Matthew Knott

Until recently, I knew very little about Parkinson's Disease. I thought it was the case that you had "the shakes" and a dodgy memory.

I've put off writing this because it's really upsetting, but here's what I know now and what it means to me.

So much in my life is tainted with regret, from big regrets like buying our house, to little ones like my diet. I feel like I'm constantly wishing I'd done things differently. 

Let me tell you about my Uncle, Dennis Peachey. For as long as I can remember, he's been the most important family member I've had outside of my parents. He is beyond intelligent, he is wise, and his wisdom is the first thing that comes to mind when I think about him, followed by his kindness. The man I saw last week was a husk of his former self. 

He was sitting up in his hospital bed, bare chested, with one pipe taking fluids in and another taking them out. He didn't speak, barely moved, and it was everything I dreaded about seeing him. He looked at me with a vacant state, and I looked back at him and it broke my heart, I was so hopeful he'd be better, able to smile at least, I wanted to be remembered, but there was no apparent sign that he knew me from anyone else. As bad as it was for me I suspect it was worse for my mother.

So here he was in this god awful place of alcohol gel and senility, with no stimulation and only the visiting times for company. It seemed so undignified for him to be here, but then, the parkinson's disease was equally undignified to a man of his intelligence. In my mind, I wanted it to be like the end of the movie, Big Fish. I wanted to pick him up and run with him, not to a lake but back home, to his chair, but his radio, with his books, his newspaper and his tea.

That was one week ago, since then he picked up but has gone down hill again, gaining little nourishment from his food, and he has been given four weeks to live. 28 days of life left, and each one that passes I still don't know what he's aware of. In imagine him being a prisoner inside his body, still very much active in mind but unable to articulate himself. In a way I hope he isn't. I can't imagine anything worse than looking out at a sister you rarely see but love dearly, and being unable to speak to her. The frustration, anger and misery would be unbearable, upsetting beyond belief.

So perhaps this is the end, but he's a fighter and I know after all he's been through in life he won't give up. This, for me, is the beginning.

Before I was born, or shortly after, Dennis gave up work due to ill health. He was a plumber by trade, but heart troubles forced him to give up work and take things easier. A heart bypass later and he was much better and has always led an active life. He, and my Auntie Daphne, played tennis regularly, and he volunteered extensively for the local blind club.

My stays with him and Daphne are some of the fondest memories I have. I remember so much detail about the house, his mannerisms, and quirks. Everything  from the push latch on the bathroom door, to the uncomfortable bed in the back bedroom.

I would stay with Dennis and Daphne by myself, with my parents and sister staying with my mothers other brother, Michael, and his wife Barbara. In the morning, I would come downstairs and sit in the back room with them. I'd have a cup of tea, and the paper would have been delivered. Daphne would usually make the tea, and Dennis would be reading something, he was always reading. They were a perfect couple, Dennis and Daphne, both very calm, patient, well spoken and well read. There was a relaxing feeling about that house that I rarely find elsewhere.

Between visits, I would write to them both, from time to time. He would read my letters carefully, and write back to me commenting on my spelling and grammar. Anyone reading this will now probably be thinking that those comments did not sink in, and they'd be right.

When I started writing this, I thought it was the wisdom and intelligence I loved about him, but now I think I realise it was the serenity and dignity that he had that I really love about him. I looked up to him as a child, he was a wonderful role model. He really motivated me to read more, and he also got me reading Terry Pratchett when I was about 14. We would write back and forth, discussing this and that about books, and life in general. I don't imagine he kept any of the letters, I doubt they were particularly interesting to him. They mostly consisted of "I've done this" and "I've done that", but as I never did anything remotely interesting I'm sure he read them rather quickly.

When he came to my wedding, in 2004, I was over the moon. I was looking forward to him coming more than anyone else. He drove the long journey from Kent to Swansea, only 6 years ago. He was fine, only at one point did he seem a bit forgetful.

The next time I saw him was in mid, to late 2007. I wanted to take Lisa and my mother to see him and other relatives, to tell them in person that Lisa was pregnant. I hadn't even told my mother. Only three years after my wedding he was very different. Easily confused and forgetful, he was not himself at all, it wasn't long after this that my mother told me he had parkinsons. He has never met my children, and I know he would love to. This is my biggest regret, that as someone I love very much, he will never know that which I love the most.

I don't know what the next four weeks hold for him, but whatever happens, he'll always be someone I've loved very much and will never forget.