I got an email from my aunty this morning. My mum's sister-in-law. She's married to my uncle and together, they are one of the most loving and in love couples I know. They've been married 40 years this year. But uncle is unwell. Alive, but unwell. He was diagnosed with glioblastoma multiforme (brain tumor) last September. He had surgery, chemo and radio therapy and whilst we all knew it would get him, his quality of life was good and his outlook brilliant. I've enjoyed time with them when they came and spent two months in Yorkshire and then later in New Zealand for my Simon's wedding. He was still telling dirty jokes, carrying on with aunty as if they were lovesick teenagers and his Yorkshire dry wit was ever evident.
Anyway, this mornings update is not so good. Apparently he hasn't asked for a drink (he likes a red, or a GnT) since the weekend, nor has he told any jokes. He just doesn't not tell jokes - it isn't who he is.
But what I
I can't tell you when uncle will die. I can't tell you when each of us will die. I can tell you that we shall die - so - we all have a terminal illness. As our dear friend put it
"You are all going to die - so what about living" ?
Stanbury, Yorkshire. The view from my late cousin's house over the valley, taken when visiting my late cousin whilst Uncle and Aunty were here from Australia in August. Top Withens (of Bronte notoriety). One of Uncles favourite places (and mine too)