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My Uncle Tom died yesterday. It came as no huge surprise, he's been in hospital for a while as he broke his hip last year and never really recovered. He suffered from severe depression for most of his life, and when he broke his hip if finally got the better of him. His medication was barely making any difference in the end.
He led such a sad life, and I think that's the thing that's upsetting me most. He was the eldest of 2 sons, and treated pretty much like a skivvy by his mum. Even when he was in his 70's he still felt duty bound to visit her several times a day to check she was okay, and she would just treat him with contempt. His wife left him shortly after their son was born, and when his son married his wife she made him cut all contact with his Dad because his mental illness made him too hard to deal with.
Uncle Tom was hard to deal with. You could only visit him at certain times of the day because of his medication, he was regularly admitted into mental wards and was often really difficult to talk to. But me, my mum and my brother kept up contact with him none the less. Even though my Mum has lived 100's of miles away from him for nearly a decade, she still saw him more than any of the family that live down the road.
He used to be an amazing piano player, and I remember as a kid he always used to play songs for us when we went round. He'd get so caught up in what he was doing that he'd just play for hours, as if he'd forgotten we were there. Then about 15 years ago he started showing signs of Parkinson's Disease, which eventually severely affected his hands, and in the end he could barely play for more than a few minutes. I recall being in his front room once when he was trying to play something, his shaking hands preventing him from hitting the right keys. His frustration and upset was heartbreaking.
He was a huge eccentric, too. He lived in the same little house from the age of 18. He could still remember the names of all the neighbours he was friends with, going back for decades. He had an astonishing memory. He also refused to ever fit an indoor toilet in the house. He only lived in the downstairs rooms, and I think I only ever saw his kitchen once. He was a collector of all sorts of crazy old junk. His front room was like a little museum.
I dunno. Noting I could write here could ever really describe him. He was such a complex man, riddled with illnesses that destroyed his life early on, and he somehow kept on going until he was in his 80's, living a humble life with few friends of family who really cared enough to persevere with him. It's their loss. My Uncle Tom, once you got to know him, was caring, intelligent, generous to a fault (some of his neighbours tried to take advantage of this at the times when his mental health was especially poor), a great listener and full of fascinating ideas. I'll miss him. And I didn't visit enough.
He led such a sad life, and I think that's the thing that's upsetting me most. He was the eldest of 2 sons, and treated pretty much like a skivvy by his mum. Even when he was in his 70's he still felt duty bound to visit her several times a day to check she was okay, and she would just treat him with contempt. His wife left him shortly after their son was born, and when his son married his wife she made him cut all contact with his Dad because his mental illness made him too hard to deal with.
Uncle Tom was hard to deal with. You could only visit him at certain times of the day because of his medication, he was regularly admitted into mental wards and was often really difficult to talk to. But me, my mum and my brother kept up contact with him none the less. Even though my Mum has lived 100's of miles away from him for nearly a decade, she still saw him more than any of the family that live down the road.
He used to be an amazing piano player, and I remember as a kid he always used to play songs for us when we went round. He'd get so caught up in what he was doing that he'd just play for hours, as if he'd forgotten we were there. Then about 15 years ago he started showing signs of Parkinson's Disease, which eventually severely affected his hands, and in the end he could barely play for more than a few minutes. I recall being in his front room once when he was trying to play something, his shaking hands preventing him from hitting the right keys. His frustration and upset was heartbreaking.
He was a huge eccentric, too. He lived in the same little house from the age of 18. He could still remember the names of all the neighbours he was friends with, going back for decades. He had an astonishing memory. He also refused to ever fit an indoor toilet in the house. He only lived in the downstairs rooms, and I think I only ever saw his kitchen once. He was a collector of all sorts of crazy old junk. His front room was like a little museum.
I dunno. Noting I could write here could ever really describe him. He was such a complex man, riddled with illnesses that destroyed his life early on, and he somehow kept on going until he was in his 80's, living a humble life with few friends of family who really cared enough to persevere with him. It's their loss. My Uncle Tom, once you got to know him, was caring, intelligent, generous to a fault (some of his neighbours tried to take advantage of this at the times when his mental health was especially poor), a great listener and full of fascinating ideas. I'll miss him. And I didn't visit enough.