 2.00am when I suddenly arose from my sleep. I sensed that this was the moment so I entered Etta's bedroom and found her still. She had died with a smile on her face. Being her ' Enduring Power of Attorney', it was left to me to make the necessary funeral arrangements. I was as sad at Etta's death as much as I had been at my mum's passing. She kindly willed me 'Gothic House', a dwelling in a poor state that sounded far grander than its overall condition. It was around autumn and the apples from her four Braeburn trees that had stood there for forty years lay fallen in the overgrown grass. For a month I grieved and found that I was too sad to tidy up her garden one last time. Eventually, when the grieving was done and the time had finally arrived to 'let Etta go', I cut the grass, collected the fallen apples, cleared the leaves and sold the house.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
There is a time to be happy and a time to be sad; a time to hold on to what is dear in your life and a time to 'let go'. I have always loved dogs ever since my early childhood. A wet nose and a sloppy kiss when one returns home is literally as good a welcome as being greeted inside the front door by one's beautiful wife, barely clad and waving a finger in your direction before grabbing you by the tie and leading you to the bedroom in her most seductive manner!
All of us who have a loving pet that has been a great part of our lives for so long will naturally resist making that final decision to end the relationship until our pet's pain becomes too much to bear a moment longer. My own view is that a pet owner starts preparing for their pet's death as soon as the signs start to show. They instinctively begin to grieve from that moment, so that when that final journey to the vets is made, although very sad and filled with loss, the act of putting down own's loved one becomes more 'bearable'.
Ever since first learning that I had a terminal blood cancer, I instantly decided to tell my family and friends the actual situation so that during my journey of the final steps of life (however many it takes), when it eventually happens, it will not come as so great a shock, although a sense of loss will undoubtedly be there. I think that humans (who are notoriously bad for preparing for death and attending funeral services) should respond exactly as we do when coping with a pet's death, knowing that process to be a healthy one.
Those of us who have been privileged to know a creature who knows our very mood even before we openly express it and who is undoubtedly our main provider of unqualified love whatever the occasion or circumstances, will know how hard it is to 'let go' of such strength in our life. Yet, learning to 'let go' of significant things, events and people is essential to our coping mechanism and 'moving on'.
And when it comes to the death of a pet, partner, family member or close friend, 'letting go' is sometimes the kindest of all pain to feel. We will be left with fond recollection and eternal gratitude to have been lucky enough to have known such a noble creature who will forever remain a prime source of constant remembrance." William Forde: October 28th, 2014.
