I made a promise to Dad shortly before he died. That promise was to publish his work. For the first time in my life, I saw a tear in his eyes.
I have not yet fulfilled that promise to dad. One night while laying semi awake in bed, I heard dad's unmistakeable voice. He said I'm not talking to you Andrew. I was absolutely stunned to hear him and have searched for a logical explanation. I have no idea why I am telling you this, I think I just need to offload some of the burden his death has delivered to me.
I found a tape after clearing his house, it was a tape of his poems being read out on radio programmes. One however was read by Dad, I have not played it since.
The drug metformin killed Dad, I have done much homework on this drug. Metformin is given to people with type 2 diabetes. I begged Dad to throw the medication away, pleading with him to change his diet instead.
While Dad was dying in hospital with cancer of the pancreas, liver, and gall bladder, I turned to ask the doctor who had been doing diabetes tests on Dad and in front of my brother, his wife, my wife and myself, asked the Doctor a direct question.
That question was; Does my dad have type 2 diabetes? The reluctant answer came back No your father does not have type 2 diabetes.. Next question was; Has he ever had type 2 diabetes? Answer again was No.
Next question was. Why on earth has my father been prescribed a drug that is known to alter the cells in the liver and pancreas, (confirmed by a specialist in the U.S.A.).
Answer; Your father was given this drug just in case he developed type 2 diabetes?
Dad died of a very painful cancer which spread to many areas of his body. He died without taking so much as a single paracetamol! Such was his distrust in the medical profession. Dad lived with horrendous leg ulcers and his legs were like raw meat. He still managed to climb his ladder to clean windows right until retirement. I helped dad to heal his ulcers and dramatically reduce swelling and bulging veins when his bed was tilted back in 1996 if memory serves me correct. Occasionally his legs would break down, but recovered again in a few weeks. I suspect during the last months of his life he contracted MRSA in Russell’s Hall Hospital and my last memory of him was horrific.