C has been busy for the last week or so booking hotels, arranging the hire of a car, checking on the medical evidence we need, and various other necessities for our for what (we are telling each other) will be the last trip to Circle Bay. The completion of the sale of the Condo has been brought forward by a few days. The original date given, the 15th of April is Good Friday, so we are guessing that's not suitable. It doesn't matter, we will be there anyway and able to go to the office of the people arranging it all to sign the place off.
          I think we are both (I know I am) sad about losing Circle Bay. We have had such good times there, happy times, met some good people, made some good friends. This last trip will be tinged with sadness as Heather won't be there. Not physically, anyway, but she will be there in my head, as she still always is. All the time. I'm sure C is the same.

I had not had the verdict of the CT Scan on the 24th so  I rang Sandra, the Macmillan Nurse, on Friday and left a message. She rang this afternoon and it's good news. I explained I had not yet had the result of the scan. She told me to hold on while she looked. This surprised me as I didn't realise she had access to the scans. After a few seconds she was back. "Let's have a look," she said, and then: "Mm... I can't see any change, Gerald, no, I can't see any. You want to go on holiday, don't you?"
          I laughed. "How did you know that?"
          "I bet you want to go to America, don't you?"
          "You are exactly right, Sandra, do you think it will be okay to go?"
          "I don't see why not."
          "This is good news, isn't it? I mean it's around eight months since the last scan."
          "Yes, it's encouraging, isn't it?"
          I hadn't put he phone to speaker and could see that my little brother was anxious about the result. I gave him a thumbs up and he's all smiles.
            We are both all smiles as our trip to Circle Bay now seems to be definitely on. 

Another phone call from Sandra Moor of Steetspire Literature Management based in New York. The third in a month. They say they want to re -publish "Terms of Innocence." They'll undertake basic editing, re-design the cover, provide me with 5 paperback copies, register for copyright purposes and all sorts of other 'come-on' attractions. And all this for only £672.00. 
I don't believe it. I think it could be yet another scam of some sort. She was on the phone for over an hour. C getting agitated because the phone was engaged and we are hoping to hear about the CT Scan I had last week. I ended the call by telling her to ring me on Saturday.
​I'll think about it.

The surgery sent me a note. "Please book on line to see the doctor for a routine appointment."
I went on line and requested an appointment. I wonder what that is about? Can't be the CT scan - it's too soon since I had it, so maybe it is just routine. I went on to their website and requested an appointmen.

was-i-chatted-up.html

No such luck! The young lady was just curious.

C and I walked up to the The Grill and sat at the bar, both determined not to drink too much.  Our conversation followed the usual pattern: we talked of Heather, money, our forthcoming trip to America, the cancer.
"How are you feeling these days?" C asked.
"Yeah, fine. I mean no different to how I felt a month ago - in fact not much different to when I was first told, and that was eight months ago." 
"That's good, isn't it? I tell you, I'll go before you."
"So I'll be the one that ends up with all the money. That's good!"

We then talked of how our estate should be left  (or distributed as I described it) by the last man standing, as it were. "If it's me, I'll probably make it percentages, you know. 5% to him 10% to her and so on." 
We moved on putting the world to right, talked of Putin's invasion of Ukraine last Wednesday and how, it seems, he is not doing as well as he hoped because  there is more resistance than was expected. But, as some eminent person once said, "The first casualty in war is Truth." So who knows what is actually going on?

Then a girl, spoke to me. The bar, by now, was crowded and noisy and I  couldn't understand what she was saying. She was young, pretty I had to ask her several times to repeat the question before I understood her. "What football team do you support?" she had asked.
Manchester United, I told her. She asked why and the three of us were soon into a conversation.  She was curious about us. What are two guys like you doing here was the basis of her curiosity. 
"Like you?" I asked - "what do you mean 'like you?'"
"Well , I mean,`' she waved towards the now crowded restaurant, "I mean you are older than most people here."
True. Though I didn't think she needed to point it out, but she was young and people under thirty, I have noticed, don't always realise they are saying things that, maybe, they shouldn't. She had lived in East Grinstead all her life she told us, as she asked more questions. On finding out we were brothers the inevitable, who is the oldest was asked. Usually, when this question comes up, to my delight, C is usually picked. But no, she pointed to me saying, "I think it's you because you are a little deaf."
What! Me, deaf? Nonsense! But then I do miss words every now and then and have to ask people to repeat, so maybe...

He name was Isabel, she told us. Issie people call her, she said (or should it be Izzie?) We chatted for a several minutes and the questions and answers flowed. At one stage I thought of offering to sell - or more likely give - her "Blame it On the War, the autobiography I have written, then she would have all the answers. But the conversation moved on and I didn't mention it, but we swapped email addresses so maybe there could be further contact.

​

Drove down to Crawley Hospital for the CT scan Neil Smith arranged for me. The result of this may affect our trip to Florida. If the cancer has spread more than we hope we will have to reconsider, but, of course, We hope it hasn't . I should get the result by Friday.

                                        
  Monday 24th January 2022
This hasn’t been a pleasant time. I keep suffering from bouts of depression, as, I think, Cyril does. It’s just over a year now. How time is speeding by! I think someone has given the planet an extra push and its spin has accelerated.
I contacted St Cathryn’s and told the lady who spoke to me perhaps counselling might help me – although the truth is I still have doubts about it, but anyway, it has been arranged someone (a Nicola) will ring me at 2 PM on Wednesday 9th February and make an ‘assessment’. My thoughts are such a jumble these days; I don’t seem to be able to concentrate on anything sanely. Perhaps I am mentally disturbed. So maybe ‘counselling’ will help. Or not.
Some good news: Miriam, an ex-colleague of Bumble, who now works for Virgin, has offered to get us tickets for our hoped-for trip to Florida in the Spring. The price she mentioned was attractive; and the company that supplied the ‘Clear-Click’ gizmo that converted video tape to digital has reimbursed us for the faulty one we returned, AND Fred Schoenberger, a neighbour at Circle Bay has two daughters and they want to buy the place. We think they are serious as they are offering a good price and have even given us the date to take possession. (April 15th) Plus one of them is a realtor and willing to waive the realtor fees. This is the most positive news we have had for weeks – no, months. But there is a snag. I am unable to get medical insurance. As soon as you mention cancer the insurance companies flee like scalded cats, so I am now seriously thinking of having the scan that Neil Smith offered to arrange for me. My thinking is: If the scan reveals how much the disease has spread in the seven months since the last one, which I guess it will, I may be able to work out what kind of risk I am taking by going to Florida in March and staying there for the planned six weeks. It’s a risk, whichever way I look at it. The cost of requiring medical help in the United States is beyond the pale. It would be crippling, and deliberately putting myself four thousand odd miles away from the NHS in my state could be described as stupid. A scan will help to make up my mind. It will be the last time I can stay at Circle Bay, and I really do want to go. With all this in mind I rang Neil Smith’s secretary a couple of days ago and she will ‘tell Neil you called’.
 
           View from the clubhouse at Circle Bay
 2010                                                                                                              
​Some good news: Miriam, an ex-colleague of Bumble, who now works for Virgin, has offered to get us tickets for our hoped-for trip to Florida in the Spring. The price she mentioned was attractive; and the company that supplied the ‘Clear-Click’ gizmo that converted video tape to digital has reimbursed us for the faulty one we returned, AND Fred Schoenberger, a neighbour at Circle Bay has two daughters and they want to buy the place. We think they are serious as they are offering a good price and have even given us the date to take possession. (April 15th) Plus one of them is a realtor and willing to waive the realtor fees. This is the most positive news we have had for weeks – no, months. But there is a snag. I am unable to get medical insurance. As soon as you mention cancer the insurance companies flee like scalded cats, so I am now seriously thinking of having the scan that Neil Smith offered to arrange for me. My thinking is: If the scan reveals how much the disease has spread in the seven months since the last one, which I guess it will, I may be able to work out what kind of risk I am taking by going to Florida in March and staying there for the planned six weeks. It’s a risk, whichever way I look at it. The cost of requiring medical help in the United States is beyond the pale. It would be crippling, and deliberately putting myself four thousand odd miles away from the NHS in my state could be described as stupid. A scan will help to make up my mind. It will be the last time I can stay at Circle Bay, and I really do want to go. With all this in mind I rang Neil Smith’s secretary a couple of days ago and she will ‘tell Neil you called’.
​

​THE VISIT
 
Well, the visit of the brothers, and Pam and Gabby seemed to go well. They arrived around 2pm on Monday.  We sat in the conservatory talking for a while before the minibus arrived at six, on time, I was pleased to note, and took us to the Shipley Bridge for something to eat.  And drink.
We sat around an oval shaped table – almost as good as a round one – and were able to converse with each other without leaning or shouting. As is usual with these annual (sometimes biannual) get-togethers the conversation was lively, witty, and even amusing and, of course, enjoyable.
Back home we watched some old family video of Pam and Derek’s children shot twenty years, or more, ago.
The next day, Tuesday 11th January, we walked, in drizzling rain, to the London Road Grill. The pedometer on my I-phone recorded 2.9 miles, which I managed comfortably enough.  We spent two or three hours there eating drinking and talking. The food, service and atmosphere were good, as it usually is, and everyone seemed to enjoy it there.  Afterwards we walked down to The Railway (or the Punch-up as Heather used to call it) after C and I witnessed a fight there one evening.
 
Thursday, 20th January 2022
Cherry, one of Heather’s ex-colleagues at BA rang to tell us her husband, Amarjit, has died. He has been ill for some time with kidney problems and taken into hospital a few weeks ago, but he caught Pneumonia. Poor guy, his last few years could not have been pleasant for him. He had to go for dialysis two or three times a week. Must have been hard for Cherry too. He was my age born in August 1937  so actually, a few months younger.
      

9th January 2022
NEIL SMITH
As has been arranged for some time Neil Smith rang last Wednesday. What a nice chap he is! (Neil is the surgeon who operated on me a couple of years ago when I was first diagnosed with cancer (of the bowel.) We talked for half an hour or so and although most of the chat was about my feelings, the lung cancer, and its effect on me – which so far is more mental than physical – he somehow makes me feel better. He said if I decided to have another scan to see what’s happening, he would arrange it for me. I’m not sure if I want to do that. If it’s getting worse, spreading qu icker, that won’t help me at all. Quite the reverse.  Ignorance is bliss, is it not? I have sent him a copy of “We Thought It was All Over.” Another short book I have written on my experiences with the NHS.
I also spoke to Ian last week, whom I have known for... how long? We were at school together, so it must be fifty years or so.  At his request I have sent him a copy of my auto-bi. “Blame It on the War.” These chats with Humph tend to be a little depressing; the poor guy is in a bad way. The same age as me he is unable to look after himself, he had a stroke a couple of years ago and now can’t walk, even needs help to get out of the chair he sits in for most of the time.  He has two nurses attend him every day, and he has moved into his daughter’s house in Bishops Stortford. Talking to him is a reminder that there is always someone worse off than me. He asked if I missed Stephanie and I told him I missed Heather more than Steph and as I said it realised, he had forgotten Heather had died. But I do miss Steph, I think of her often. Not as much as Bumble, of course, she is still in my head 95% of my waking hours and I still have this awful guilt. I’m probably not helping myself by working on these videos. There she is, in front of me on the screen, smiling, talking, being Heather: flying in Jim’s Cessna, going up in a balloon, shopping in Hong Kong, Port St Lucie, Rio, Brighton, New York. How she loved shopping! I know, I know, I should stop watching them, it’s probably not doing my mental health any good apart from anything else, but as I think I have said before, it’s comforting seeing her, hearing her.

  Monday 24th January 2022
This hasn’t been a pleasant time. I keep suffering from bouts of depression, as, I think, Cyril does. It’s just over a year now. How time is speeding by! I think someone has given the planet an extra push and its spin has accelerated.
I contacted St Cathryn’s and told the lady who spoke to me perhaps counselling might help me – although the truth is I still have doubts about it, but anyway, it has been arranged someone (a Nicola) will ring me at 2 PM on Wednesday 9th February and make an ‘assessment’. My thoughts are such a jumble these days; I don’t seem to be able to concentrate on anything sanely. Perhaps I am mentally disturbed. So maybe ‘counselling’ will help. Or not.
Some good news: Miriam, an ex-colleague of Bumble, who now works for Virgin, has offered to get us tickets for our hoped-for trip to Florida in the Spring. The price she mentioned was attractive; and the company that supplied the ‘Clear-Click’ gizmo that converted video tape to digital has reimbursed us for the faulty one we returned, AND Fred Schoenberger, a neighbour at Circle Bay has two daughters and they want to buy the place. We think they are serious as they are offering a good price and have even given us the date to take possession. (April 15th) Plus one of them is a realtor and willing to waive the realtor fees. This is the most positive news we have had for weeks – no, months. But there is a snag. I am unable to get medical insurance. As soon as you mention cancer the insurance companies flee like scalded cats, so I am now seriously thinking of having the scan that Neil Smith offered to arrange for me. My thinking is: If the scan reveals how much the disease has spread in the seven months since the last one, which I guess it will, I may be able to work out what kind of risk I am taking by going to Florida in March and staying there for the planned six weeks. It’s a risk, whichever way I look at it. The cost of requiring medical help in the United States is beyond the pale. It would be crippling, and deliberately putting myself four thousand odd miles away from the NHS in my state could be described as stupid. A scan will help to make up my mind. It will be the last time I can stay at Circle Bay, and I really do want to go. With all this in mind I rang Neil Smith’s secretary a couple of days ago and she will ‘tell Neil you called’.
​

 
Attended Amerjit’s Sikh cremation at Crawley crematorium. The first time I had been there since Heather’s cremation on 19th January last year and for some reason, I can’t suggest why, it was a little upsetting. But the Bumbly one is still in my thoughts 90% of the time and I’m beginning to think that’s the way it will be all the time now. Several of Heather’s BA colleagues were there, including Hilary, whom Heather had worked with in British Airways Staff Travel for some years and for a while was Heather’s boss. She looked in a bad way, hardly able to walk, even with the walker thing. We also spoke to Paul, Cherry’s son, and Jessie and Shamus whose wedding we videoed some years ago. Shamus is one of those guys who is instantly likeable. We told him to visit us when he is next up this way.
Afterwards we attended the post-service get-together held at what was described as a Temple, near to Asda’s in Crawley

Friday 4th February 2022
Neil Smith has come up trumps. I have received an appointment for a CT scan. It is to be on Thursday 24th February at Crawley Hospital. Having the scan doesn’t worry me, I have had several these last few years, no, it will be waiting for the result that will be the worry. Will it dissuade me from gong to
Florida on the 29th of March?
​

 
It is six months and four days - 16th of June last to be exact -  since Sue, the Macmillan nurse, rang to tell me about the verdict on the Pet-scan I had on the 8th day of June.
                    Stage 4 cancer.
It has spread to both lungs now. The only treatment they could offer is chemotherapy. I have refused it, as I did last year, not being brave enough to face all the dreadful side-effects.
               I asked how long it would be before it killed me, but of course she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, answer that. “It won’t be days or weeks,” she said, by which we assumed she meant it could be months. But as I have just said – six months and twelve days have gone by and I’m feeling fine. No symptoms, no pain. I get out of breath more quickly than I used to and I fall asleep during the day quite often, but they are the only changes I have noticed. So, things could be worse.
               Of course, things did get worse this year with the Loss of Heather on top of everything else. If only she were here. I know facing up to this would be so much easier. She wouldn’t let me get depressed the way I sometimes do. I have been offered “therapy” and “counselling” several times, but I don’t think so. I mean no amount of psychoanalysis can bring Heather back or ease this dreadful ache I have. It’s with me all my waking hours. I think Cyril is the same. It doesn’t seem to be growing less and the anniversary of her death is rushing toward us. A day that, I know, is not going to be one we will easily get through.
               We have bought a machine that digitises video tapes and I’m slowly working through the hundreds of hours we have of them: Family weddings, christenings, get-togethers, holidays, and our various travels to assorted countries. It’s a lot of work cataloguing them all, but I am determined to get it done. The thing is, though, Heather is there in many of them, smiling, talking, alive on the screen. Oddly enough, it doesn’t upset me. seeing her there and her smile again is strangely comforting.
               We spent Christmas at Jason and Fatia’s house near Portsmouth – we booked into a hotel and Jason picked us up each morning and ran us back in the evening. The visit enabled us to get to know Adam (13) and Aiden (10) and their mother, Fatia, a little better. Something denied to us these last few years. On Boxing night, or it may have been early in the morning, I dreamt of Heather for the first time since she died. She walked into the room, smiling, and said something like, “Hello, I’m back!” and walked away. I shouted after her, Heather! Heather!” but she had gone.
               Cyril woke me, calling out, “Gerry, you are shouting, wake up.” It was the first time I have dreamt of her and found it quite upsetting.
               Perhaps it would be better if I had belief, a belief in a life hereafter I mean, which in the normal sense I don’t.  I have found myself talking to her on several occasions when I’m on my own. I don’t if Cyril is around. He would think I’m going off the rails and I know he worries about me as it is. I don’t want to add to his concerns.
               I talk to her mostly when I’m in the garden or greenhouse where she used to spend a lot of time. Pottering. Every now and then she would ask me to dig a hole and move a plant or ask Cyril to trim some of the bushes.
I spend a lot of time imagining she is watching and listening to me. I can almost hear her saying, “No, don’t do that, Tott” or “Yes, you’ll enjoy doing that,” and lately, “Don’t drink any more, Tott.”
I want her to give me a signal of some sort so I know that she is watching and listening – but I know that’s a silly thought; I don’t really believe it will happen. My Bumble has gone, and I must accept that fact. It would be so wonderful if I could spend five minutes with her to apologise for all the wrongs she had to put up with, all my misdemeanours and the times I should have told her how deeply I loved her and never did. The awful thing is I didn’t realise just how deeply I did love her until she wasn’t here to tell. The guilt I carry, is, I suppose, all part of the mourning process. I just wish it were over. But it never will be, will it? She will always be here, with me, in my head.
                 And that’s okay, Bumble. I want you there, with me.
I want to cry, but the peculiar thing is I can’t and, so far, haven’t. Yes, tears roll down my face when I talk about her and a lump forms in my throat. I am sure the tears embarrass people, but I haven’t actually cried. You know, an out and out breakdown cry.
              But I do cry for you, Bumble, all the time, in my head. I think you must know that.         

For as long as I can remember, probably way back to school,  I have been told I live in a democracy. I was once asked to define that word and I was commended on my answer. It was: A government of the people, by the people, for the people.  I believed I lived in a country where my ancestors, the workers before me, the millions had who  had died in world wars, had fought for the freedom to vote for whom we chose without interference . In short - i lived in a free country where the majority ruled. A Democracy.

Then, a few  days ago, I watched  on BBC  "The Rise Of The Murdoch Dynasty.`` A splendid documentary about Rupert Murdoch  and his family.  It should be obligatory viewing for every registered voter in the country. They, like me, would then realise what  a complete waste of time  voting is. It would be easier, cheaper, less hassle and much simpler to just ask Murdoch who he wants next.  It would save all those arguments on TV, those boring election broadcasts, those know-it-all journalists spouting off and giving  us the benefit of their unwanted opinions and  - best of all - we wouldn't have to turn out on a rainy Thursday night, would we?