Today was the day we said goodbye to my Grandad. I knew him as Mick, because he felt he wasn’t old enough to be Grandad when I was born. He died two and a half weeks ago, of a bleed to the brain and he felt no pain-something we take comfort from. He’d had his team (Gammon, one of his favourites) watched Deal Or No Deal and shouted at them for not doing what he would do, then said he had a headache and went upstairs to nap. My Grandma heard a bump and he’d fallen to the floor, she called an ambulance and they gave him an injection to make him unconscious. He never came round. The doctors did everything they could, sending brain scans to the specialist hospital about an hour away, who confirmed they couldn’t operate. And then we were asked if we’d considered organ donation before.
After a chat amongst us, we realised that Mick was a person who was very vocal about things he didn’t agree with, and he’d never mentioned organ donation. We took that to mean he definitely wasn’t against it, and so we said yes. There aren’t many organ donation coordinators in the country and so we waited until three in the morning for a lovely lady to come over from Sheffield to speak to us, and to do the paperwork.
Goodbye, Mick. The world will be a sadder place without you in it.