We're all cut flowers

There's nothing quite like covering a murder trial to focus the mind. And there isn't a person reading this who is not familiar with the expression "life's too short", but my goodness a tired old cliche it may be, but how very, very true. I can't go into the details of this murder case as it's still ongoing. But it's one with which most of you would be familiar as the murder in question took place 29 years ago and no-one has yet been found guilty. I've covered this case for the past four weeks; the family of the murdered person are in court each day, silent in their grief and united in their determination to hear every last shred of evidence, no matter how harrowing. They sit, in a line, to the left of the dock, which contains the accused, and just under the public gallery into which every day, stream a variety of people some of whom acknowledge the accused with a raised fist of solidarity and occasionally grin to each other as various pieces of evidence are read out. To describe the family members of the dead person as courageous and dignified does not quite do them justice. I'm sure that nobody takes the thought of dying lightly, but once you've become a parent, clinging onto life becomes something of an obsession. And it's a purely unselfish obsession because you spend your time worrying about dying not for yourself, but because you cannot bear to think of leaving your children alone and without a parent. You realise that losing your own life for its own sake is unimportant; I know unquestionably that I would give my life in a heartbeat if it would save my child's. That must be the definition of true, unconditional love. But at the same time I cannot countenance losing my life and thus depriving my children of all the love, protection and guidance that only I can offer them. And that must surely be the paradox of true, unconditional love. The person who was murdered 29 years ago left behind three children. Of course they're grown ups now, but seeing them every day, the pain subtly but indelibly etched upon their faces, becoming the public facade of the private pain that family has endured for so long. About this time last year Rachel, a fellow news producer from the BBC was about to celebrate her 43rd birthday. Then she died, her body finally caving in to the bone cancer that had stalked her for about ten years. The funeral was like a who's who of BBC faces past and present, all crammed into a charming old church in Berkshire. People had come from far and wide to celebrate her life and as we sat there, watching the sunlight kaleidoscope prettily through the stained glass windows, we all vowed silently that from now on we would not sweat the small stuff because, you see, there really isn't time. No mother should ever have to bury their child. It's a complete subversion of what it is to be a parent. George and Whitney both warbled on about believing children are our future, so if you have to bury your own, does that mean that there is no future anymore? That's what if must have felt like for Rachel's mother as she bravely stood and spoke through her tears, about her feisty, funny, one-in-a-million daughter who we all knew simply as Rachel. Rachel, she explained, knew she was dying and had done since the age of about 36. She refused to feel self-pity and simply carried on, in between bouts of chemo, working, travelling and riding her beloved horse. "We're all cut flowers" is the one phrase from her mother's elegy that has stayed with me ever since. Of course we all know we're dying, from the moment we're born, we're effectively dying. So what do most of us do? We LIVE of course, as much as we can. We fall in love, we have children, we scramble up the greasy career pole, we lavish attention on our homes, pets and gardens, we amuse ourselves cooking from elaborate recipes and if we can, we spend our hard-earned cash on travel and adventures, we fill our lives with as much detail as possible so that not a scrap of this precious time is wasted. “Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It's the transition that's troublesome.” ― Isaac Asimov