The email you never want to send or receive

Yesterday afternoon I’d gone to visit my mum for a cuppa and while I was there I received an email that I wasn’t expecting and it left me very shocked. I’ve taken out some information and changed the name/locations as I didn’t want to discuss the detail, more the principle:

I apologise if you already have this information or whether it is relevant to you. As I have no idea who you are in relation to Joe, I am just sending this to all of his e-mail contacts.

Joe Bloggs passed away suddenly on the 9th April .

Being overseas we have had a lot of things to sort out and I have only just got around to sorting his e-mails.

We will be taking Joe home to Essex next Monday and we will be saying farewell to him on Thursday 28th April  at 1pm, at the Colchester crematorium. Any one wishing to attend will be welcome.

Any one needing further details can contact me [his mum] on XXX

The person I’ve called Joe Bloggs was more of an acquaintance than a friend, the former partner of a work colleague. We’d enjoyed a couple of parties, drinks and one or two nights out together. I didn’t know him particularly well and hadn’t been in touch in about a year. I’ve dropped his mum an email to share my condolences but don’t expect to have any further contact.

That said, I found this email quite shocking to receive and haven’t stopped thinking about Joe ever since. I’m not sure what exactly it was that surprised me so much, other than the obvious fact that he was young and wouldn’t have been someone I’d expect to die, but I think in addition it was the fact that his mum had sent it. As someone who doesn’t use email contacts I’m always impressed with anyone who does, super-organised. In addition I was blown away by his mum’s fortitude and pro-activity.

I guess as I sat there with my mum I couldn’t imagine her sending that email, or imagine what Joe’s mum must be going through. On a boringly practical note it might inspire me to sort out my email contacts and maybe even leave a note on my computer – just in case. Who knows, maybe that is a step too far but it’s not something I’d want my mum agonising over. What to do. Anyone else considered this? What do you reckon?

Photo by crows_wood

Until you die. Live.

This week my mum’s old secretary, Vicky, died in her sleep. Vicky was in her 80s and had been living with Alzheimer’s for many years, in a fantastic care home for the last few years of her life, her death was almost certainly a release. My mum was very close friends with Vicky and she was a big influence on our lives as a family – I’ll do another post on Vicky another time. Friday morning was beautiful, the sun was out and a small group of us gathered at the crematorium to wish her off “on her final adventure”.

While we were standing in the sun outside, someone commented on how well my Dad looked. He turned around and agreed, saying he was like a radioactive apple: shiny, beautiful and healthy looking on the outside, but rotting away inside through his core! This struck me as a brilliant analogy of the situation he is in, he does look well, too well and yet all the tests show that he isn’t. He is living each day like it might be his last, a couple weeks ago he was up fitting a kitchen with my brother, next week he has a scan and is then going up to help him build a new shed. I’m not sure how many of my brother’s DIY events are really needed, and how many are designed to keep Dad busy, either way its working so I’m not complaining.

[T-shirt of the month from Howies - buy it NOW]

After Vicky’s funeral I was talking to Mum about Dad’s wishes. He has written us all a letter that details what he wants to happen after he dies, I’m nervous and intrigued to know what is in it but am in no rush to find out. What did become clear though was how much my parents love Meadfoot Beach Cafe at the moment and so this weekend I popped down to see what the fuss was about:

It’s some view and a stunning place to spend an hour or two contemplating the future. The strange thing is we all know that we’re dying, it’s just about the only certainty in life – and yet we all seem to find it so difficult a reality to face, to discuss, to consider, and despite all the mental preparation, there is nothing quite like the reality of being at a funeral of someone you loved to bring it home to you how fragile and short life is.

I consider our family lucky to know that Dad is living with terminal cancer, it doesn’t mean we’re perfect or tiptoe around each other (quite the opposite), we seem to keep family life as normal as it was (bantering, joking, arguing – all the ways of communicating you care without being too serious about it), but we have the luxury of doing that knowing we need to make the most of each opportunity. I’m really very grateful for that.