To know how a man died, you must first learn how he lived.
As many of you know, I found solace in Shetland after Tim
died. The landscape and the people helped me to heal. Helped me to learn how to
breathe again. Helped me to see that happiness might be possible again.
Although Tim and I had n
ever visited Shetland (well, he’d had
an emergency overnight stay there once – he’d been taken off an oil rig but it
was too foggy for the helicopter to make it back to the mainland. He told me he
was in a hotel, miles away from anywhere, and the sun didn’t set until after
ten o’clock), I was drawn to it. Instinctively I knew that I had to be there. Perhaps
Tim’s memory had lodged itself deep in my mind, I’m not sure. But I didn’t
remember his story until I was in Shetland and I drove past a sign for St Magnus
Bay. Magnus had been the name of an oil rig he’d worked on several times.
In Shetland, Jimmy Perez says to his team that ‘to
know how a man died, you must first learn how he lived.’
This got me thinking. How did Tim live his life? He often
travelled away from home for work, returning with smiles and hugs (gosh, how I
miss the strength of those hugs, that love), sometimes gifts (how I miss those
dates from Saudi Arabia), and stories. There was the time he was being lifted
from one ship to another by crane: he had to hang on to a basket that swung
through the air but he missed his footing and was nearly crushed between the
two ships. The story of a sheik taking him into the desert to race across the dunes
and dinner in a tent under the stars. The stories of the people he made friends
with – and kept in touch with. He’d send Chinese New Year cards to a family he’d
become friends with in Singapore; we chose a present for their new baby.
My mind is whirling with the stories he would tell. How his
eyes would light up, how he cherished the people he met. But more, how he
wanted to bring that home to us, his family. How he wanted us to be part of his
life away from us.
When the news of Tim’s diagnosis began to circulate into the
wider world, I was inundated with good wishes and requests to see him. I had
messages from Saudi, from India, Singapore, Malaysia, Israel – as well as so many people
in the UK. Many of the names were familiar, and I tried to match them to Tim’s
stories. It was overwhelming. Tim was too ill to see so many people. And his
illness too brief.
To know how a man died, you must first learn how he
lived.
Tim lived with kindness, compassion, humour, loyalty, openness,
and, most of all, love. He would always look for the best in a person. He brought
out the best in me.
Tim died too soon. He was fifty-six years old. He still had
so much living to do. We had so many adventures planned – our own travelling
stories.
Tim died surrounded by love. He kept his sense of humour
till the end. He died peacefully, and I am grateful for that.
This will be my third Christmas without Tim. In April next
year I’ll be going on an adventure that we’d planned to do together: the trek
from The Dead Sea to Petra. I’m scared of so many things and I wish he was there
to take care of me. I wish he could hug me and tell me that it’ll all be
alright. But I’m finding my own way. I have to. I’ve already made friends with
some of the ladies going on the trek, and I’ll try to squash my fears with humour
so that afterwards I’ll be able to see the funny side. I’m not as brave as Tim,
but I’m trying my best.
This has been a long blog post and I’m so grateful if you’ve
made it to the end. I’ve now reached 82% of my fundraising goal, which is
amazing. In three weeks’ time, all the money has to be in to register against my target
. So if you have a little bit to spare, I’d be chuffed to bits. Thank you.
To donate, please press here.
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