It’s been a bit of a death filled week all told
I’m working the weekend which will no doubt be death centred, so today I’m rolling with the punches so to speak
Apparently my father died telling a joke at the breakfast table.
I’m not sure this is true as my father seldom told jokes at home, and certainly didn’t exhibit a sense of humour early in the morning.
My mother died in hospital, it was peaceful, but she was post respiratory arrest so there was no way back.
I took her oxygen mask off which was belting out 15 litres of useless oxygen only to be told off by an officious support worker to replace it.
I didnt
My brother died peacefully minutes after I had looked after him on one of my “babysitting” Thursdays in December. The car slid on black ice when I came home.
Funny what you remember.
We would all like a Hollywood death me thinks ….
A clean bed, next to an open window, overlooking a perfect garden
Your significant other running their fingers through your hair as you gently fade
The dog by your side,
As the neighbours lower their heads and remove their hats
Life is fickle and seldom helpful when that sort of death is concerned
People die on the toilet, or fall behind the dinner table at ungainly positions
People collapse at the theatre and stop the show,
That’s not a bad way of going I suppose…
To die laughing.
Winifred, my second to last bulldog had the best death ever
One cold night after a mad half hour trying to disembowel her rubber chicken,
She quietly collapsed against the kitchen door and lay her huge head on her bear like paws
Like Shelley Winters did in The Poseidon Adventure
( the collapse part not the rubber chicken part)
I never cried over Winnie, ( unlike Gene Hackman who sobbed over Shelley’s face until he spat on her)
Her death was valiant and brave and right, I just sat down next to her and gently rested my head on hers
It was during lockdown too, as I remember .
I still have that rubber chicken, it was going to be framed but my requests for a pink frame with the epitaph
Queen Salote Tupou III 200?-2020 overfaced the picture framer somewhat so I never felt I could nag him to complete my order.
The chicken still lives in my heart and my bedroom
Until it is flung away,
It’s significance unknown,
After I pass away, hopefully, after telling a joke
Or made blissfully unaware by a syringe pump filled with opiates.
Or even bouncing around the kitchen with Winnie’s rubber chicken in my mouth
Now wouldn’t that be something?
