John, a personal note a year on

A year is a long time.

Today I bought some flowers, lit a candle and played Beethoven’s Ode to Joy, which was one of John’s favourite pieces of classical music. I played it to him a year ago, in the hospital, over a pair of portable speakers. I’ve no idea how much of it he could hear.

It is hard to believe that John has been gone all this time. It is still hard for me to accept. It seems only yesterday when he was last smiling, giving me a hug, unconditional love and telling me that everything's going to be alright.

My dreams have mostly caught up with reality. They sometimes still catch me out. At first, when I dreamt about him, it was just as though he were still alive. Waking up, consciousness brought a sinking feeling, of remembering what was real and what was not. (Although John, with his love of the mind-twisting realities of Philip K. Dick, would simply question which reality was the most real.)

Mostly, now, when he appears in my dreams, I tell him that I know he’s really dead. We might still have a conversation, but we both know that one of us isn’t alive. Last night, I tried that but it didn’t work. He said he wasn't dead. So I ran round to my mother's house, with John running after me, and woke her up. If she could see him then I couldn't be dreaming. But she could. He was right there, standing in the bedroom next to me, and rather triumphant at being proven to be right, and alive. I threw myself on the floor, and clung to his legs like I did when I was a little girl, and begged him not to go away again.

Time is supposed to heal. It changes the pain. Today, rather than anguish at his departure, I mostly feel sorry for myself. I also feel sad for everyone else who has been hurt by his departure but, today, mostly selfishly sorry for myself.

The ripples of John’s passing still make waves. Someone calls round for him and is amazed to find him dead. Or the girl next door says she misses watching him walk through the park every day from her school classroom.

I’ve wished so many times that things could have been different. That I could roll back time, reopen the closed door, and try and run the tape differently. I’ve wished endlessly that he were still here to talk with, to make decisions, to be the life force in everything. To be the centre of it all. To watch me get married. To watch his grandson grow up. But it is all pointless wishing really, and just an excuse to wallow in self pity.

So what do you do when someone so important is gone, and a door is closed? I suppose you have to accept that life changes and that the only positive thing to do is to become a new source of energy and life. You have to open new doors. Time brings change. Change realigns things, makes new things important.

Is it time that really heals, or is it the change that it brings?

We havn't scattered John yet. I'm not ready to say goodbye yet.

Maybe next year.

John Loder 1946-2005

Earlier this morning, at 12.40am, my father died peacefully at the National Institute for Neurology, near Russell Square in London. My partner Bruce held his hand througout and I stroked his head and talked to him. As he left, we both told him how wonderful he was and how much he was loved by us and everyone around him. I think it was a good death.

It all happened very suddenly, and was mercifully quick. My mother arranged for him to be admitted to hospital on Monday for what everyone had thought would be a brief visit. He had suspected inflammation in the brain. Because he had been up and about until a few days ago it was thought unlikely that the tumour would be responsible--they don't tend to grow that fast. We all expected he would be fully recovered after a short 48-hour course of steroids. He was not really able to speak but seemed to understand most of what was going on. One strange thing I do not fully understand is that on Monday he initially refused to take the steroids, although he had agreed before he was admitted that they would be a good idea. He also initially refused an MRI.

On Wednesday, though, it became clear that he wasn't getting better. And then it became clear that he was not going to get better either. My mother and I had the results of the scan which were "grim" as the consultant explained to us. The tumour had grown substantially. But we were told that it could take months and he would need to be moved to a nursing home.

We didn't tell this to him. Thursday he spent mostly asleep, as too Friday. Or at least, he appeared to be asleep by the way he was snoring soundly but from time to time he'd squeeze people's hands when they spoke--although he was still snoring.

All the doctors and nurses were amazed at how quickly this happened. The speed and ease of his departure is a source of real comfort.

As far as I am aware, the last word my father spoke was on Wednesday, was the word "blins". This is a made-up family word that is an expression of happiness, satisfaction and either comfort or delight. He said it after eating a Krispy Kreme donut with white icing and raspberry filling.

Natasha Loder, Saturday August 13th 2005.