Since Anita died, her brother has taken to phoning me once a week for a chat (and to see that I’m O.K.)

Last couple of weeks he hasn’t phoned.

I didn’t think much of it – just assumed he and his family had gone off on holiday.

Then he phoned Friday night to apologise for not being in touch for a couple of weeks and to tell a strange tale . . .

According to him, I had phoned him during the day, but when he had picked up the call there was no-one there. All he could hear was a low rumble of voices of folk speaking in the background. He had tried shouting ‘hello’ but there was no response. This happened 3 times.

I assured him I had not called him. In fact, I had not been anywhere near my mobile during the day – it was in the pocket of my jacket which had been hanging up while I was at work.

The question is – how had my mobile phone (not once, but 3 times), of it’s own accord, selected the address book icon from the main menu page, scrolled down through the list of numbers until it ‘found’ Mick’s number, and then dialled it? And why choose to ring Mick?

To my brother-in-law, there is no mystery here. The answer is obvious. His sister has used my mobile to reprimand him for not phoning me and to send a message to us both that there is something beyond the grave and that she is watching over us.

[He reminded me of the strange behaviour of his dad's radio that we brought into our house after his death - http://tinyurl.com/379pfwv - in support of his argument]

I needn’t tell you how much I want to believe that, but a lifetime’s skepticism about an afterlife can’t be shifted so easily just because I want to be reunited with Anita in the future – but I can’t think of any other explanation for those phone calls ?

I had the good fortune to spend almost 23 years of my life with a wonderful woman. I hope I have succeeded in conveying in this blog just how special she was

When we were given the news that she had lung cancer, we scoured the internet for information on treatment options and her likely life expectancy. It was terribly dispiriting to find that the doctor’s pessimistic forecast that her time was to be counted in weeks or a few short months was correct. We took strength, however, from the thought that these statistics were reporting the ‘average’ life expectancy. We determined that she would not be ‘average’ – that she, instead, would be the exception. We searched Cancer support forums online and read the ‘diaries’ of those few others in similar situations who had beaten the odds. That gave us strength and encouragement to fight on even in the darkest moments. if some people could do it, we thought – then we could too. And we did. We had nearly 3 years together after the cancer was diagnosed – instead of the 4-6 month the doctors and the statistics suggested was the best we could hope for.

Just as we gained strength and hope from other cancer victims and their carers who posted their stories online so too do I hope that others may read this blog and take some strength and encouragement from it. The end may be inevitable but you can postpone it for a while, making the most of your remaining time together

Though this is the last post in this blog, it will remain ‘live’ for people wishing to read and post comments

Although Anita has left me, I still have my memories of her – and in the unlikely event that I should ever forget what she looked like, I have photographs to remind me. And thanks to modern technology, I can listen to her voice whenever the mood takes me.

In the days following her death, I would ofttimes dial her cell phone and listen to her voicemail message – while it made me cry, being able to hear her voice made me feel less alone – less as if I had lost her forever. Fearful that there may come a time when her voicemail message would no longer be available, I had No 2 son ‘capture’ her message and convert it to an MP3 file for me.

You have seen photographs of Anita. Now hear her voice bring this blog to a close

They were not alone in doing so. Many others did too – the new work friends she had made. But those who were with her in the beginning were with her at the end. She would have been pleased with that.

The crem was packed when I stood to say a few words. I had thought about what I wanted to say but whether I said what I had intended, I do not know. When the moment came, the words I spoke were from the heart not the head.

Afterwards, we moved to the Cricket Club. This was a compromise between our ‘Local’ pub and the swanky (expensive) new Sports Club favoured by Mrs D for her Wake. But in truth, it was the best choice. We held our Wedding reception in the Cricket Club. What could be more fitting then that we should mark the end of our life together at the venue where we had marked it’s beginning.

He came in the middle of the night to say goodbye. The ward was in darkness – all were asleep, apart from me watching over Mrs D.

He stroked her hand gently and softly called her name – and as if returning from a great distance, she responded to his call, shaking off the morphine-induced slumber that gave her blessed relief from the pain.

I left them alone while I went to make coffee – trying to remember in the maze of corridors where was the kitchen I had been shown on my guided tour of the hospice that morning after Mrs D had been admitted.

Before he left, we talked quietly – two men who had loved Mrs D.

With misty eyes, he thanked me for phoning him and promised to be at the funeral.

Later, I held her in my arms as she spoke her last words -

‘I’m going now. Thank you. For everything’

I held her a few moments longer, letting the tears freely fall, before going in search of a nurse to tell them the best part of me had died.

In the end, it was a hollow victory.

It was a triumph of sorts – an achievement the doctors no doubt thought impossible when they told Mrs D back in July that we had reached the end and she now had only days left to live and to make arrangements to see friends/relatives as soon as possible before it was too late.

And in truth, in the days leading up to Xmas her health deteriorated so much and so rapidly that there were times that it seemed she would not make it through to the next day never mind Xmas. But she rallied – as she has on so many occasions before. When Xmas day arrived she made one final effort. She sat at the head of the table and listened to the excited voices all talking at once. She didn’t have the strength or the will to eat any of the food in front of her, or to talk. But for an hour or two she soaked up the sights and sounds of her family enjoying the day, gathering some more precious memories to store away and be brought out again and replayed as she lay in her bed back home.

Perhaps she’s replaying those memories now as she lies there sleeping – that ‘little death’ a welcome reprieve from the pain that wracks her body when awake until the morphine gives her a few hours of blessed relief in oblivion? For those precious memories have cost Mrs D dearly. In the 2 days since Xmas what little strength she had has left her. Her breathing so slow and shallow, she looks peaceful now as I watch over her – checking for sign of life, and quietly weeping – fearful that the moment will come and go and I will not be there to hold her when she finally breathes her last

Only 10 more sleeps till Xmas.

Mrs D has been keeping herself occupied the last few weeks shopping on line – not being able to get out of bed has not prevented her from filling our spare room with presents to be distributed on the day

It’s been a long time coming, and way back in July when we were told she had just days (possibly weeks, but certainly NOT months) left to live, the thought that she might still be here to see one final Xmas seemed like a wild – if not impossible – dream.

Only 10 more sleeps. Tantalisingly close. Today though it looks like Mrs D may fall at the final fence.

It’s been a long, long day – and it’s only 7.30pm

McMillan Nurse, District Nurse, G.P. have all been round this morning.

Mrs D awoke shortly after midnight, in pain (as usual) but this time the pain was compounded by an inability to breathe – which led to a panic attack (her and me both), making the breathing problem even worse.

She is very close to the end now. We both know this. She has lost so much weight, she looks like a corpse clinging to life. Today, though, there was no life in her eyes – only pain.

The McMillan nurse has alerted staff at the Hospice to be ready if I need to call them during the night to come and fetch her.

In the meantime, Mrs D has been asleep since mid-morning and I have spent the day watching over her – checking every so often that she is still breathing.

Only 10 more sleeps to go. Sadly, I have a great fear that while 2 of us may sleep tonight – only one of us will awake in the morning !!!

Mrs D’s ‘medicine’ was getting a bit low so I nipped round to our little corner shop to get her 40 fags and a couple of bottles of wine

‘How’s Anita?’ said the girl behind the counter.

‘Not too good’, I replied

‘Haven’t seen her in here for ages’, said Sunita

‘No’, I replied. ‘She doesn’t get out much, now. She’s bedridden’

‘Shame’, said Sunita.

‘It could be worse’, I said. ‘At least she’s got folk popping round now and again so she’s not just stuck with my company all the time’

‘Was that a visitor you had the other night?’, said an auld biddy in the queue behind me.

‘Hhmm’, I said – trying not to get dragged into conversation with a comparative stranger.

She was not to be put off

‘Only’, she said. ‘Alan said it was strange. There was a woman pulled up in a car outside your house as he was on his way back from the flats. When he looked out later she was still sat there – only there was a man in the car with her. He couldn’t see who it was – only the back of his head – but he’s certain it was a man.’

She gave me a searching glance as she said this – a look that said quite plainly that she and Alan had a pretty good idea who the man was. She waited for me to say something.

‘Hhmm’, I said

She paused to see if I was going to say more. After a few seconds of silence she carried on with her tale.

‘Alan said he didn’t see exactly when she drove off because his phone rang and when he returned to his window she was gone but she must have been there a good 40 minutes.’

‘Hhmm’, I said. ‘Aren’t we lucky to have Alan as a neighbour – with his strong sense of civic duty and keen interest in his surroundings.

Perhaps we can all club together and get him a stronger pair of binoculars for Xmas?

They say you should never intervene when two dogs are fighting. Firstly, to do so puts yourself at risk of being bitten. Secondly, by trying to pull one dog away from the scrap you run the risk of exposing it’s vulnerable parts to its rival. Of course when Wee Rab and Ceilidh are scrapping I ignore all that and dive right in to pull Ceilidh off him.

I was sat at the kitchen table working on my laptop when all hell broke loose behind me. They’ve had the occasional tiffs before but it’s mostly bluff, but this time Wee Rab was squealing so loudly and continuously I thought she was killing him – she gets cranky when she’s in season !

I spun round to see them both come scrambling into the kitchen, Rab squealing and Ceilidh growling and snapping, the two of them tumbling over one another, skidding on the tiled floor as wee Rab tried (I thought) to escape.

Without thinking, I grabbed Ceilidh by the scruff of the neck and pulled her off Wee Rab. It was then I realised she wasn’t attacking him at all. With her being held out the way I could see Wee Rab was wrestling with a kitten. I pulled him off her – giving her the chance to escape out the open kitchen door into the garden. She spurned that opportunity, choosing instead to run deeper into the house.

Fuck !!!

I shut Wee Rab and Ceilidh in the kitchen while I went in search of the intruder. I went from room to room but found no trace of her. There were no doors or windows open so she must be here somewhere – but where. While I was searching for her I deduced what must have happened. We have an open-plan kitchen that leads through to the study area where the dogs have their baskets. I had left the kitchen door open while I worked at the table. The kitten must have come in through the door, slipped past me and into the study area where she had run into the dogs.

O.K. that was how she’d got in but where was she now?

I searched every room. Looked behind and under every piece of furniture and found nothing. In desperation I let Wee Rab loose with instructions to find the cat. He didn’t need any instruction. He cast about for about 3 secs then ran straight to the settee in the living room. I looked behind it – Nothing. It didn’t seem possible anything could have got underneath it, given the small size of the gap between the floor and the settee, but Wee Rab was insistent that the cat was under there.

I put Rab back in the other room with Ceilidh then opened the patio door to give the kitten an escape route into the garden before lifting the settee on its end. As I did so, a small bundle of fur darted past me – not out the patio door into the garden but in the opposite direction to hide behind the TV stand

Fuck !!!

I spent the next 15 minutes trying to befriend the kitten, trying to lure it out from behind the TV – without success. Eventually I got fed up. I rammed the extension pole from the vacuum cleaner up it’s arse. It didn’t like that one bit. It shot about a foot in the air then made a run for the patio door, pausing briefly on the lip to give me a baleful backward glance

Fuck you, too !!!

I feel I should write something but find myself lost for words.

Last week was not a good week for Mrs D.

For the 1st time since we were told she had cancer, I had to call the McMillan Nurse from the local Hospice, and the district nurse in to help. Amongst other things discussed with the nurses, Mrs D made a declaration – to be recorded in her medical notes – that should her heart stop there is to be no attempt to resuscitate her.

There is much I could say about the hellish week that was but I find myself restrained by the wish to allow Mrs D to maintain some dignity.

There were times last week when the end seemed very very near and I was feeling very low. Then a friend sent me a vid. Because I was in an emotionally fragile state the vid reduced me to tears. But then the message it conveyed lifted me up. It would be so easy to give up, to accept the inevitable. But if I give up on herwhat then has Mrs D left to fight for? I need to remain strong so that I can pass some of that strength to Mrs D. This vid reminded me of the need never to give up – ever, no matter how dark the future may seem.