‘We held his hand but we couldn’t kiss him’
Robinson was a fit and healthy 62-year-old.
When he contracted coronavirus, his family fully expected he would feel unwell for a few weeks, then get better.
But their world came crashing down when he took a turn for the worse. He was taken to Glenfield Hospital and put on a ventilator, but died 10 days later.
Since his death in April, one of his granddaughters, Lucia Di Marco, eight, has been writing a text to him every day.
The messages, which include “Miss you so so so so so so so so so so much” and “Please come back” are each followed with a red “not delivered” notification, because Pops is not there to read it.
Lucia’s mum, Sian, has now shared a screenshot of the texts in an attempt to show people the suffering of those grieving for family members and to make them realise it is not just old people who are dying.
“I tell the story now and can’t believe it’s our story,” she said.
“Dad would do anything for anyone. He’d never been ill, he was fit and healthy. He was 62 – people couldn’t believe he was when he’d tell them. He was six foot three, a friendly giant.
“He loved Leicester City – all his boyhood dreams came true when they won the league – he doted on my mum, me and my sister and his four granddaughters.
“I still can’t believe he’s gone.” Neil – Robbo, as he was known – grew up on the Eyres Monsell estate but lived in Barwell.
He was married to Carole, a nurse at Leicester Royal Infirmary, for 40 years. He was dad to Sian, 38, and 34-year-old Nicki and a doting Pops to Olivia, 12, Lucia, eight, Molly, five, and two-year-old Sophia.
“On Mother’s Day I had the virus,” Sian said. “I felt awful, really poorly, and a few days later my mum was ill, then my dad.
“To start with he was the same as me and my mum, but his temperature just wouldn’t come down.
“When it was still up after a few days and nothing was bringing it back to normal, my mum called 111 and they arranged for some antibiotics to be prescribed.
“His breathing wasn’t too bad to begin with. But he did start to struggle a bit and one day he was really breathless.
“She was uneasy so rang an ambulance. Even then, there wasn’t a real 999 moment, he was still himself, but poorly.”
The crew checked Neil’s oxygen levels and although they were low, agreed with Carole he could stay at their home on the instruction to call if anything changed.
A few hours later, Carole called them back.
Sian said: “This time they did a finger blood test and said they wanted to take him in to check him over properly and get him some oxygen.
“We thought he would go in, get his strength up and be home the next day or in a couple of days.
“We FaceTimed him. He was still himself, but poorly. That was the last time we properly spoke.
“The staff were brilliant, they were all doing everything for him. But waiting for that one call was just torture. They’d ring my mum and we’d wait for her to ring us.
“Thinking back, there was never really good news. He was slowly getNEIL ting worse and one day it was suggested he might need to be moved to intensive care.”
The morning after his first night in intensive care, the consultant told Carole Neil was on a knife edge.
It was decided Neil would be placed on a ventilator. He sent Carole a text: “I hope they put me on it while I’ve still got some fight”.
“Even then we thought he would pull through. His body would get a rest and then he could fight it,” Sian said.
Neil’s 62nd birthday was spent on the ward. “Staff called and said they’d sung happy birthday. We FaceTimed and spoke to him but he obviously couldn’t talk to us,” Sian said.
The days passed with the family clinging to the daily updates. Neil’s kidneys started failing and his body was shutting down.
“Mum got the call,” Sian said.
“They said there was nothing more they could do and invited us in. “We went together, me, my mum and sister. We had to put full PPE on, we were in a room before and I still don’t know how we even put it on, knowing what we were there to do.
“We were dreading it. We thought they might not let us all in but the nurses were just lovely, so kind. “We had gowns, gloves, masks, visors and then we were taken in. It was like something you see in a film – it didn’t feel like it was happening to us. “We’d taken pictures to put on the bed with him so the girls’ photos were there and the staff said when we were ready they would turn the machines off.
“We held his hand but we couldn’t kiss him because of the PPE. I just wanted to rip it off and
It was like something you see in a film – it didn’t feel like it was happening to us neil robinson’s daughter, Sian
say goodbye properly but knew I couldn’t.”
The three gripped each others’ hands and indicated to staff they were ready. “It didn’t take long, about eight minutes, I think.”
“I can’t describe how thoughtful and kind the nurses were. I will never forget what they did for us that day,” Sian said.
“The nurses were sobbing – you could see the tears behind their masks and visors.
“I couldn’t function. Nurses who were taking their PPE off at the end of a shift were helping us take off ours.
“They’d finished a day like that and were still caring, for us, not even patients.
“We were the third family in to say goodbye that day and there were more due in after us. I don’t know how they were doing it.”
The following days were a blur. Lockdown rules meant the family who would normally share Sunday dinner together every week could not grieve together and the funeral was limited to 10 people. The virus denied them the chance to see their dad in the chapel of rest or bury him in his beloved Leicester City shirt.
Neil’s Virgin Media colleagues lined the street as his cortege left for the service. They all stood and clapped and wore T-shirts with his photo on,” Sian said.
“We knew they liked him but the support we’ve had from them and the things they’ve said and done since show just how much they thought of him. It’s really helped to know and see that.”
Neil’s team placed a bench at their base, as a place for friends and family to remember him.
Sian said the family were coping, but worry that a second wave of grief awaits when lockdown restrictions are lifted.
“We don’t think our grief is any worse than anyone else’s, but it is different.
“We’d all be thinking about Dad all the time anyway, but it’s difficult when Covid is all you hear about all day, every day.
“In the way people settle into a new normal after losing someone, we’ve just not really been able to.
“We’re in a bubble that’s in a bubble. When this ends and everyone else finds their new normal, we’ll be trying to find our new, new normal. It’s not just us. Every day when those deaths update I think about those families and how they will be feeling. I know how they will be feeling.
“Those numbers are people and they all leave people behind. It’s heartbreaking.”
Sian said she tried not to get angry when she saw people dismissing the disease. Instead, she has her own message. “I hear people say and see people post on social media that they don’t know anyone who’s had it or died from it and I just think they should be thankful.
“Instead of using that as a reason to say it’s nor real or serious, be grateful you don’t know someone.
“Be grateful you’ve not experienced the pain we have and still are.
“Mine and my sister’s girls are growing up without their Pops, we’ve lost our dad and my mum has lost her husband of 40 years.
“The messages Lucia sends – and my oldest Olivia send them, too – just show how this affects families.
“I never thought Dad would die from a virus, but he did and now we have to live with that.”
Instead of using [social media posts] as a reason to say it’s nor real or serious, be grateful you don’t know someone.