Life and Death Etc., Part One
This is probably gonna be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to write. The last time I blogged about my Dad it was when I had dashed back up to Blackpool to find my Dad heavily sedated as his body had begun to shut down due to the slipped valve.
At the time, the surgeon wasn’t sure he was gonna pull through, but I felt he would. For one thing I had made a deal with God/Buddha/Whoever that I would forgo winning the Euro lottery that Friday night - and it was the £113 million draw! - if they would spare his life. When I checked my ticket I only had one number so that meant he would live. I know this sounds mad, and it is, but I’d had a recurring dream that I won £56million on the EuroMillions and bought a ticket every week since the third dream in a row. Ironically £56 million was the share of the amount the British couple won, so I was even more convinced that my Dad would be ok.
I spent that Friday night in a hotel near the Pleasure Beach, but was booked into the DeVere Heron’s Reach from Saturday. It’s a pretty swanky place, but the main reason I’d booked it was that it was about 10 minutes’ walk from the hospital. I dumped my bag there on Saturday and went into the ICU to see Dad. He had even more machines attached to him, and was out cold in a medically induced coma. I had a long chat with the nurse taking care of him and although I felt he was trying to prepare me for the worst, I knew my Dad wouldn’t die.
On the Sunday I called as soon as I woke up and was told he was a bit better. When I got in to see him in the afternoon, he was on one less machine and the decision had been made to fly in the surgeon from Italy needed to repair the TAVI. According to the heart surgeon at Blackpool, this had never happened here before and nobody in the UK was able to perform the op. Basically they didn’t do it sooner cos they didn’t think he would fight back enough to survive a second op.
Monday morning they did the op and it worked. The valve was now in the correct position, and hopefully his body would respond. It seemed to be doing just that, slowly they removed machine after machine, and as I extended my stay I was so sure that it was all gonna be fine.
The Thursday of that week, they decided to start bringing him out of sedation, and that meant replacing the breathing tube rammed down his throat with a trachae tube. This meant he wouldn’t be able to speak, but it seemed a small price to pay.
It took a while for him to start coming round, in fact it was Saturday afternoon before I got him to open his eyes. I’d sat there for two hours just chatting away to him and saying ‘open your eyes Dad’ about every third sentence. I guess it got through. I promised him everything would be ok, and I truly believed it would be.
Saturday night, I was in bed at 8pm - exhausted - when my mobile rang. Obviously I’d kept it on the whole time since my Dad went in for his op. In fact the only time it was off was when I was with him. As you can imagine I was hugely relieved when I saw my pal Ninia Benjamin’s name flash up. I figured she was calling to see how my Dad was doing.
That relief was incredibly short-lived as she gave me some news that even four weeks on I still cannot believe. Jason Wood was dead.
Typing that makes no sense. I’ve said it out loud and its like someone else is speaking. I think of how when I was there for my Dad, it was partly because Jason taught me how much family means - no matter what’s gone before - I’d planned to call him when things settled down a bit to thank him. Now that chance was gone. At 38, with what I believe was a brilliant future ahead of him, he’d done to bed after a great gig on the Friday night and just not woken up.
In theory its the perfect way to go, the problem is, it was about 50 years too soon for Jason.
On the Sunday morning, that news was still running through my head and I was still disbelieving. I got ready and went to see my Dad. He was awake and was mouthing words. Unfortunately, Dad has really thin lips “lips like a hen’s ass” as my mum so eloquently put it, so lip-reading was near impossible! I did manage to make out that he was tired and wanted to die.
With my heart breaking from the injustice of Jason’s death I kinda lost patience with my Dad. I explained that for whatever reason, he’d been given another chance, and that my friend hadn’t, now here was Dad wishing to throw that chance away! He seemed to understand and seemed to believe me when I told him what I’d been told, that he would be getting better, he was getting better! Every day there were fewer machines hooked up to him, and that became my method for measuring his recovery.
By the Tuesday he was recovering sufficiently for them to move him from CICU and put him on the Coronary Care Unit. He would still be closely monitored but was on his way out of this place!
I was confident enough to return to London after nearly two weeks up in Blackpool. A “wake” of sorts had been organised to remember Jason that night and I just wanted to be with other people who loved him and missed him. I thought it might make sense of what’d happened.
As I sat there listening to an array of Jason’s friends and family speaking from the heart about him, I sobbed. I’d not worn any mascara deliberately, and I know that Jason would’ve been pissed off with me for not making an effort. I just knew I’d be a mess whatever I did.
I was too upset to get up and speak, but it was a chance to think of my own special memories of him. His boundless kindness, his humour, his compassion, his love of life. What an inspiration he is!
A couple of my favourite memories of Jason illustrate his humour both intentional and unintentional I think.
When I’d had my gastric bypass and began losing weight Jason said to me “thank god you’re attractive JoJo, imagine being ugly and going through all that pain. You’d be thin but you’d still be ugly!” I laughed so hard that my new litte stomach ached.
The same day, he’d driven across London to collect me in that battered workman’s van of his, and then we drove back across town to the Tate Modern for a private view of the Gilbert and George exhibition that I had an invite to.
Jason wasn’t that up on art but he knew who they were and was looking forward to seeing the show. As we walked into a room that had a huge painting which featured the pair bent over pulling their ass cheeks apart Jason exclaimed in his campest voice “oooh I say! You couldn’t have that in your front room! Your mum would faint!”
When I had swine flu, Jason drove from Luton with a package of wellness formula capsules for me. He was terrified of catching it, so much so that I’d been teasing him about it only the week before at our gig at Up The Creek, but he still made that effort for me. He was funny tho as he rang my bell, dumped the parcel on my step and waited across the street for me to collect it.
God bless you Jason Wood. My life is all the better for having you in it. I just wanted more time with you.
At the time, the surgeon wasn’t sure he was gonna pull through, but I felt he would. For one thing I had made a deal with God/Buddha/Whoever that I would forgo winning the Euro lottery that Friday night - and it was the £113 million draw! - if they would spare his life. When I checked my ticket I only had one number so that meant he would live. I know this sounds mad, and it is, but I’d had a recurring dream that I won £56million on the EuroMillions and bought a ticket every week since the third dream in a row. Ironically £56 million was the share of the amount the British couple won, so I was even more convinced that my Dad would be ok.
I spent that Friday night in a hotel near the Pleasure Beach, but was booked into the DeVere Heron’s Reach from Saturday. It’s a pretty swanky place, but the main reason I’d booked it was that it was about 10 minutes’ walk from the hospital. I dumped my bag there on Saturday and went into the ICU to see Dad. He had even more machines attached to him, and was out cold in a medically induced coma. I had a long chat with the nurse taking care of him and although I felt he was trying to prepare me for the worst, I knew my Dad wouldn’t die.
On the Sunday I called as soon as I woke up and was told he was a bit better. When I got in to see him in the afternoon, he was on one less machine and the decision had been made to fly in the surgeon from Italy needed to repair the TAVI. According to the heart surgeon at Blackpool, this had never happened here before and nobody in the UK was able to perform the op. Basically they didn’t do it sooner cos they didn’t think he would fight back enough to survive a second op.
Monday morning they did the op and it worked. The valve was now in the correct position, and hopefully his body would respond. It seemed to be doing just that, slowly they removed machine after machine, and as I extended my stay I was so sure that it was all gonna be fine.
The Thursday of that week, they decided to start bringing him out of sedation, and that meant replacing the breathing tube rammed down his throat with a trachae tube. This meant he wouldn’t be able to speak, but it seemed a small price to pay.
It took a while for him to start coming round, in fact it was Saturday afternoon before I got him to open his eyes. I’d sat there for two hours just chatting away to him and saying ‘open your eyes Dad’ about every third sentence. I guess it got through. I promised him everything would be ok, and I truly believed it would be.
Saturday night, I was in bed at 8pm - exhausted - when my mobile rang. Obviously I’d kept it on the whole time since my Dad went in for his op. In fact the only time it was off was when I was with him. As you can imagine I was hugely relieved when I saw my pal Ninia Benjamin’s name flash up. I figured she was calling to see how my Dad was doing.
That relief was incredibly short-lived as she gave me some news that even four weeks on I still cannot believe. Jason Wood was dead.
Typing that makes no sense. I’ve said it out loud and its like someone else is speaking. I think of how when I was there for my Dad, it was partly because Jason taught me how much family means - no matter what’s gone before - I’d planned to call him when things settled down a bit to thank him. Now that chance was gone. At 38, with what I believe was a brilliant future ahead of him, he’d done to bed after a great gig on the Friday night and just not woken up.
In theory its the perfect way to go, the problem is, it was about 50 years too soon for Jason.
On the Sunday morning, that news was still running through my head and I was still disbelieving. I got ready and went to see my Dad. He was awake and was mouthing words. Unfortunately, Dad has really thin lips “lips like a hen’s ass” as my mum so eloquently put it, so lip-reading was near impossible! I did manage to make out that he was tired and wanted to die.
With my heart breaking from the injustice of Jason’s death I kinda lost patience with my Dad. I explained that for whatever reason, he’d been given another chance, and that my friend hadn’t, now here was Dad wishing to throw that chance away! He seemed to understand and seemed to believe me when I told him what I’d been told, that he would be getting better, he was getting better! Every day there were fewer machines hooked up to him, and that became my method for measuring his recovery.
By the Tuesday he was recovering sufficiently for them to move him from CICU and put him on the Coronary Care Unit. He would still be closely monitored but was on his way out of this place!
I was confident enough to return to London after nearly two weeks up in Blackpool. A “wake” of sorts had been organised to remember Jason that night and I just wanted to be with other people who loved him and missed him. I thought it might make sense of what’d happened.
As I sat there listening to an array of Jason’s friends and family speaking from the heart about him, I sobbed. I’d not worn any mascara deliberately, and I know that Jason would’ve been pissed off with me for not making an effort. I just knew I’d be a mess whatever I did.
I was too upset to get up and speak, but it was a chance to think of my own special memories of him. His boundless kindness, his humour, his compassion, his love of life. What an inspiration he is!
A couple of my favourite memories of Jason illustrate his humour both intentional and unintentional I think.
When I’d had my gastric bypass and began losing weight Jason said to me “thank god you’re attractive JoJo, imagine being ugly and going through all that pain. You’d be thin but you’d still be ugly!” I laughed so hard that my new litte stomach ached.
The same day, he’d driven across London to collect me in that battered workman’s van of his, and then we drove back across town to the Tate Modern for a private view of the Gilbert and George exhibition that I had an invite to.
Jason wasn’t that up on art but he knew who they were and was looking forward to seeing the show. As we walked into a room that had a huge painting which featured the pair bent over pulling their ass cheeks apart Jason exclaimed in his campest voice “oooh I say! You couldn’t have that in your front room! Your mum would faint!”
When I had swine flu, Jason drove from Luton with a package of wellness formula capsules for me. He was terrified of catching it, so much so that I’d been teasing him about it only the week before at our gig at Up The Creek, but he still made that effort for me. He was funny tho as he rang my bell, dumped the parcel on my step and waited across the street for me to collect it.
God bless you Jason Wood. My life is all the better for having you in it. I just wanted more time with you.
Labels: Misc and TV
posted by JoJo Smith at Sunday, March 21, 2010
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home