A long time ago, I wrote a post entitled Carpe Diem. It was written not long after a very good friend of mine, and the man who had introduced me and taught me to drumming, had lost his ongoing battle with cancer. It talked about the way that, following on from his death, I had regretted not making the effort to go back to where I grew up and go and see him, and the band that I used to be a part of, a regret that I still have today. The title became obvious to me as I wrote the post, and now I find myself writing another piece for which this title is, sadly, incredibly apt.
It's taken me almost 18 months to get to the point where I feel I can do this post justice. I'm not going to name names in this, in fact I'm intentionally changing them as the things I'm about to write about are incredibly personal, and the wounds still raw. My motivation for writing this post? I can't honestly answer that, as I don't really know. I guess it allows me to show that, from the dark days that clouded summer 2012, there can be an escape, and that time truly does heal.
So picture the scene. It's July 2012, and Mrs. Monkey and I are enjoying a normal evening at home. We're catching up on some telly that we had on our DVR box, when Mrs. Monkey's phone chimes in to say she has a message. It's from Mrs. Monkey's brother and it's to tell us that sadly him and his wife have lost their baby, a baby we didn't even know they were expecting. The tone of the evening changes in an instant. A hundred questions immediately spring into our heads, and we bounce them backwards and forwards. A reply goes back from us both expressing our sadness and our willingness to do absolutely anything that they need. Mrs. Monkey's phone immediately chimes in again. We expect a response from her brother, but no, it's a message from one of her very close friends. She's been diagnosed with breast cancer. It's devastating news, and again it fills us with numerous questions, but sadly no answers. We're rocked. In fact we're completely stunned. More sad news in 10 minutes than people expect to get within months.
The mood of the evening turns even more sombre. Questions about what we can do to help, and again a message back. We sit and feel helpless. Now wind the clock forwards. Not too far though. Only about 30 minutes. Suddenly my phone chimes in with a phone call from a very good friend. I put the messages of the last hour to the back of my mind and answer in my usual chirpy tone. I don't get a chirpy response. In fact I'm greeted with the saddest voice I've ever heard. "What's wrong?", I ask, but I know that this isn't going to be a run of the mill phone call. What follows is being replayed from memory, a memory that at some point in the conversation went into some kind of numb, survival mode. "I've got some bad news," the reply comes. "Tom died this afternoon." For the first time in my life I am absolutely speechless. I've read about people in these situations talking about feeling numb. I always thought it was a figure of speech until this moment. I truly go numb. My instincts kick in and I talk to Lucy (again, not her real name). I obviously express my sadness and offers of help that sound so hollow. I have an urge that I need to know what happened, but my instincts smother this and focus on Lucy instead. She does give some details though. Tom was out running and collapsed. And that was it, he was gone. She then asks me to ring round our group of extended friends and break the news to them. Of course I will. After all she has 2 beautiful daughters whose Daddy is never coming home again to break the news to. Compared to the thought of doing that, ringing around a group of adults is the least I can do.
Those phone calls were hard. Very hard. I was lucky that the first person I spoke to offered to split the calls with me and so we did half each. Unanimously, the response was shock and sadness. How could this happen? What happened? What can we do? I heard these from every person I spoke to. The following couple of days became a blur. Sleep was at a minimum (although more than Lucy was getting I expect). We chose not to tell our 2 little monkeys for a few days (one of whom had Tom and Lucy as Godparents). All too quickly, the day of the funeral came around. I really didn't know what to expect, but even if I had expected anything, it would not have prepared me for that day. I can safely say that this was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. The day was so charged with emotion. The funeral itself was a fitting send off, and was a good celebration of Tom's life. His coffin was carried out of the church to the main theme from Star Wars, a piece of music I can still not (and probably never will be able to) listen to without it making me incredibly sad (Tom loved the films).
The thing I found hardest that day was the helplessness, coupled with the absolute sense of loss. Watching Lucy break down and sob at the end of the committal in the crematorium is something that will haunt me forever. The flip side to that is the absolute strength that she showed on the day, and every day since, for their daughters. She has been an absolute rock, and has more inner strength than I can ever hope to have.
So where does this post go now? These events all happened in July 2012. Time started to heal. I could listen to music again after a week or so (it's a strange side effect of having something like this happen that every song holds a different meaning, and you just can't bear to listen to anything). There are still things that haven't changed. Everytime I think about that evening, and about the fact that Tom won't be there when we get together as a group of friends, and I get that falling feeling in my stomach. But time does move on, and the wounds do start to heal. I regret not spending more time with Tom and Lucy before Tom was so cruelly snatched away from us, and there isn't a day that goes by without me thinking about him - something that didn't happen when he was still alive. But by the same token, I'm more likely to remember the happy times that we spent together now, and to appreciate the time that we did have. Don't get me wrong, there are still moments and times when I feel so low about him not being around, that I could just sit and sob, but the happy memories appear more often now, and remind me how important it is to remember these things.
So what have I learnt over the past 18 months? There is 1 lesson which rings out loud and clear, and that it that, as the title of the post says, you must "Seize the Day". You never know what is coming round the corner at you, and if you're regretting not doing something, then it is already too late...
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