It is very rare to feel deep grief and sadness about the death of someone I don’t personally know. Even people I do know I don’t necessarily grieve over – I’m sad, yes, sincere condolences for the family of the departed, yes, but not necessarily that gut-wrenching pain of shock and emotional loss
For my mum and dad’s passing, of course, there was grief. For Dad especially because it was not expected, he was taken too soon and I wish I had talked to him a lot more. I regret not really knowing him. Mum died when she was ninety-two, very frail, and I must be honest, I didn’t get on with Mum as much as a daughter should. I think the feeling between us was mutual, though.
I was a disappointment, Mum wanted a boy. It’s sad to admit it, but Mum was very self-centred. ‘Me’, meaning herself, was her concern. I’ll never forget that nearly every present I gave her came with a ‘what do I want that for?’ comment. I don’t recall a single ‘Oh that’s lovely, thank you.’ Even when I gave her one of my newly published novels, she glanced at it and said ‘What do I want this for? I can’t read it.’ No, she couldn’t - like me she had Glaucoma, so reading books was no longer viable; but you don’t have to actually read a book to be proud to receive it. I no longer horseride, but I take enormous delight in my daughter Kathy’s equine achievements.
As I'm writing this, Kathy is competing in Wales, with her class being live-streamed on line via video. I’m keeping an eye on the running order: so far she’s clear in the first round so I am now waiting for the jump-off… (Update: She came 5th out of 89 competitors.) I’m not sure that ‘delight’ is the right word for the mixture of apprehensive heart-in-mouth excitement as I watched her jump, though!
Anyway: when my best friend died years ago, again, deep shock and grief. Losing dogs, and cats in the past, and two horses within weeks of each other last summer, the grief was intense. Deep, deep sadness when Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II passed. This, I think, because her death brought with it a step into the unknown future for the United Kingdom (and beyond). For most of us we had only known The Queen as our monarch, now there was to be a new King... and I must say, from where I am here in mid-summer 2024, I think Charles, Queen Camilla and the Prince and Princess of Wales are doing a damn fine job, despite their worrying health issues. Bravo Your Majesties!
But I shed a few tears in early June after a few days of anxious waiting for news about
Dr Michael Mosley who went missing, and was then found, dead, whilst he was on holiday on the Greek Island of Symi.
I didn’t know him, had never met him, nor was I likely to, but he had been a part of my life for quite a while, or at least, his face and voice was, thanks to TV and BBC Radio 4. I listened every week to his "
Just One Thing" radio programme where each week he explored just one thing that could help improve physical and mental wellbeing. He personally tried each one himself; some he enjoyed doing, some he didn’t, but this was the ‘thing’ about Dr Mosley, he didn’t preach, he didn’t judge, but took part himself and was honest about the outcome.
Some of his suggestions were very much of a ‘I don’t think so!’ response from myself. Take a cold shower? No thanks. Try walking backwards? Not for me; I have enough problems walking frontwards. But other ideas were ‘Okay, I’ll give it a go.’ Stand on one leg while brushing your teeth as a way to improve poor balance. Eat fruit and nuts as a snack instead of biscuits or sweets. Learn to play a musical instrument… ah, I was already giving that one a go with my piano. I still can’t play it properly, but I can manage a couple of recognisable tunes, and my version of Bach’s Prelude in C is, well,
sort of like how Bach wrote it.
It wasn’t necessarily the suggestions Dr Mosley made that interested me, although many were worth a try, but his calm, caring voice that had me hooked. He came across as if he were a close friend, someone familiar and reliable, someone who genuinely cared about others and their health problems.
The few days when he was missing must have been so awful for his family, and I can’t help thinking that those last moments must have been frightening for him when the ultimate inevitability was heading towards him at speed. But in a weird way Dr Mosley’s death is comforting. It is the one thing that will definitely happen to each and every one of us, and it might sound silly, but Dr Mosley has, unintentionally of course, added one last ‘just one thing’ to his list of shared experiences.
He has gifted something to make us think about, and his death has emphasised that we all should not waste a precious second of what we have, while we’ve got it.
Rest in Peace, Dr Mosley, and thank you.
Until next time.