Freddie Mercury
"I'm not just going to be a star, I'm going to be a legend!"
"Puccini and all these other composers are dead. I'm alive dear."
No matter how ill Freddie felt, he never grumbled to anyone or sought sympathy of any kind. It was his battle, no one else's, and he always wore a brave face against the ever-increasing odds against him.
Mary could say some clumsy things, but perhaps she said them without thinking. One day she suggested that we should ask Freddie to take off the wedding ring that I'd given to him, as when her mother had died her fingers had swollen badly.
"The ring stays on, Mary," I said.
Later, when I was alone with Freddie, I mentioned the idea of slipping the ring off in case his finger should swell up.
"No, he said. "I'm keeping it on." It never came off; he was even cremated with it on.
Phoebe started changing the bed while I took care of Freddie. As I was changing Freddie into a clean T-shirt and pair of boxer shorts, I felt him try to raise his left leg to help a little. It was the last thing he did. I looked down at him, knowing he was dead.
"Phoebe," I cried. "I'm sorry, he's gone."
I slipped my arm under Freddie's neck, kissed him and then held him. His eyes were still open. I can remember the expression on his face - and when I go to sleep every night it's still there in front of me. He looked radiant.
One minute he was a boy with a gaunt, sad little face and the next he was a picture of ecstasy. Freddie's whole face went back to everything it had been before. He looked finally and totally at peace. Seeing him like that made me happy in my sadness. I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. I knew that he was no longer in pain.
I stopped the tiny fly-wheel of the wind-up carriage clock by the bed. I'd given it to Freddie because he told me he'd always wanted one. It read 12 minutes past seven. I've never started it again.
The full article... it's incredibly touching.
"Puccini and all these other composers are dead. I'm alive dear."
No matter how ill Freddie felt, he never grumbled to anyone or sought sympathy of any kind. It was his battle, no one else's, and he always wore a brave face against the ever-increasing odds against him.
Mary could say some clumsy things, but perhaps she said them without thinking. One day she suggested that we should ask Freddie to take off the wedding ring that I'd given to him, as when her mother had died her fingers had swollen badly.
"The ring stays on, Mary," I said.
Later, when I was alone with Freddie, I mentioned the idea of slipping the ring off in case his finger should swell up.
"No, he said. "I'm keeping it on." It never came off; he was even cremated with it on.
Phoebe started changing the bed while I took care of Freddie. As I was changing Freddie into a clean T-shirt and pair of boxer shorts, I felt him try to raise his left leg to help a little. It was the last thing he did. I looked down at him, knowing he was dead.
"Phoebe," I cried. "I'm sorry, he's gone."
I slipped my arm under Freddie's neck, kissed him and then held him. His eyes were still open. I can remember the expression on his face - and when I go to sleep every night it's still there in front of me. He looked radiant.
One minute he was a boy with a gaunt, sad little face and the next he was a picture of ecstasy. Freddie's whole face went back to everything it had been before. He looked finally and totally at peace. Seeing him like that made me happy in my sadness. I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. I knew that he was no longer in pain.
I stopped the tiny fly-wheel of the wind-up carriage clock by the bed. I'd given it to Freddie because he told me he'd always wanted one. It read 12 minutes past seven. I've never started it again.
The full article... it's incredibly touching.