Final words by Scott Robinson

I didn’t expect to be sitting down to write this speech, as I didn’t expect that I would be dying this soon.  In fact, to let you into a secret, I didn’t intend ever to die.  In a sense, I have the luxury of making today the way I want it – in particular I get to choose my own music – no “Morning has broken” for example.

I would like to ask as many of you that can face it to have a great time tonight, to enjoy each others company while you can.  In particular to everyone from Queens’, get blindingly drunk, talk about old times, enjoy each others company while you can.

I do think that I am someone reasonably well cut out to cope with what has has happened to me – I have always enjoyed my own company, and being on my own, I know that sometimes I could be a little cold and aloof.  This characteristic has been useful during the last months and years.  Perhaps there was a reason for this, and in an Owen Meany way, with the ability to internalise feelings and deal with them in my own way, I was being given the tools to deal with what would happen to me.  But on the flip side, I have been privileged to make so many good friends in my life, and I have enjoyed the company of each of you in this room at one time or another.  I should say that my happiest times were either just sitting with the kids in the garden, watching them grow, or sitting with some of you in a little pub somewhere – in Leysin or The Three Valleys on the slopes, in Cambridge in the college bar, in the Fitzroy on Charlotte Street.  Or just watching some classic old re-run that meant something to me – Spaced uncovered with Gav Kath and Rup springs to mind, or Drew Barrymores brilliant smile in the Wedding Singer reminding me of H when we met.

It burns me that I will not be there for the children as they grow up, and that I will not be able to share the work (and joy) with H.  H is a coper, and will continue to do a brilliant job in the years ahead, of that I have no doubt.  Each of you here has your own burdens and lives to lead.  All I can ask is something which, if I know my friends and family as I think I do, none of you will need to be told,but which I will re-iterate anyway – as I have never been accused of being particularly subtle.  Please, in the coming months and years, do what you can to help and support H, and the children.  H will rarely ask for help.  It may be that some proactivity is required.  I will say nothing more.

The final thing to say is that, in case it wasn’t already blindingly obvious to everyone here, is that it turns out to be true what they say – you have to take your chances when they come along.  No, but really.  No, but really.

The final piece of music I have chosen is my favourite ever piece, an instrumental track which accompanies the end credits to the film In The Loop.  To me, it is another way of saying what John Lennon once said – Life is what happens while we’re making other plans - that beauty can be found, and should be actively looked for, during the most mundane and ordinary of situations, and that we should never forget to enjoy the moment, and our precious time.

Final piece of music: In the Loop End Credits Audio – Mp3.

Look what I've found!

Scott has had this in draft since September... I think is what he wanted me to post when he had passed (although he never told me)

Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,
It seems to me most strange that men should fear;
Seeing that death, a necessary end,
Will come when it will come.

"I told you I was ill." - Spike Milligan

The day we were all so hoping would not come has sadly arrived. 

It is with great sadness that I am writing this to let everyone know that Scott died peacefully at home on Friday 31st January 2014. 

Writing this blog was a great source of comfort and catharsis for Scott in the months following his diagnosis. He very much appreciated everyone's kind words and support. 

Scotts funeral will take place on Thursday 13th February. Please contact me for further details should you wish to attend.  

Spine

In the hospital, they say, the tumour has spread to your spine, which is causing the weakness in your hand. They will give you radiotherapy to try and combat it.

There are no words, or poetry for this. There seems little respite or consolation from this thing attacking you from all sides. Outside, in the rain, your wife and family live their lives, burdened by worry. For now, you have nothing to give them, or anyone. It is a bleak time. Knowing you are loved, your head is still above the water. 

Progress

You see Dr D.  You tell her the pain has increased, and you discuss and agree how much to increase the painkillers by.  You say, it's not just the pain, explain that your right hand has gone numb, there is no strength in it.  

At the appointment with Dr E, Dr G's registrar, she says, I think things are continuing to progress, and you think, no shit sherlock.  You are shorter of breath than ever.  Dr E says, I'll send you for an x-ray, right now.  So she writes out a form, hands it to you, says I'll see you in a few minutes.  As you exit the room, H takes a look at you, shuffling slowly with a grimace on your face, says, do you need a wheelchair?

You take a deep breath, for once let your common sense take precedence over your pride, say yes.  H, face impassive, conjures one out of thin air.  You sit down, stare into space think - how did we get here.  But today it seems inevitable, long walks down endless hospital corridors are out of the question.

H wheels you along, and for a second you're glad she can't see your face.  Immediately the world changes.  You become invisible, mostly people don't look at you, while you look at the floor.  

Later, Dr E looks at the x-ray result, says, yes, there is definite progression, and you think, in more ways than one.

Lucky

In some ways I am lucky.  I am, always have been, naturally self-reliant, happy with my own company, solitary, a listener, not a talker.  

These days, when I'm not feeling up to much, I am happy pottering around at home, with painkillers and the fire for company, while H dashes about, sorting everything out.  She says sorry if anything is less than perfect, and I repeat, over and over, stop apologising, you're doing a brilliant job.  

It is lucky that I like my own company,  which for better or worse over the years has manifested itself in many different ways.  I've never been much of a drinker either, and on nights out would often be the first to leave, happy to drift home before the serious drinking started - I can still see the uncomprehending faces now - Tim, Andy B, Gav.  But we're just getting warmed up, they'd say, while I was slowly turning white in the corner, patting my pockets to see where my tube pass was.  

And these characteristics allow me to cope now.  It's important to talk, I get that, and I don't bottle anything - or at least, I try not too.  Sometimes, right out of nowhere, something sets me off, and I'm suddenly overwhelmed, and there is nothing to do but let it out.  I'm pretty sure this is normal.  And while the knowledge of my condition never leaves me, not for more than a few seconds, I can cope because I often get absorbed by something else - a favourite old book, the football on the radio.  And because I have thought it through, and accepted what is going on.  Yes it's unfair, yes, it's not right, but it is what it is.  And the light it has shone on many of my relationships is something extraordinary to behold.  My wife, I run out of superlatives for.  But there are many other little acts of kindness, none of which go unnoticed, toward us.  And it is these that make me amazed that, solitary as I am, I've somehow managed to collect an awful lot of friends along the way.

If I knew then....

...what I know now.

How often have you heard that phrase?  It used to puzzle me.  I think in my youthful arrogance, I thought it was nonsense.  After all, what on earth could years and years of practical experience, and the chance to learn from your mistakes, give you that you couldn't get from a book?  Eh?  Oh.

As I'm still actually - relatively - young (although I'm probably technically classed as middle aged, I really don't feel that like mentally, although physically I feel like I'm 104) really I'm still at an age where I should be learning every day.  I am, I guess, although mostly about a subject not too many people want to become familiar with.

I think it's particularly relevant when it comes to choosing a partner.  So many people seem to make rash decisions, which have an enormous effect on the rest of their lives, based on a pretty face or whatever.

And, with my wife, I'm no different, although as each day passes, I realise a little bit more just how lucky I got.  I was at first attracted by this huge smile and impish good looks.  It quickly became apparent though that there was a lot more there than that.  And these days, I am constantly taken aback by H's capacity to cope, work hard, juggle three things at once, not get exasperated by the hand she has been dealt (i.e. me).

I often talk about my support network.  And often, subconsciously, I mean H.

She really is amazing.  I am so lucky.  And if I knew then what I know now, I wouldn't swap her for anyone.