Good grief...?

(...with apologies to bereavement guide books everywhere. And Peanuts....)

OK. So losing someone's never going to be easy. And there are a million different deaths to deal with. Different circumstances, ages, whether you get a warning and time to say goodbye, or just one of those 'world-stops-turning' calls. But can you ever soften the blow? Can you feel, well, not a 'good' grief, but one with lighter moments that will comfort you in the days and months ahead? The pain of loss has been acute this year and, in #griefawarenessweek has led me to revisit this post, and reflect on how the weight of grief can, slowly, ease. So, apologies for the repeat. But I hope it might just help.

May 2014: Rewind to last Friday night; just nine days after Dad died from 'end stage' dementia, at the pretty respectable age of 85. This was limbo land; between a heart wrenching week of last rites, minor rallies, major tenacity, really, really last rites, and the final goodbye. The funeral was still two weeks ahead. And I decided I needed to be in Scotland; his birthplace. Immediately.

It didn't help, really, that it was nearly 10 at night. And that Edinburgh was 284 miles away. But the yearning to be there was so strong, that within 20 minutes, I'd sorted a train ticket, a 5 a.m taxi to the station and a half decent hotel in the centre of Edinburgh. I had a mental wish-list of the places I 'needed' to revisit. Places I'd been taken to as a child. Locations he loved.

I'd cried in the days before his death. Cried in the years before it too, as the Dad we knew and loved slipped further away from us as each shared memory was erased from his mind. But funeral arrangements keep you focused, don't they? Head down; get it sorted. Everyone's so kind. But nearly everyone you speak to at this time is 'in the business'. They know who and what they're dealing with.They speak softly. Pour coffee quietly. Guide you gently through the 'options'.

What I wasn't prepared for, was facing the world outside; away from the 'professionals' and our own circle of fabulous friends and family. I headed for Edinburgh regardless, thinking I could probably tough it out. I steeled myself for the first hurdle: the inevitable sound of a Scottish piper. (We've booked one for Dad's funeral. My mate Ian found him for us. He's called Donald. No Troosers.) And here was one almost greeting me; just steps away from Waverley.

 I watched a while, gave him a brave, beaming smile, lost it, welled up, baled out, threw some change in his music case and legged it to the hotel.

Why was I there? Holiday or business? There was no box to tick for *this* trip at reception; nor at the coffee shop round the corner ('you here for the shopping, then?'); or during my chat with the lady on the bus to Leith. Yes, I have family here. No, I won't be seeing them this trip. And no, I can't tell you that it's because my Uncle Jim is so like my Dad, that one glimpse of his twinkly eyes would finish me off, today, so I'm waiting until I see him at the funeral. Thankfully, she rang the bell to get off, just before a few big, ploppy tears fell. Not the tiny, trickly ones, but the ones resembling the heavy raindrops that splatter down suddenly, before a major storm. That kind.

Waterproof mascara and my 'I`m OK--Just Hear My Confident Clunky Shoes' ruse paid off on the Royal Yacht Britannia tour. Dad had sailed on this beauty as a personal bodyguard; regaled us with tales of the on-board Roller; the sumptuous quarters; the quoits. I was getting the hang of this grief thing: you're OK if you don't speak; don't get too close. Being near certain places was connecting me with Dad. I took strength from it, even posed for a selfie in the Captain`s cap.

Back in town, I was reminded that grief can pop back up and grab you with no warning whatsoever. I skipped the Cathedral--couldn't face lighting two parental candles for the first time; and dodged the postcard browsing-- the Father's Day cards were way too close. Inexplicably, while heading through 'Ground Floor Perfumery' towards Haberdashery in Jenner's (I need some McIntyre tartan in my hair for the funeral...) I agreed to a spontaneous make-up makeover with Andrew. First time ever. Sky high risk. This would involve a stranger not only speaking to me, but touching my face. Quite a lot. And, inexplicably, it worked. He glossed my lips; I glossed over the real reason I was in Edinburgh. Result? I felt a million dollars; he felt my fifty quid.

The next day I felt like a local; legs now used to the endless steps linking city streets. I walked miles; smiled at every piper, bought gifts to take home, and abandoned the search for a possible F-day black dress in a Grassmarket vintage store, buying a fairly hideous Blondie T-shirt to wear at Glastonbury instead. I was smiling. So, was this 'good' grief? No such thing. But probably, I mused on the train hurtling home that night, they were the words Dad would've uttered if he'd ever caught me wearing a pink and black Blondie T-shirt. Or , for that matter, the Captain's hat .

John McIntyre June 1928-May 2014. Loved and always missed.

Hug-free. If it's that or nothing--we'll take it!

June 21st. It was the longest day: and it started at 02.48.

I'd woken with a jolt; worry-dreaming about how to take socially distanced selfies at that day's planned family reunion.

I'm not, by nature, a worrier, but this lockdown had been taking its toll; most acutely --the inability to see my daughters. One's 100 miles away; one, 160, so it's not as if we can pop round for coffee on a whim. Even so, it was knowing that a meet up was all nigh impossible, that hurt the most. That, and the missing.

Word spread, and unbeknown to me, a plan was agreed. We'd meet at a National Trust property more or less equidistant from the six of us, have a picnic, and stroll around the grounds. Inevitably; there were questions. This was all outdoors. What if it rained again? How well would Jake cope in the back seat for ninety minutes with two, travel-queasy dachshunds? And, above all...how would it all be without the hugging?

Only days before, a small group of family members had been allowed to attend the funeral of a dearly loved uncle. That in itself was strange: we're a huge crowd, and we fill funerals, and weddings and parties to the rafters, normally. And we hug.
I'd watched the funeral service online, gulping each time a precious cousin came into view; sobbing at the beautiful readings and the song choices; and mourning the cruelty of Covid. If ever there was a need for cousinly hugs; this was it, and I could only imagine how tough it was for them.

But now it was Sunday, and here was our corner of the family, six of us, plus Chester and Chip, at Calke Abbey in Derbyshire--a circle of camping chairs, picnic rugs, and portable feasts, grey clouds scudding above us; hug free, but together. This was the first time my daughters had seen each other in six months; the first time their partners had met.We had lunch, laughs, face to face conversation, and a wonderful meander round the grounds.

Yes, it was the first time in nearly 30 years I've been with a child of mine without physical contact. It was so odd: a feeling, almost, of senses unsated. But the sight of them? The 'being together' ? The chance to eat, and stroll, and laugh at the antics of Chester, 'playing dead' when it was time to leave? It all made my heart soar.

June 21st: the longest day. When time flew so fast; it felt like the shortest. But forever, one of the sweetest.

Lockdown tears? Make 'em noisy, wet, long and loud.

'It's OK not to be OK' is always a key message in Mental Health Awareness Week. Never more so, when the week falls slap-bang in the middle of a global pandemic. But it's a message for other people, surely. Not 'glass-half-full' people, like me?

The thing was...I'd just cancelled a regular Zoom catch-up session with two of my closest buddies, because I felt 'too weepy' to attend. Tears had--pretty unusually, for me--just spilled over, and for the fourth time that day, too.

There'd been other times during the past nine weeks when I'd found myself thinking about my family and crying with....well...acute 'missing-ness'.

Was I 'down'? Or just 'lockdown' down? And, I wondered on Twitter; was I crying alone?

Apparently not. So how often are we all welling up?

Benji tweeted back that throughout lockdown, he's cried 'most days, about something'. Helen's cried 'many' times; (so too, her mum, Ruth, who tweeted separately, about missing her family )Emma and Stephanie-- both doctors--reckon they've been shedding a tear three or four times a week. Kev; slightly less than that. Charity worker Sarah, who suffers from anxiety, says she veers between days 'brimming with positivity' to other 'very dark days which are spent in tears'.

A couple of dozen more reported crying weekly, for a whole mix of reasons: fatigue; anxiety about the future; their children's education; their jobs. Alistair who'd first just tweeted 'it varies...' returned a day later to report he'd got a bit teary the night before, Zoom-quizzing with friends. Jules said she'd cried quite a few times; 'for the loss of feeling safe and all the uncertainty and loss of freedom.'

For this ITU nurse though; it was specific. 'My eyes have leaked once only, '
said Andi, 'holding someone's hand whilst they passed away, as family couldn't be there. Very tough to smile for a few days after.'

Inevitably, it was the sad stuff, mostly, that had been triggering tears. GP Stephanie had cried when 'feeling very tired or ill; through intensely missing people; looking after lonely and scared patients; and utter frustration at the never endingness of it all.' As well as due to concern for her children who were 'desperately missing their friends'.

Laura's a GP, too. But in her words, 'not a big crier any more.' Even so, she'd cried that day after reading a sad post from a friend, marking the anniversary of a loved one's death. That was enough to get Laura thinking about her own late mum, and how much she misses her.

The sadness of missing grandchildren was mentioned by many, including Carla and Ian,
and Michelle, who's cried several times. 'Sometimes over nothing at all, ' she said, 'or at bedtime story time with a grand-daughter, and she cries because she wants a hug. I defy anyone,' said Michelle, 'not to cry, then'.

Luckily, mid-pandemic, good things are happening, aswell. Although,with widespread, heightened emotions, they're often making people blub, too.

Sarah was crying while writing, she said, having just heard about plans for an online memorial book for loved ones lost to the Corona virus. Carla was finding that 'people being kind..... or even bluetits fledging,'  were likely to 'set her off'. And decorator David admitted to having 'had a moment' when a customer offered him a 50% payment advance for the next project; something David said he found 'very humbling'.

So, given that Covid's going to be around for a while, how are we going to deal with it?

Your tweets contained some great advice; for criers, and non-criers alike. GP Stephanie reckoned it's best not to aim too high. 'Getting through the day is as good as it gets, sometimes,' she said. 'And that's OK.'

Marie; who's feeling down about 'no life, no hugs and no job' is seeking solace in 'Netflix ...and running. If I make myself go for a run before breakfast, I find it helps me all day,' she said. Martin agreed that exercise was helping him, too. For Benji, Sarah and Peter, it's all about limiting the number of news bulletins they tune into. Glynis used to keep a diary, and is finding now, that jotting things down in a journal is helping her, and means she can 'rant, without worrying others'! 'Mr B', meanwhile, says he's been running chat and resilience sessions for colleagues and staff, which have proved useful.

And if all else fails....the message that came back loud and clear was 'carry on crying'. Kev said he'd 'always rather show emotions, than bottle it all up with a British, stiff upper lip'.

Marie 2 said crying was acting as a release of pressure...'like bleeding a radiator'. Carla agreed. 'When tears roll, tension pours out,' she said. Clare said talking to a friend online, had allowed 'tears to come naturally'. Carole; a relational psychotherapist, described what we're going through, and what's to come, as 'a major mental health issue. She predicts more tears ahead; and lots of them. 'Tears and weeping', she said, 'are essential and, ideally, noisy, wet, long and loud '.

So back to that Zoom call with my mates, that I cancelled, after thinking my mood might spoil the jolly catch up we'd all planned. The truth is, the three of us have already shared so many tough times and tears together --from tears of sadness, to tears of uncontrollable mirth, laughing so hard our mascara melted. It's friends like these who would've been uniquely qualified to cheer me up yesterday. Or to just understand that I felt a bit glum.

Probably time to reschedule.

(PS: There was a brilliant response to my Twitter post about crying --thankyou so much, whether you're mentioned here, or not, for getting in touch. And special thanks to Julie--another fantastic friend who's always 'been there' for me. Spotting on Twitter that I was planning to write about crying....she 'casually' fixed a check-in call with me. As if she was just passing. What a great buddy she is...)

Volunteering at #parkrun: my view from 'the other side' .

Parkrun couldn't run....without volunteers.

Even so, as a new runner with just three events under my belt, I'd planned on getting my speed up a bit before joining the hi-viz heroes

But a minor knee problem meant no running for me last Saturday and, instead, gave me the chance to bring my first volunteering shift forward. Would I shiver on the sidelines and feel frustrated that I wasn't on the course? No. And here's why.

It was a bit damp and chilly, but I was wrapped up in a duvet-thick coat (and that hi-viz), and swapped my trainers for heavier hiking shoes. I was one of the marshalling team, planted on a corner to make sure people headed the right way.

One thing I've learned from my first three parkruns here is this: encouragement is contagious. I've been bowled over by the smiles, support, warm words and cheers from marshals along the route every time, and was damn sure that, standing on 'the other side', I was going to give some of it back.

It wasn't long before the speedy set hurtled past on the first circuit of our repeated course. 'Well DONE.....' I heard myself yelp...slamming my gloved hands together in a muted thud of applause, with, a rather gobsmacked: 'Blimey, you're so....FAST...! '

'Thank you, Marshal,' said one, without missing a beat, making me feel quite important. And then, as I ripped my gloves off to clap, and shouted a bit louder about a slippy bit, more thank yous came back. Some loud and clear, some breathless, whispered, grateful gasps: parkrunners are so polite!

There were the club runners. The hobby runners. The couples, the families, the female friends. The young, long haired girl with the beaming smile, which got wider every time she went past (fast!), the dad, thundering along with his toddler in a buggy; the buddies, the joggers, the walkers, the stroll- along-and-talkers. The anguished cry of  'it's so FAR'...from a lady in pink. The promise back from me that if I could do it, anyone could. (And she did).

I watched some of the fastest participants complete the course, then head back down towards the woods again to find friends and family; to repeat their own steps and run their friends to the finish. Saw a bloke struggling a bit near the end, but who still managed to wish me a great weekend. And I even felt a bit teary as the tail-walkers came into view; they were there, as ever, to make sure no-one ever finishes last.That's the brilliant thing about a parkrun: great running, for sure. But a great community spirit, too.

This was heightened even more by a pre-run tin collection for the local foodbank, and the presence of a local cricket team, fundraising by brewing hot tea and coffee for donations.

Apart from marshalling duties, volunteers are needed to set up, pack up, mark the course, scan barcodes, take photographs, write reports and more. Even though I hope to run again next week, I'll definitely join the hi-viz heroes again soon. For a newbie, it's not just an awesome masterclass in running: it's a pretty fine masterclass in teamwork, too.


Photographer: Ben Coates
















 

Mud, sweat and cheers: my first #parkrun

Despite having pounded around the same track as Dina Asher-Smith (OK, same school; very different decade)..... I'm a terrible runner.

But precisely because of inspirational people like Dina, Adam Gemili, Martyn Rooney, Laura Muir et al, I've always adored watching athletics, whether I'm screaming my support at the stadium, or from my sofa.

So why has my own running never been anything to shout about? Maybe because I just wasn't 'born to run'. Or maybe because at school, I was part of the group at the start of  'double athletics'  who, when told to go and warm up with a brisk 400 metres, would veer across the track in a sneaky shortcut, before the teacher even got outside. (I bet Dina never did that....)

That memory came back to me on Saturday, as I faced my first 5k parkrun. It was a chilly, misty morning, and our first task was to leg it around the perimeter of a sizeable school field. Even if I'd had the cheek to attempt my secondary school shortcut in front of 144 other runners and an army of smiling, cheering volunteer marshals, it would have made my attendance there, pointless.

I've run alone, with friends, and at two different running clubs in other counties; never achieving any great distance or speed. The will is there but the style, the staying power, and the puff? Not so much.

So why bother again? Three reasons. I've recently lost 9.5 kg in weight and want to keep that off, with a more active lifestyle. I'd heard about parkruns, and how supportive they can be. But above all,  my youngest daughter, Alice, was staying for the weekend, and as a regular at her own parkrun in Leeds, had offered to run alongside me at our new, local event.

There were cheers at the start for first-timers, for runners from other parkrun events and for the youngest in the crowd .We started with smiles, even though the drizzle soon seeped into our trainers, making the going decidedly squelchy. The rain had made the most gentle slopes shine with soft, slippy mud. A few gasps, and my lungs were filling with icy air. I asked to stop a few times to walk, to catch my breath. But Alice's smiles, encouragement, and even breathing tips, kept coming. So too, applause, warm words, and shouts of 'keep going, ladies' from the brilliant marshals right along the route. Even the fastest runners looping round us on their second lap, yelled 'well done; keep going!'  as they thundered past. At one point Alice shot one of her beaming smiles at me and yelled 'you're doing SO well....!' and I gulped...(and yeh, wiped some *drizzle* from my eye...) remembering shouting the same words at her on school sports days.

But there was no time to get soppy....the home strait was in sight, and somehow, with Alice's encouragement, I managed the closest I could get to a 'sprint' finish.

Verdict? I completely understand why the parkrun movement has grown so fast. This isn't about winning or losing, how you look, who you are, or even how you reach that finishing line. It's about trying to be the best you can be. And while you're being buoyed up by encouragement along the way, it's about remembering to do the same for others--because for those 22, 32, 42 or even, OK, 47 minutes, you're all on the same track; all part of the same community.

So even though Alice will be back at her own parkrun next week, at 9 o' clock sharp, like thousands of others around the country, she'll be there at her starting line, 160 miles away; right beside me.




                                                                         

How to 'Escape to the Country'-- when you don't know a soul.

Ever tried moving to a completely new area......where you don't know a single person?

I've recently left a county where I spent half my life working, raising a family and forging close and long-lasting friendships.

But sometimes, your life turns a right angle, for all kinds of reasons. And so suddenly, I'm a hundred miles from a place I once thought I'd never leave. New house. New partner. New life. And neither of us has any connection whatsoever, to where we are.

Some people seem to make a habit of moving. It comes with the job if you're in the forces--I know people who've packed and unpacked their worldly goods and started afresh, dozens of times. Often, though, there's a forces 'family' around them to offer support and friendship and an understanding of their challenges and changes.

Then there are the compulsive house improvers--always looking for a new project, and happy enough to start it in a new area, maybe with a business attached. Or those whose careers require them to move up the ladder in different regions of the country every few years. Meeting new colleagues.

But in our case, we can both work pretty successfully from home. Loads of advantages to that. But no new work buddies to meet, in the canteen queue. Oh, and on top of that, it's a tiny village with a smaller than usual potential pool of friends to get to know. So this really is a case of starting over.

But in spite of the fact that there are just around 820 people in the place we now live, happily, six weeks in, it's all going OK.

Sure, it helps that we're pretty sociable, and curious about the people, and the world around us. But this little village has given us the best kind of welcome. The day after moving in, a lady called Susan popped round with a lemon drizzle cake and a card. 'This is from the village,' she said, 'to welcome you'. Another lady round the corner dropped a card through the letterbox to say hello, and to let us know that she'd call in soon.

The local cafe has turned out to be a real hub. Staff there have lived here a long time, and seem to know everyone, and where to find a builder, or a locksmith, or a taxi firm. The same cafe has pizza and one meal-supper nights. We signed up for those, and within days, found ourselves seated at a table full of people with stories to share. One invited us round for a cuppa and a chat. Working outside our new cottage, people have stopped to introduce themselves, and ask how the unpacking's going. (Slowly, actually...I'm still missing all my fabulous winter boots and a couple of cosy coats...)

So why here? We're lucky that the village is so friendly and has its fair share of social events going on--but we did our research.

We lived 200 miles apart from each other, and so we started looking somewhere in the middle, because our number one priority was to be within reach of our daughters--we have four between us. Each of them is now carving out a life of their own, making us empty nesters, but we were determined that they could all get to us, and vice versa, by car or train, and that we had a good link to London for regular, but not daily work trips and social outings, too. We travel abroad a fair bit for our travel website--we whizzed round the world in just 57 days last year--so airports needed to be within range for us.

Once we'd decided to try and immerse ourselves in a village that had a social life...AND was close to that link to London in just over an hour, the bottom line for whichever house we chose, is that it had to pass the 'pint of milk and a paper' test. Both of those items, in some kind of village general store, had to be within easy walking distance. And of course, a pub was essential--as another means of getting to know people. And the local beer, obviously...!

So welcome to the Cotswolds. To a village that has a great pub, a school, a church, sports clubs, a brilliant cafe with great coffee and those social evenings, and, as a fabulous bonus, a separate, community owned shop selling fresh produce, an incredible array of cheeses, home baked bread, cakes, pies and freshly and locally created 'ready' meals. And although we have a car, there's a regular bus service into a bustling Cotswolds market town just four miles down the road, with its own thriving theatre, and great pubs, shops and restaurants.

Luckily--after enthusiastic, daily sampling of all of that lovely local fare, there are also stunning walks at every turn--with a network of footpaths to try. Also, glorious, historic houses, and more honey-stoned Cotswolds towns and villages to get to know, too.

But above all, there's a great mix: people in marketing, IT, education, publishing, small businesses, and complementary medicine; and people who've retired. People whose families have lived here for generations, and people who, like us, moved in only months ago.

Nigel has a desk and his PC, and soon a new study, for his business calls. I have a newly fitted voiceover studio in the old boot room: state of the art recording gear drilled into 200 year old Cotswold stone walls. Away from our individual workspaces, ideas for www.thetimeofourlives.net , our travel website, get thrashed out over coffee at the kitchen table. The site's growing well, with our next trip, to Sri Lanka, being planned.

We'll definitely feel the winter chill on our return, so need to order logs for the woodburner. Someone at the shop's bound to have a name. And I need to find those piles of winter woollies. They'll be in a box. Somewhere.....

Yes: Cry for Matthew. Just don`t forget him.

Heard about the CRY charity? It works hard to spot potentially fatal heart problems in young people. Today, five years after his untimely death, I'm republishing my blog about Matthew-because he, like other young people who have died suddenly--needs to be remembered. Matthew's mum Sue Dewhirst is a leading light in the charity, and I was proud to meet her and moved forever by her story. Please read it, and think about whether someone special to you, should be screened. It could save their life.







Sorting out unwanted clothes for a charity sale was the easy bit.

Here's where it gets tougher: telling the story behind the event.

I'd read about Matthew Dewhirst; a 17 year old Shropshire student; highly accomplished at sport and music, and a loving, only son to Sue and Chris. He was also, I discovered, occasionally, 'class clown' to his mates.

With his talent for rugby and his passion for weightlifting, he might have hit the sporting headlines in years to come.

Instead, his name became known for being an apparently superfit teenager who collapsed and died during a pre-season rugby training course.

Handing over some clothes and sharing a coffee with Sue at the family home in St Martin's, she told me Matthew had shown occasional signs of health problems for years, such as fainting on the pitch and feeling chest pains. He'd been screened, tested and told he was dehydrated, stressed, or suffering from migraine.

Even when he felt unwell the night before he died, Sue found herself repeating the same old medical advice to him: 'You know what the problem is, Matthew,' she`d told him.'You HAVE to drink more'.

The next day: in July 2012, news came which would change their lives forever: Matthew had collapsed and died suddenly--one of 12 young people who do so every week in the UK because of undetected heart problems. Like the cases of presenter Gabby Logan's young brother Daniel, who died during a kickabout with his footballing dad at 15, and the nearly fatal,78 minute collapse of football player Fabrice Muamba, no heart condition had previously been spotted.

It's hard, whether you're a parent or not, even to imagine the pain of losing a child. It's arguably even more devastating to consider that kind of grief when, as Sue and Chris did, you've gone through nine IVF attempts to conceive that precious child in the first place.

'I remember, just before getting pregnant, being at the IVF clinic and the consultant saying he was hopeful this latest attempt would work,' Sue said. 'He told me things had been going well with his patients. He was "on a roll".'

Sure enough, Matthew followed; and was soon mastering, then excelling at most things he attempted: from sport, to maths, and music. I suggested he sounded really special: a golden boy.

'He could be a little sod at times,'Sue laughed, eyes sparkling, regaling stories of Matthew's seemingly endless energy, his need to be active, his stubborn streak. Always, though, happy, loving and loved.

 I'd covered every kind of story as a journalist, but had still arrived here with a precautionary tissue up my sleeve. With a 17 year old of my own at the time, I had absolutely no plans to ask Sue 'how it feels' to lose one. I didn't have to. She told me that days after Matthew died, a doctor insisted that 'no one could have done anything'. They got, she assured me, 'both barrels'.

Sue and Chris run their own architectural design company, but Sue had always found time to be a charity supporter and organiser too. Since Matthew died, she's thrown her skills, positivity and any gaps she has between business trips, into CRY--Cardiac Risk in the Young. She's delivered talks and helped arrange sales, sporting and social events, netting more than £40,000 in the process.

This small charity battles hard to raise awareness of undetected heart problems; and to offer screening sessions around the country, supported by cardiac specialists who give their time to carry out the tests. If problems are spotted, help can be given; lives, potentially, saved--the charity claims that its tests find many more potential problems than conventional screening can.

Each test costs £35, or a donation on the day. To keep them running, CRY needs funding; cake sales, evening events, walks, runs, clothes sales....money raised is saving lives.

As our chat ended, a glance round the couple's immaculate home shows every superficial sign of 'business as usual'.Two lively, happy dogs, waggily post-walk; grinning at me through glass doors. Talk of a possible round of golf that afternoon. A heavy bag of delicious garden-grown veg that I'm handed to take home.

Sue's hoping as many people as possible will support CRY fundraisers. But she has another wish too: for people to remember Matthew's story--and to push for heart screening if they're worried about symptoms-- especially if they're playing sport regularly.

Maybe that's something you could help with? Tell people about CRY. Find out about screenings this November, and again in May and August next year. Retweet this blog if you can. And always remember Matthew.

Thankyou.


 CRY UK. FIND OUT MORE AT www.testmyheart.org

COMMENTS AND INTERACTIONS ON TWITTER ABOUT THIS BLOG:

Sue Dewhirst ‏@dewysue  2h

Thank you @janemcintyre12 for http://www.lovemymondays.blogspot.co.uk  keeping the memory of Matt alive.

Sharon McGuinness and 7 others retweeted you

3h:

Cry for Matthew: just don`t forget him http://www.lovemymondays.blogspot.co.uk  @gabbylogan @davidwalliams @CRY_UK @dewysue #shropshire

       

Sharon McGuinness ‏@SharonMcG1971  1h

@janemcintyre12 Important stuff. Young lad on my friend’s corridor in Halls of Residence died in the night with similar complaint. Only 19.

Karen Higgins ‏@karenellaB  2h

@janemcintyre12 @GabbyLogan @davidwalliams @CRY_UK @dewysue well that made me sit up, listen and take note. With best wishes to Sue x

Bee Morgan ‏@BeezzzzzBee  7m

@janemcintyre12 Met friends of friends at a wedding last week who've gone through the same with their 12yr old last year... Horrendous. X

Bee Morgan ‏@BeezzzzzBee  43s

@janemcintyre12 Absolutely! Here in Belgium they've recently set up a programme for kids to be tested. Great idea. X

1. Jane McIntyre ‏@janemcintyre12  48m

   @Casserly_Rock thanks for the blog RT, James. Much appreciated.

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2. James Casserly ‏@Casserly_Rock  44m

   @janemcintyre12 Not at all. It's something important and more awareness is needed.

1. Jane McIntyre ‏@janemcintyre12  16m

   @lauraxsav thankyou x

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2. =^..^= ‏@lauraxsav  13m

   @janemcintyre12 you're welcome. One of my little brother's friends died of an unexpected heart condition a couple of years ago during PE.
3. Jane McIntyre ‏@janemcintyre12  11m
   @lauraxsav that's the third such case I've heard today just among Twitter friends since publishing my blog. Shocking.

=^..^= and 5 others retweeted you

1h:

12 young people are dying every week from undetected heart problems. Please read about Matthew+help spread the word. http://www.lovemymondays.blogspot.co.uk 

     

1. Jane McIntyre ‏@janemcintyre12  43m

   @karenellaB thanks again, Karen. Lots of people have read Matthew's story today, thanks to RTs from you & others @dewysue #12aweek.

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2. Karen Higgins ‏@karenellaB  31m

   @janemcintyre12 @dewysue beautifully written piece and an incredibly worthwhile cause being bravely brought into sight and mind.

Tracy Sim ‏@tracysim1 Protected Tweets  1h

@janemcintyre12 made me sit up and read it. Thoughts are with Sue and her family x

Helen Murray and 11 others retweeted you

5h:

12 young people are dying every week from undetected heart problems. Please read about Matthew+help spread the word. http://www.lovemymondays.blogspot.co.uk 

           

1. Lee ‏@leelovesjerry  57m

   @janemcintyre12 My mum had hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. Hocom. Had to have a difib fitted. Gave her an extra 10 more years :-)

   9:42 PM - 1 Sep 2014 · Details

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2. Jane McIntyre ‏@janemcintyre12  56m

   @leelovesjerry how scary. But great that help was there. Thankyou.

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3. Lee ‏@leelovesjerry  53m

   @janemcintyre12 She used to pass out. I'd hope she'd still be there when I came home from school. Hurrah for medical science! :-) x

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4. Jane McIntyre ‏@janemcintyre12  52m

   @leelovesjerry.blimey...yes.x

ferndell-b&b ‏@fern_dell  4m

Oh how would ya cope ...so moving http://www.lovemymondays.blogspot.co.uk  written by @janemcintyre12

+Find about more about Cardiac Risk in the Young here:

+And try and get along to support CRY events if you can: