I’m running in memory of my bestfriend ⭐️ xx
When someone suffers from a terminal illness, you think you’ll know what to expect when they eventually pass away; you like to imagine that you’ll be somewhat emotionally equipped for it. I was under this impression too, and for the most part I was right. I was composed when I finally realised he had passed away. And I was composed when I held his hand for the last time, knowing that after walking out of that door, it'd be the last time I'd ever see my granddad again.
It wasn’t until the moment his room was empty that I realised he was really gone. It dawned on me that ‘gone’ isn’t some throwaway term or vast black hole by which you can define the absence of someone; it’s the little empty spaces, like a vacant bed the slippers by his bed or a redundant tele not to be turned on again.
‘Gone’ is the half-finished betting slip on my Granddads table and the packet of fruit sherbets in his coat pocket with only half the contents left. ‘Gone’ is the newspaper on his bedside table which won’t ever get to be read. ‘Gone’ is the bed in his bedroom that he’ll never sleep in again. ‘Gone’ is his favourite dressing gown painfully unaware that it won't be worn again.
When we lose someone, we scan our minds for the most striking memories we have; we look for the big and the brilliant, for the sentimental and the sensational.
In our search for these, we often overlook the charm of the wonderfully ordinary moments in between. I stand at the pub on my granddads birthday today and I wish so much that I could just listen to him moaning at me constantly because of how scruffy I look, how fast I drive, and how late I always am – inane, bog-standard things we take for granted but would kill to experience one more time when it’s all over.
These are the moments that string together each and every existence. And this is the reason I’m taking part in this run, let’s raise as much as money as we can, help me beat my target and let’s beat cancer!!