I'm Getting Married in the Morning

This time last year I woke up for the last time a single man in the eyes of the law. We had been friends for nearly 37 years and most of that time we had lived together. Our relationship hurtled from friendship to rushed and fumbled sex to deciding we would move out of our digs together and start a new life in the space of a mere 4 months.

Once our relationship became a threesome with lung cancer as the unwanted interloper, we decided we couldn’t put off getting married (or, if you have to be pernickety, be joined in a Civil Partnership). We arranged to see the Registrar the afternoon after the first of what were to be several visits to the oncologist, none of which happened at the appointed hour, on the 30th March 2012, less than two weeks after the diagnosis. We hummed and hahed over when we would have it, and also decided it would be a form signing exercise as we didn’t want a ridiculous fuss and pointless expense over it. We had lived together so long, this was merely the formal legal moment on nearly 37 years.

The chemotherapy took a lot out of him and getting married was seen as less important, as we also planned one hell of a holiday, three weeks in our favourite part of the world, south-east Asia. Eventually we decided on this day in 2013. It would be a Saturday, so nobody had to take time off to turn up for a rubber stamp job. “Sign here” off we would go. That was my attitude to it. It was a legal formality that was necessary. The writing of a will would then be something we could spend time thinking about.

A bone scan the week before had revealed, not to my surprise, the cancer had spread to his bones. The day before our marriage we saw the oncologist who booked Laing in to be measured up to pinpoint the pelvic area for a 10 minute blast of radiotherapy the Tuesday after.

We woke up on the 12th January 2013, as usual in our bed, but at an earlier hour than normal, had coffee, then got up for breakfast. I had spotted a shirt in March or April of 2012 that I wanted to wear for our marriage. I had also bought new chinos and shoes (they were a very uncomfortable compromise purchase and haven’t been worn since) for the event. As time approached, I went to Barkingside station to meet my cousin and her husband who were to be our two witnesses. Ours was a quiet, unostentatious marriage. Just the final legal seal on what had been a glorious life together, despite the inevitable ups and downs.

The Reigstrar who performed the ceremony was the same person who had taken our details when we registered our intention in the same room we met her nearly 10 months earlier. She was bright and cheerful and chatty. Your truly was wishing all this would be over and done with. “Let me sign and get out of here” was the romantic association I had with the whole farago.

We finally came to the bit of the formal declaration. We could read it to ourselves or out loud if we wanted. I looked at Laing. We smiled at each other. This was it. I said something like, “OK, I’ll read it out.” I was reading it in a matter of fact way and then, oh Hubris, how you make us stumble even in small moments of insignificant lives, “I declare that I know of no legal reason why we may not register as each other’s civil partner” or something like that read the first sentence.

I didn’t make it to the end. My voice cracked, a tear rapidly rose in my right eye. Laing and I reached out for each other’s hand. I felt a small squeeze from him, that beautiful loving touch couples the world over share that says so much than mere words. I looked round to our witnesses. They were smiling. My cousin’s smile took me back to the days of our innocence when we played in the large garden of her parent’s home some 50 years ago. I felt so foolish. I was the one who had down played the whole event and here I was, the emotional wreck. I think I apologised and re-read the sentence and continued. Laing read the same words faultlessly, as though he were reciting the week’s shopping list, and yet with a beautiful tenderness I don’t think I realised until now how tender his voice was. Well we all signed, went outside, took a few photos of us in various combinations since David and Tony (Bailey and Snowden if you really have to have it spelt out for you) were not available for our snaps, and who wants second rate photos? Better go for the family album photos.

Off we went in the glorious wedding carriage of the bus to Gants Hill station to connect with the Central Line to Stratford for a coffee at Cafe Nero at Westfield, then onto the Overground and a walk to Fredericks, possibly one of our favourite eateries. We had a great time. The wine flowed the conversation was good (though my hearing problems made the experience hell for me).

Later, when reviewing the photos, Laing said “I’ve never seen you look so happy.”

I’ve never been as happy since.

I am 59 going on 60 ...

It has been a long time since I posted, and this is not a New Year's Resolution to start posting regularly.

The last two years saw my life torn apart by cancer. To say I hate cancer is mild. There is an expletive that adds the full force of my hate. Cancer struck my husband, my mother and her sister. I've had enough of cancer.

I have tried to get my life back together. I've had sex with three (much younger) guys I wanted to be with, and I assume they wanted to be with me in bed! That  has helped. The most recent guy has also been a life saver for me. I wish I knew what the chemistry is that I have with him, but he has given me a confidence that I never thought I would ever have again, thanks to cancer. If what I have is love and if it is returned, I don't know. There are plenty of unhatched eggs and too few chicks so I am not going to start counting.

I've also made friends with cancer widows and widowers, other guys who are not interested in me sexually but who have extended the helping hand of kindness and friendship.

It's not been easy to keep myself well balanced all year. Tears still pop up unexpectedly. Sometimes just a little moisture in the eye, sometimes with the force of a river in flood. It has got easier, but there are still some cracks as I discovered yesterday.

So if any readers of my blog are gay, Oriental (preferably Chinese, but other races are not excluded), in the age group of 30 to 50, I'm happy to know you and maybe meet you. Maybe only as friends, but friendship is underrated.

Laing and I were friends before we realised our friendship was something more. When, on 19th March 2012, he was diagnosed with cancer, only then did we know what love demanded of us. Only then did we discover the full strength of our love. I hope none of you will face cancer, whether operable or curable or not. It is a roller coaster experience.

The other thing is, even at my age, I find I am able to be attractive to others. That is one hell of an ego massage. Age and widowhood doesn't mean the end of one's own life. It is the close of one chapter, and the story has still far to go.

The Eulogy I wrote and read at Laing's funeral

I wrote the following Eulogy for Laing, my partner. If anybody passes by and reads this and gets benefit from it then it has all been worthwhile. I  threw in a few ad libs, but this is what I managed to say, just, before the emotions took me over and  I pressed the button to close the curtain on him. I had to do it. I did everything else for him in the latter stages, so the service was the least I could do in its entirety. As I set up this post, the bells of the campanile in San Marco have just rung out. The sound always excited me when I was with Laing, now they have taken on a poignancy that is impossible for me to describe.

The Eulogy

Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.

I met William Laing Donaldson, a scrawny beanpole aged 20 years 2 weeks and 5 days, after he had fled Selkirk in provincial bonny Scotland to seek refuge in the English capital, on Saturday the 14th of February 1976, when he was assigned to the same digs as I by the DHSS. 

We enjoyed an instant rapport and friendship. He was good company, witty and sophisticated. He actually enjoyed some of the weird music I liked, and much to my surprise he had at the very least heard of most of it. 

From this insignificant acorn grew a close friendship, which swiftly matured into something more.

DHSS held little interest for him, and so he moved to what was to become BT. Here he flourished and advanced. Most of his colleagues were only ever names to me, but through stories they were well known. I lacked faces to put to names. One team he was in took it in turns to take home the fictitious Gerald the Gerbil at weekends.

Taking early retirement from BT, he tried his hand at becoming a life coach, which sadly did not work out as hoped for. 

In 2004 he was the victim of an assault and robbery. The offences for which the perpetrator was charged the police believed to be homophobically motivated. Laing was not his only victim.

But Laing being Laing, apart from having me by his side when he gave his police statement, did not talk about the assault or moved on to another subject if I raised it. I was getting treatment for depression at the same time and he shouldered both my troubles and his concurrently.

He was convinced he would never live to be 60. His only wish, he told me often, but many, many times in his last year was to make my life as comfortable and enjoyable as possible. In this he succeeded brilliantly. He looked after all our household affairs. I was also spoiled beyond belief. His last gift to me was the new iPad mini. I think it is capable of reproducing the knowledge of the universe, with "Don't Panic" in large friendly letters on the cover. He just never told me how to get the app for it.

So much for a quick biography. What of Laing and me, an unknown or unrealised quantity to some of you?

We had some overlap in our musical tastes, though he was more interested in jazz than I, hence the reason for ‘Take Five’ at the start, a recording we both enjoyed from our younger days. The last piece of music is to acknowledge his Scottishness, something he usually underplayed, though he could be quite passionate and even sentimental about it. You will have to make do with a recording of ‘Flower of Scotland’ by The Corries, though I would have preferred a recording of the crowd at Murrayfield accompanied by a band of pipers in full cry at the prospect of a Calcutta Cup and Grand Slam victory over ‘the auld enemy’.

We shared the same sense of humour (puns and the surreal especially, coupled with a love of radio comedy such as Round the Horne and I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue). We loved Woody Allen, Art House and foreign language films, but I took him downmarket and introduced him to Rocky Horror and the Time Warp! He also was good at deliberately bad Franglais. 

He introduced me to wine and its related pleasures, usually a bad memory and a sore head the following morning. To drink wine in Laing’s eyes required a wine bar, and through drinking regularly at one we made friends with a French barman, and two Swiss customers. All three we have been able to call our friends for a very long time.

Laing bought our very first computer, a Sinclair ZX-81. Computers were a pleasing puzzle to be explored. He enjoyed creating webpages. Can anybody solve what he did on mine? His visual talent was, in my unbiased opinion, unmatched with his elegant mix of simplicity and sophistication.

Travel was central to our lives for 30 odd years. He introduced me to France. Regular trips there evolved through flirtations with Germany and Spain into a late flowering lust for Italy. When he wanted to go further afield he suggested Singapore and Hong Kong, places from my infancy, and I was able to show him exactly where I grew up. During this trip, 13 years after we met, I think he understood me better. He didn’t seem to have regretted it. Our favourite destinations included Bali, Singapore, Hong Kong. It’s beginning to look like a list of Hope and Crosby films!

Our last two holidays were truly fabulous and typical. First we went for three weeks to the Far East, business class all the way at Laing's insistence, to Burma, where we had both wanted to go to for years, then Penang, Saigon and Thailand. A few weeks later we were back in Venice for our usual Christmas visit. Something then told me this would be our last trip together, and yet he continued to talk about future trips we would make.

Laing knew how to win friends and influence people no matter how much he liked or not so much liked them. I have a flair for putting my foot in it and digging myself deeper in a pit. Laing, was always there to either rub my nose in it or help me out.

However, on 19 March 2012 cancer officially entered our lives. Our relationship had been a happy twosome for 36 years, but now it was an unwanted threesome. Laing neither asked nor wanted to know how severe it was, nor how much time was left to him. I only found out the truth minutes before he died.

During his cancer and treatment I took on what had been his household duties. In his last weeks, I helped him get changed, which he grudgingly accepted, since he was not always able to do it easily for himself. Also the were times he could not get up out of bed unaided. That’s what the cancer did to him. When I said had the situation been reversed I knew he would have done the same for me he shrugged his shoulders and said nothing or veered away to another topic.

The last twelve hours of his life Laing and I were tossed about in a tsunami. Cancer is cruel tyrant when it has the upper hand. His personality changed. Whether it was a lack of oxygen or a spread of the cancer to his brain or a combination of the two, I don’t know. Whatever it was, it wasn’t pretty. I eventually got him to agree to an ambulance. When in A & E, after he received treatment, he was at his most charming and lucid, quite like the lovely man we all know, but death was waiting for him. 

Eventually, when Laing passed beyond the point of no return, a calmness and release from the pain that had eluded him for weeks visibly came over him. I held his hand as he died, part wishing this was not so and yet knowing he was leaving the pain and agony that he had endured for far too long.

Being with him on the cancer roller coaster, from my suspicions of its presence (which he would have rejected out of hand as me over reacting as the resident drama queen of the household), through diagnosis, the palliative chemo and radio therapy, through to his death, being by his side through it all, was the very least I could do for my best friend and lover whom I will always have the privilege to call my husband.

The grieving process goes on

Well, I got through the weekend OK. The 26th was his birthday. He would have been 57.

I HATE CANCER.

Today, the 30th, is the first day I had a full breakfast or breakfast at one sitting. A glass of OJ, half a tin of grapefruit segments, 2 Waitrose version of Weetabix, 1 slice of toast and marmalade. Not a lot, I know, but I am having to force myself to eat and look after myself.

Before he died is was weighing between 97/98 kg. I'm now down to 94 kg, partly due to not eating properly, and partly due to doing a lot of physical exercise clearing out his stuff and throwing out rubbish we had both accumulated as well as walking to and from the recycling bins.

Life has to go on. He said I would survive his death and get on, whereas he didn't think he could. He said he would die before he was 60. If he was right on one, I'm bloody sure he will be proved right on the other.

Gone, but not forgotten.

Sadly the radiotherapy was not worth going for.

Late on 18th January my partner became extremely unlike himself. I shan't go into detail here at this time everything is now getting jumbled up in my head. Somehow, despite the problems (I was convinced it was the cancer having spread to his brain that caused the personality change), I got him dressed and got an ambulance.

The two ambulance guys and the staff at King George Hospital, Ilford deserve mention here. Totally and thoroughly professional.

It seems the cancer had more or less gone on a merry jaunt throughout his system. He died and I was there nearly all the time. The final moments were very calm, I knew the pain had gone. I looked at the nurse as if to say "has he gone?" and she nodded and mouthed or whispered "yes". After his death they allowed me a lot of time, I could have taken more, but the NHS is not there to serve only one grieving partner. Life goes on for many others, and I felt I had to be mindful of that.

However, to still hold his hand and tell him how much I loved him and kiss his forehead seems so soap opera, but one does it.

So my intent of writing about his cancer treatment and how it was doing some good have now been thrown to the wind.

I hope I can continue to blog as anything out on the web that might be found for others in the same situation, be they gay or straight couples, would be worth it. Bereavement is not fun, especially of one still young. It would have been his 57th birthday on 26th January, and our 37th anniversary on 14th February.

Confusion

We thought we had an appointment Tuesday for a dose of radiotherapy. We were wrong. It was just to map out the lie of the land and "X marks the spot" for the treatment.

So here we are, Thursday, we have an appointment. His painkillers are running out, he has had severe constipation that has only just overnight and this morning started to clear up.

This is some bastard punishment for us thinking the shrinking of the tumour was a good sign. If governments only put as much effort into keeping citizens alive and healthy as they do to finding ways of exterminating any life forms, shit like this would not happen.

Sorry to rant, but it's that or go mad, and I know which is the better alternative.

New year, same problems

Well, we made it.

Yesterday, Saturday 12th January 2013, my partner and I, in the presence of my cousin and her husband, officially became a legalised couple in our local Registrar's Office. Sadly, my brother was unable to attend. Not that it was any great event. We turned up, said we were still who we said we were last year, paid the fee, got the witnesses in, and signed.

A pleasant lunch for four at Fredericks in Islington ended off the event quite nicely.

The day was marred by the previous day's experience. We had an oncologist appointment. A bone scan done a week before, had shown there to be a spread of the cancer from the lung into the bone.

Tuesday, he has an appointment for a dose of radiotherapy. I hope and pray it will pass reasonably well.