Most of my books only have a few reviews but every single one of them is genuine and not a paid-for service.
So check out Invisible now.
Showing posts with label bereavement. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bereavement. Show all posts
Sunday, 25 May 2025
Tuesday, 19 November 2019
A time to heal...
I haven't blogged for a few months. To be honest I've been too raw.
The last time I posted on here, things were looking great. One of my latest films had garnered BFI Network support, and we were just about to go on holiday to Crete for a family wedding. The future seemed rosy...
But like all things in life, there were events lurking around the corner - things I wasn't yet aware of. One of them was that my beloved Rottweiler had terminal cancer.
She'd had a limp for a few weeks before I had it investigated. Earlier in the year she'd tripped over her own paws when chasing a squirrel, and had limped for a week or so. Second time around, I assumed the previous injury had flared up, even though I hadn't witnessed her doing anything to cause it.
But the x-ray told a different story. There was a huge tumour on her left shoulder and shadows in her lungs, indicating that the cancer had already metastasised. My shock and horror on hearing this was profound. I couldn't believe that my sweet dog was so bravely and uncomplainingly suffering through this horrific disease.
The vet was right when she said the particular type of cancer she had was aggressive - within the week we were making another visit to the vet's to give Roxie a dignified end to her life. I held her and comforted her, and knew that she had loved me just as enormously as I had loved her.
We entered a period of grieving. I couldn't look at her beds, her toys and bowls... but I couldn't get rid of them either. To have lost my dad and both dogs within just less than 18 months, seemed too cruel.
I came through the front door and there was no lolling tongue, no wagging tail to greet me. Just silence and too-clean floors.
I came to hate the way the floors stayed clean when I vacuumed; to be repelled by the echoing silence in the kitchen when I entered first thing in the morning; to be heartbroken that I no longer got to kiss her goodnight before I headed up to bed. My heart was broken.
And then something happened.
I decided to foster. Not to adopt, but to take on and try to heal a dog that was as broken as me, one whose spirit had been crushed by the sheer force of its former bad luck.
So I contacted a rescue centre. After the home check, I explained that I would take the dog that cowered in the corner of its kennel, the dog that would greet no-one, the one that no-one wanted because it was just too broken...
They gave me Beauty. A street dog from Bosnia that's terrified of people and who refused to come anywhere near me or anyone else.
With only one eye and a large scar on her side that looks like a burn mark, it's easy to imagine that she lost her eye through some deliberate act of cruelty. But she can't say and I'll never know.
What I do know is that she has a lot of love to give, now that she's becoming so used to us. And I think that as much as I'm helping her, she's helping me too.
Who knows, maybe we'll both emerge stronger from this experience. Whether we do or not, I know one thing. There's a happy face and a wagging tail in the house again, and my heart is filled with hope.
The last time I posted on here, things were looking great. One of my latest films had garnered BFI Network support, and we were just about to go on holiday to Crete for a family wedding. The future seemed rosy...
But like all things in life, there were events lurking around the corner - things I wasn't yet aware of. One of them was that my beloved Rottweiler had terminal cancer.
She'd had a limp for a few weeks before I had it investigated. Earlier in the year she'd tripped over her own paws when chasing a squirrel, and had limped for a week or so. Second time around, I assumed the previous injury had flared up, even though I hadn't witnessed her doing anything to cause it.
But the x-ray told a different story. There was a huge tumour on her left shoulder and shadows in her lungs, indicating that the cancer had already metastasised. My shock and horror on hearing this was profound. I couldn't believe that my sweet dog was so bravely and uncomplainingly suffering through this horrific disease.
The vet was right when she said the particular type of cancer she had was aggressive - within the week we were making another visit to the vet's to give Roxie a dignified end to her life. I held her and comforted her, and knew that she had loved me just as enormously as I had loved her.
We entered a period of grieving. I couldn't look at her beds, her toys and bowls... but I couldn't get rid of them either. To have lost my dad and both dogs within just less than 18 months, seemed too cruel.
I came through the front door and there was no lolling tongue, no wagging tail to greet me. Just silence and too-clean floors.
I came to hate the way the floors stayed clean when I vacuumed; to be repelled by the echoing silence in the kitchen when I entered first thing in the morning; to be heartbroken that I no longer got to kiss her goodnight before I headed up to bed. My heart was broken.
And then something happened.
I decided to foster. Not to adopt, but to take on and try to heal a dog that was as broken as me, one whose spirit had been crushed by the sheer force of its former bad luck.
So I contacted a rescue centre. After the home check, I explained that I would take the dog that cowered in the corner of its kennel, the dog that would greet no-one, the one that no-one wanted because it was just too broken...
They gave me Beauty. A street dog from Bosnia that's terrified of people and who refused to come anywhere near me or anyone else.
With only one eye and a large scar on her side that looks like a burn mark, it's easy to imagine that she lost her eye through some deliberate act of cruelty. But she can't say and I'll never know.
What I do know is that she has a lot of love to give, now that she's becoming so used to us. And I think that as much as I'm helping her, she's helping me too.
Who knows, maybe we'll both emerge stronger from this experience. Whether we do or not, I know one thing. There's a happy face and a wagging tail in the house again, and my heart is filled with hope.
Thursday, 19 July 2018
It's the summer holidays [almost]
Where are you going this year? Spain? Cyprus? Greece? Or are you holidaying at home? A staycation, as it's been coined.
A few years ago a staycation would have been a poor choice. But this year? This year it seems like an excellent alternative to the charms of anywhere abroad.
In fact, sitting looking out at my garden right now, and the dried up, shrivelled brown grass of what used to be my lawn, reminds me more of a holiday in Lanzarote than anywhere else.
I'm not a great believer in the idea that the weather has to be blisteringly hot in order to have fun, but that said, sitting on the beach in a raincoat with its hood up against either driving rain, or gale-force winds, isn't going to appeal to many [if indeed anyone].
So I'm hoping for fair weather when I go to the beach to scatter my dad's ashes in the next few days. I want him to be lifted and carried by the wind, taken far out to sea and made at one with its great vastness, it's eternal swell and ebb.
My dad had a particular fondness for the sea. As wild and untamed as he himself was, it brought out the very best in him. Again and again, like a lover, he would return to the same spot, the easy familiarity of known stretches of sand; the indomitable rocks which had been there since the beginning of time...
We sat on those rock and ate fish and chips; played beach tennis on the sand.
Now, after the sprinkling of ashes, this place will hold other memories for me. And also for my children.
It's true what they say about one life touching many.
And in this time of bereavement, I can't help but wonder at the beauty of life in the midst of all its cruelty.
So whatever you're doing today, remember one thing: Take nothing for granted. It will stand you in good stead.
Happy reading. x
A few years ago a staycation would have been a poor choice. But this year? This year it seems like an excellent alternative to the charms of anywhere abroad.
In fact, sitting looking out at my garden right now, and the dried up, shrivelled brown grass of what used to be my lawn, reminds me more of a holiday in Lanzarote than anywhere else.
I'm not a great believer in the idea that the weather has to be blisteringly hot in order to have fun, but that said, sitting on the beach in a raincoat with its hood up against either driving rain, or gale-force winds, isn't going to appeal to many [if indeed anyone].
So I'm hoping for fair weather when I go to the beach to scatter my dad's ashes in the next few days. I want him to be lifted and carried by the wind, taken far out to sea and made at one with its great vastness, it's eternal swell and ebb.
My dad had a particular fondness for the sea. As wild and untamed as he himself was, it brought out the very best in him. Again and again, like a lover, he would return to the same spot, the easy familiarity of known stretches of sand; the indomitable rocks which had been there since the beginning of time...
We sat on those rock and ate fish and chips; played beach tennis on the sand.
Now, after the sprinkling of ashes, this place will hold other memories for me. And also for my children.
It's true what they say about one life touching many.
And in this time of bereavement, I can't help but wonder at the beauty of life in the midst of all its cruelty.
So whatever you're doing today, remember one thing: Take nothing for granted. It will stand you in good stead.
Happy reading. x
Thursday, 5 July 2018
I'm back!
I've written the first part of this blog three times, and erased it three times, so this is my fourth attempt.
You'd be forgiven for thinking that because of the sort of novels and screenplays that I've written, emotions would be easy for me to deal with. But they're not. In fact, I am an exceptionally emotional person; even if I don't reflect it on the outside, I'm often screaming on the inside.
Maybe it's not a bad thing then, that after my recent bereavement, I am returning to two very different projects. One is a comedy screenplay that I am writing and which would suit Simon Pegg and Nick Frost down to the ground; the other is a sharp and introspective monologue.
The beauty of writing these in tandem, is that the comedy elevates me from the depths of despair, whilst the monologue allows me to voice and externalise that primal inner scream.
My father's funeral was a strange affair. Filled with funny moments and memories, heart-breaking ones, and many which were both unique and special. I wish he could have been there to experience it. I think he would have approved.
And as for my current projects? Well he would have loved the screenplay, and he would have understood the dark monologue, but he wouldn't have been comfortable with it.
The monologue though is intended for quite a different audience. It will be a stand-alone piece of theatre, something that will be delivered to a live audience and will take their breath away with its power and its truth.
But working on both together works for me. Isn't that the very nature of life after all? That sometimes we cry and then we laugh or vice versa?
Life isn't simple. Why should my work be?
Until next time - happy reading!
You'd be forgiven for thinking that because of the sort of novels and screenplays that I've written, emotions would be easy for me to deal with. But they're not. In fact, I am an exceptionally emotional person; even if I don't reflect it on the outside, I'm often screaming on the inside.
Maybe it's not a bad thing then, that after my recent bereavement, I am returning to two very different projects. One is a comedy screenplay that I am writing and which would suit Simon Pegg and Nick Frost down to the ground; the other is a sharp and introspective monologue.
The beauty of writing these in tandem, is that the comedy elevates me from the depths of despair, whilst the monologue allows me to voice and externalise that primal inner scream.
My father's funeral was a strange affair. Filled with funny moments and memories, heart-breaking ones, and many which were both unique and special. I wish he could have been there to experience it. I think he would have approved.
And as for my current projects? Well he would have loved the screenplay, and he would have understood the dark monologue, but he wouldn't have been comfortable with it.
The monologue though is intended for quite a different audience. It will be a stand-alone piece of theatre, something that will be delivered to a live audience and will take their breath away with its power and its truth.
But working on both together works for me. Isn't that the very nature of life after all? That sometimes we cry and then we laugh or vice versa?
Life isn't simple. Why should my work be?
Until next time - happy reading!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)