My Son, Blib.

Mandy Aitken

Description

In the weeks following the death of my son Tony aged just Thirteen, I started writing his memoirs as cathartic therapy in an effort to make some sense of the turmoil I was experiencing and to contain the anger I was feeling.
Tony was to experience many prejudices in his life. Bullied from a young age, racism and from the age of nine, he was to live as a diabetic that proved to be brittle and difficult to control.
Tony always rose to his challenges with a winning smile and a maturity that belied his age.
He experienced premonitions, including his own death. He was a strange mysterious child but he enriched the lives of all those who knew him.
I know Tony would wish for any person working in the medical or educational fields. To read his book, thereby preventing any other child suffering the injustices he was forced to endure.
I still take strength from my son every single day, and for all bereaved parents that feel such isolation, please read my book. You are not alone...............

Sujets

• Médecine
• Spécialités médicales
• Medical
• Metabolism
• Endocrinology

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 23 avril 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781456600242
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

MySon,
Blib
 
By
Mandy Aitken.
 
 
© Copyright 2000 Mandy Aitken
 
Published for the Internet by eBookIt.com
http://www.eBookIt.com
 
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0024-2
 
Publisher's Note
This work was first published under the imprint of New Millennium and has been reissued by the author with the assistance of Oxhead Books whose ISBN (1.903502.02.0) appears on the back cover of the book. It was not listed in the databases of Whitaker under its original ISBN (1.85845.2910).
The publishers wish to make it clear that they disclaim any responsibility for the controversial views expressed by the author in this work, and for which she takes full responsibility. The text of the book was copy edited by the author.
Digital edition produced by author : Mandy Aitken
2010.
 

Table of Contents
 
Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
 
Part 2
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
 
Part 3
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
 

 
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO MY SON, BLIB;
HE WAS A BOY WHO SHOWED COURAGE EVEN WHEN THE CHIPS WERE DOWN, WHOSE SMILE LIT UP A ROOM, AND WHOSE SENSE OF HUMOUR I SHALL NEVER FORGET.
HE TAUGHT ME TO LIVE LIFE TO THE FULL, AND TAUGHT ME HOW OUR DAYS ARE SO FEW AND EACH MINUTE SO PRECIOUS.
MAY HIS MEMORY LIVE ON FOREVER!
 

Acknowledgements and thanks are due
To Dr Nick Mann, for his devoted work, with and for diabetic children.
TO Dr Colin Fleetcroft, whom I can only describe as "a GP in a million." To my friends - Gina, Christopher, Theresa, Chris, Gill, Fiona, Fay and
Zoe.
I could fill a page with names of friends and acquaintances who helped me, and I would like to thank everyone for their constant support, and for never giving up on me when, at times, I must have been pretty hard going
Special thanks go to Chris, my mother-in-law, and to Jock, and to the rest of the 'Aitken-Clan' who waited in the shadows to cushion our fall.
To Pammie, Big Tone and Clairee (my adopted family), for their support on the night shift in the early days, and whose doors were never closed....
To my sisters, Penny and Tina, for their badgering and encouragement to write this book, and for believing in me.
To my dear Mum, for just being there when I needed her, though at times I
know I made it tough.
To the memory of my lovely Dad whose quiet patience and understanding made me what I am today!
To my husband, Neill, who made me stand on my own two feet again, and who gave me a reason to carry on living.
 

Preface.
I first met Mandy when I was admitted to Unsted Park Rehabilitation Hospital for recovery after a stroke. She was the equivalent of a Matron and over the
days of recuperation we chatted about many things and I warmed to her pleasant cheerful personality. It was only after a conversation with another nurse that I learned of Mandy's background and that she had written a book about it.
She gave it to me to read, telling me that it was to get rid of all the anger within her over the hand that fate had dealt her, and this is reflected in the narrative.
It is indeed a harrowing tale, but it makes compelling reading, and it is a tribute to the human spirit that she has been through the valley of the shadow and has still come through relatively unscathed
I don't wish to pre-empt what follows, but reading her story of her tragic love and devotion for her son Blib certainly put my own problems into perspective. She is a lovely lady in every sense and her book deserves to be read.
Sir Harry Secombe.

 

My Blib: A One Off.
Blib was a boy, who fell to earth, =
A difficult, traumatic birth,
He lived his life for all it was worth,
And he filled my life with joy and mirth.
He quickly broke all the rules in the book,
The corridors of life vibrated and shook,
But he put so much more into life than he took
Qualities visible to those who would look.
 
He walked a line of subtle delinquency,
His mind tuned in to another frequency.
He suffered fools with a moderate leniency,
And battled through life, with an air of supremacy.
After Blib, they broke the mould,
His mind was coal whilst his heart was gold,
He's left a million memories untold,
To cherish in my heart and my mind, when I'm old.
 
Naught to ninety in thirteen short years,
A lifetime of tragedy, laughter and tears,
For a boy who was destined to bury his fears,
That he paid for with blood, but he left no arrears.
He was a boy who was trapped in the wrong time and place,
His mind out of 'synch' with his body and face,
A lifeline that no fortune-teller could trace,
For time was the essence, his life was a race.
 
The time just ran out, perhaps he alone knew,
He'd earned his own wings and with the angels he flew.
The Spirits were calling, he bid us 'adieu',
A smouldering ember, where his light once shone through.
He took the path to the great unknown;
He laughed at the devil who he'd robbed of his throne;
He floats on the breeze, over land that he's known;
He's left saplings of gold from the seeds that he's sown.
 
The devil himself, but a lovable kid,
He entered this world and blew off the lid!
He always stayed cheerful, true feelings he hid.
If anyone knew how to live life -Blib did!
For Blib was a boy who took life in his stride,
He jumped on the wagon and paid for the ride,
A flame that burned bright and then flickered and died,
But a boy who his mum will remember with pride!
 
Mandy Aitken.
May 1997.
 
Part One. A Blib is Born.
 

 
Tony, six weeks old.
 
Chapter 1
".....And the Lord giveth life, and the Lord taketh away...."
I felt a strange fluttering in my stomach and I felt momentarily giddy. The chapel and the coffin swum before my eyes and I wriggled my toes and took deep breaths in an effort to stop myself from fainting. I was four months pregnant, and this was the first stirring of life I had felt deep within me.
The Vicar droned on, and then we trudged out across the cemetery....
"Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust."
We stood silently as they lowered my nan into the ground. It was a bitter day in April 1981, the graveyard was bleak, rain teemed down and a biting wind cut across the open land. This was a small family gathering to lay Christine Elizabeth (Betty) Stacey to rest.
My nan had been dying of cancer for some time, she'd lived long enough to know that she was to be a great-nan, but not long enough to see her great grandson.
I knew I was pregnant from day one. Two pregnancy tests had told me that I wasn't, but I knew that I was from the night that I had conceived, just as I had known all along that it would be a boy.
Throughout my pregnancy I called him 'Katie!' -'Katie' was kicking! 'Katie' was restless! I called him Katie because we couldn't agree on a boy's name. But a girl's name didn't matter! An Indian girl was of no account but a girl would have spared us the thirteen years of misery that my son and I had to endure because he was born a boy. A first-born Indian son meant a badge to pin on your chest, and wear with pride. But a badge to discard when it gets in the way.
Secretly though, I had always wanted a boy and during my pregnancy I always dreamt of an olive-skinned baby boy with jet-black spikey hair, and my dreams came true, just as I knew they would!
For just over eight months I had an uneventful pregnancy. I never had a day's sickness or a day off work. At that time I was working on an acute medical ward in the East End of London. It was a demanding job and very hard work. Eight months into the pregnancy I was still 'jumping' on people's chests as they arrested daily. I stood on a milk crate so that my 'bump' didn't get in the way. My staff knew, if a crash call went out, to grab the resuscitation trolley and my milk crate! Luckily I didn't get too big and I was able to stay in my normal uniforms instead of the disgusting maternity 'numbers' the NHS provided. At that time Ravi and I were living in a rented room in East Ham and frantically saving a deposit for a mortgage. We were so happy when we bought our first flat in Manor Park. We moved in during June and proceeded to gut it. As well as working full time, I spent every spare minute burning back paint, sanding, filling and painting.
I was now twenty-two years old and found London refreshing and alive after 'quaint' Godalming, where I was brought up and 'boring' Guildford, where I had trained as a nurse.
I gave up work with only three weeks to go, and in a way I was sad to leave. Aldersbrooke Medical Unit was soon to close, and when I returned after my maternity leave it was to be at a different hospital within the area.
I was the only white nurse within the unit; all my friends were Asian or Caribbean, and they gave me a lovely leaving party with very generous gifts for my baby. I had no conception of racial prejudice and had laughed when my mother had said:
"It's the kids who suffer in a mixed marriage."
"Times have changed, mum." I told her.
Life was good! Hospital life has a good social life. I went to Reggae parties and drank Jamaica Rum. I vividly remember the day Bob Marley died: it was virtually a national day of mourning on the ward with all the Jamaican nurses wailing, and playing 'No Woman, No Cry!" over and over again!
I left Wanstead a happy mum to be.
With three weeks to go I steeled myself for some serious decorating. My parents had been coming up most weekends in an effort to get the flat habitable, and we were almost there. One afternoon I was helping Ravi put some suitcases up in the loft. They were full and heavy. He was up in the loft and I was supposed to be passing them up to him. Suddenly I felt very giddy, but he was shouting and calling me everything. I couldn't hold the suitcase above my head any longer and so I got down off the ladder.
I sat down and cried! Two things struck me at that moment. Firstly