This is me and my Grandad. His name is Dalton James. He was born in St. Elizabeth, Jamaica in December 1930. He was bright, really bright. He had a law scholarship in Jamaica, but he made some youthful mistakes and had to get out of there, he came to England when he was 21. There wasn't a lot of opportunity for a young black man in 1950's London, but he worked, HARD. He joined the army for a bit, and represented their sports teams in the high jump.
He was a consummate ladies man, once asking me and my brother how many women we'd been with in a single day. I mustered a 3, my brother a 1 before He laughed at us and held up 6 fingers. He was still hooking up way into his 70's.
He probably raised me as much as my parents, and certainly more than my deadbeat arsehole father. He taught me about football, he taught me how to shave, he taught me about women and how to not be a dick. The person I am today wouldn't exist without him.
I'd stay with him every weekend, he'd take me into town, down in Kent, and buy me toy once a month. He'd take me to the bookies. Then we'd go home, watch the football and have pork chops for lunch every Sunday before I went home.
As I grew we used to share a beer or a whisky and shoot the shit while checking out butts. he was one if my greatest friends and confidantes.
He beat cancer, TWICE. Sure he still suffered after effects. But he was so Billy bad assthat he kicked that shit out.
In recent years, his health has declined in a different way, and he's been struggling with dementia. He's nit the man he was, and the shitty thing about that is people go piece by piece, and you don't get to say goodbye. Now, my strong, brave, funny, cheeky and all around EPIC Grandad is scared of his own front door, he sleeps with a knife and he forgets to get out if bed to pee.
And that is FUCKING BULLSHIT.
And it makes me so angry.
And it breaks my heart...
Last night I got a call from my mum, saying he'd been taken into hospital, he's dehydrated and has lost a lot of weight. He's also got a long infection. I think this is it... And my first reaction shocked me. I wad calm, I didn't rage, I didn't act out, I didn't drink or go fuck someone I shouldn't, I was calm. And that's not like me. I'm surprised I've not punched someone on this commuter train.
But this morning I've cried a fair bit. My mum told me not to go. I think she knows it'd break me.
So Dalton James, from St. Elizabeth is laying in a hospital bed down in Kent, fighting without knowing why. And I'm on a commuter train with a bunch of people awkwardly looking around while I write this and cry.
I wrote this here because outwardly I need to be strong for a lot of people... But they won't see this.
I'm just so fucking sad...
