Jimmy

James Ambrose Senior is my father’s father. To my cousins he has always been 'Papa', but even at a young age ‘papa’ felt an odd word to me (equally true of My fathers mothers moniker 'Nana') and so I opted to call him, as others did, by his name; Jimmy.

For as long as I can remember Jimmy and Annie (the would be ‘Nana’) have lived in Rosebank Tower in Cambuslang. Jimmy would dress each day in a shirt in tie and tend to his small but lush garden on the veranda. He enjoyed popping into the bookies for a wee flutter (always on the double initial horses) and he could probably be tempted by a wee pint at the Black Bull just seeing as he’s passing, and sure why not a half of whisky too.

Jimmy won’t be at ‘The Bull’ this week, nor at the bookies. His garden, cultivated for decades, was sadly left behind when he and Annie were moved to home a few weeks ago and, as much as he may wish it, there will be no shirt buttoned and the tie will remain on its hook. Jimmy is dying.

How long has it been since I first heard those words? Months? Years? I’d place my money on the later. “Jimmy is dying” you’d hear and then only days later “Jimmy’s out the hospital, he’s okay”. Jimmy reinvented the emotional rollercoaster in the last few years with a multitude of miraculous comebacks. His remarkable fortitude in the face of Cancer and multiple surgeries even became a source of dark humour – my Aunt once remarked that she was going to stop telling people her father was dying as it was getting embarrassing to receive condolences on one day and congratulations on the next in so many occasions. If only today were one of those days, If only we could share another black laugh, if only, if only, if only.

While writing this post I received a phone call from my mother suggesting I join my father and his sisters at The Princess of Wales Hospice via taxi. That was 16:20. By 16:40 I was stepping into my taxi which, to my eternal regret, was also the time Jimmy drew his last breath. I met my dad on the steps of the hospice 50 minutes later at which time he simply told me “he’s gone, son”. For what seemed like a long time after that we stood together and cried over his father, my grandfather, Jimmy.

Jimmy Ambrose
20/12/1921 – 12/12/07