Pollyanna Alison Goodchild - 25-02-2011 - 26-02-2011

When I married Janet it was one of the happiest days of my life. I recall the day vividly but in particular, I recall a question that was asked of the congregation:
‘Will you do all in your power to support and encourage them in their marriage?’
At Polly's funeral, I saw that promise fulfilled by those present to support us.

To conceive a child is the ultimate demonstration of love between husband and wife. To create life is an ethereal experience: a miracle that almost transcends earthly comprehension. Bringing a child into the world presents numerous obstacles and dangers but in today’s world we have come to expect pregnancy and the birth of a child as a straightforward event.

Our experience has reminded us how fragile life can be.

Despite the skills of the best doctors available and all this modern-day technology, our baby could not survive. Nine months of effort, dedication and devotion, culminated in 3 hours of life. Most of that time, Pollyanna spent with strangers: doctors: nurses. We were rewarded with 15 minutes as a family.

There is no feeling more savage than to be told your child is dying and there is nothing the doctors can do.

There is nothing so wretched as to hold your daughter in your arms and watch helplessly as she fades away.

There is nothing so desperate as to hold her tight hoping beyond hope that you can force some of your life into her

It’s called heart-ache because your heart literally aches.

Most parents are fortunate to have a lifetime with their children. We had just 15 minutes. But I can promise you, in those 15 minutes, we bathed Pollyanna with a life time of love and affection.

Pollyanna was a delicate flower: our arms the petals that caressed her. Like the flower, whose petals fade away, our Pollyanna faded away. But unlike the flower, our memories will live, substained and nurtured by the everlasting love that we hold close to our hearts for our wonderful, beautiful daughter, Pollyanna Goodchild.
We love you Pollyanna.

We draw great comfort from the following poem by Terry Kettering:

There's an elephant in the room.
It is large and squatting,so it is hard to get around it.
Yet we squeeze by with "How are you?" and"I'm fine" ...
And a thousand other forms of trivial chatter.
We talk about the weather.
We talk about work.
We talk about everything else --
except the elephant in the room.
There's an elephant in the room.
We all know it is there.
We are thinking about the elephant as we talk together.
It is constantly on our minds.
For, you see, it is a very big elephant.
It has hurt us all.
But we do not talk about the elephant in the room.
Please, say her name.
Please,say "Pollyanna" again.
Please, let's talk about the elephant in the room.
For if we talk about her death, Perhaps we can talk about her life.
Can I say " Pollyanna " to you and not have you look away?
For if I cannot, then you are leaving me Alone ... In a room ... With an elephant.

Let It Snow,Let It Snow, Let It Snow

I love snow.

We just dont get enough of it over here to warrant buying a snowboard (which would maybe go some way to satiating the gnawing desire to suit up and have a surf) Or even some skis, if that be your own particular peccadillo.

What we get is a feeble fart of snow. The sort of snow which, if it were human, it would be an teenager slouching on the couch on a Saturday afternoon who, when told to shake a leg, sighs heavily before passing you an empty plate from the carpet floor. It’s just too much effort.

And so this indifference perpetuates. I can’t be arsed to buy a snowboard because the weather can’t be arsed to snow. Neither can I be arsed to travel hundreds of miles to go somewhere it does snow. We just don’t get enough snow to make buying all the fancy gear worthwhile. If you did, in all likelihood it would simply go in the shed and gradually, over years of non-use, would worm its way backwards to the far corner.

This year was a very rare event. It was the *best/worst*(delete as applicable) snow conditions for decades. Indeed, the last time I recall snow like this I was 8 years old. If snowboards had been invented way back then, and they had cost less than my weekly pocket money of 40p, I’m glad I wouldn’t have been arsed to buy one and had to endure a 30 year wait to use it again. Instead, by chance, wifey had bought me for Christmas one of those flappy plastic snow sleds that sit between your legs like a flattened whoopee cushion or a beaver’s tail. With more snow than you could shake a Penguin’s pecker at, there were huge white vistas of virgin snow to christen.

I am sure those who had bought all the snow gear were having a fantastic time. I know I did, content as I was, slipping down a modest 20 foot slope just down by the lake where I live – me and my boy Jakey. I hope that when the next snowfalls come in earnest, I am young enough to one day do this again with Jake and his children.

Our garden


Randoms

Canal Trip!

Last year wifey and I decided it would be a nice departure from the usual short break away to go on a canal cruise. Our fellow companions were Old Man Rich and his partner Debs. Until this time, my acquaintance with both was centred mostly around the local pub, so it was a refreshing to converse in a setting other than The Crown.

Before I go on I would like to say just how wonderful the holiday was and we all thoroughly enjoyed it. Indeed, we both really would like to go again. But that story is rather pedestrian. Instead, I want to tell you all the story of our epic yet totally unplanned trip up Tardebigge.

Being canal virgins, wifey and I deferred to Old Man Rich for his expert advice in lock handling and navigation. He was a natural at Lock handling and showed great prowess with the turnkey and lock gates. Sadly, this was counterbalanced by his not so spot on navigation skills, with which he failed miserably.

Having passed a perfectly good winding hole and canal side pub, we ventured on, only to find ourselves at the bottom of Tardebigge locks and, with no space enough to turn around, it took a wee while before it finally dawnewd on us....we had no alternative than to go up the locks and back down, Now for those not in the know (such as Wifey me and Debs at the time) Tardebigge isnt just any flight of locks. it is the Sainsburys Special flight of locks….the longest in Britain. Thirty locks, rising up 220 feet through the Worcester countryside.

A passing old dodder suggested that one of the basins several gates up was significantly wide enough that we might just be able to turn the barge around….. so off we set, with renewed vigor. Several lock gates up and we happen upon the larger basin and begin our futile attempt to turn the barge around. However, after a prolonged frenzy of sweat and hair we found ourselves stuck with the barge at *almost* right angels to the canal basin. Old Man Rich was stood at the stern, furiously driving the engine into the water and mud and I was at the other end with the bow rope attempting to pull the bow past 90 degrees so we could spin around in the reverse direction. Of course the edges of the basin are more silted up than the centres and the barge just would not budge no matter how hard we persevered. What really smarted was that the barge was literally only about 12 inches too long for pity’s sake! Long after the others had given up I was still staring at the mud contemplating digging it out with a stick rather than accept defeat.

Finally we had capitulate. We continued forlornly upwards into the fast fading light before darkness forced us to tie up in a basin for the night. With pub food off the menu, we substituted 8 oz flamegrilled steaks and cool beers for spaghetti bolognaise and warm Carling before retiring for what promised to be an arduous struggle the next day.

At 6.30 we were off….needing to reach the summit of Tardebigge and motor all the way back from whence we had came before 11.00. After a herculean effort we finally reached the summit. Old Man Rich and I congratulated each other in the reserved manner that English gentlemen do.. I thought I was going to vomit my lungs on the bank. I think I wept. I quite possibly may have even urinated myself.

It was easier going down as the locks were in our favour having been filled by us on the way up and (because we started halfway up due to our overnight pit-stop) we didn’t encounter any traffic. Indeed, we were so speedy, the old dodder at the bottom didn’t believe we had been all the way up and down. The lock keeper who lived at a cottage halfway up the flight of locks knew we had, because on our way down we managed to somehow flood the pounds, causing the banks to burst, spewing forth hundreds of gallons of fetid canal water and floating dog turds over the towpaths and into his pristine rose garden….

Targebigge locks


"Let the girls have a go....what can go wrong?"