Not going bloody quietly. I want to go out with bells and cymbals and plenty of rat-a-tat-tat. I told him when we first got the diagnosis. None of your Clanad or Enya for me, thank you very much. Nothing humble. Play me out with bagpipes or Def Leppard. Something loud and unholy.
So he planned it and even started paying by instalments. He showed me the order of service one day when I started getting maudlin. No wig, no lippy, still in my pyjamas. I even managed a smile and a dunked biscuit after that.
Now it’s all over I don’t believe I’m well again. Can’t believe I’m not going. Not bloody quietly. Or even loudly. Because I’m not. But he is, he’s going. Because I am not…