Family

A couple of days later my mother and aunt arrive at the flat. As they step into the hallway we embrace in turn, each hugging me tight repeating that everything is going to be okay. My mum reiterates that the McNally family is strong and together we would beat this. She had a point. Those few relatives that had died of the big ‘c’ or coronary heart disease had done so because they had abused themselves over the years through drinking and smoking. I on the other hand didn’t smoke, apart from the odd ‘Cuban’ on special occasions. I drank in moderation even infrequently, that trip to Poland being a ‘one off’. I exercised regularly, and ate good wholesome food, mostly organic. Indeed, the ancient McNally coat-of-arms was a defiantly raised arm clad in armour gripping a battleaxe. I was from a long line of fighters who didn’t recognise the concept of ‘giving up’. Still, I sobbed into my mother’s collar that there was so much that I had yet to do. She replied that everything I’ve ever seriously put my mind to I had accomplished, and that I had done more in my 40 years than any average man had done in an entire lifetime. That kind of reminded me of a famous unforgettable quote by Abraham Lincoln, “In the end it's not the years in your life that count. It's the life in your years.
My aunt puts her arms around us both, and Francesca follows suit. Olivia and Camilla wrap their tiny arms around my legs. Family.