ΟΙ ΤΕΛΕΥΤΑΙΕΣ ΩΡΕΣ ΤΟΥ FREDDIE MERCURY

Freddie and Jim: A Love Story
Weekend magazine, The Guardian 22nd October 1994
Freddie woke up again at six in the morning and uttered what were to be his last two words: "Pee, Pee" He wanted to be helped to the loo. he looked terribly weak and I had to carry him. As I lowered him back on to the bed I heard a deafening crack. It sounded like one of Freddie's bones breaking, cracking like the branch of a tree. He screamed out in pain and went into a convulsion.
I yelled for Joe. I needed him to pin Freddie to the bed to stop him injuring himself. Over the years, Joe had seen Freddie have one anxiety attack after another and he knew just how to handle him - by pinning him down until the anxiety had passed. He said: "Freddie, calm down." Then Freddie's hand shot up and went straight for Joe's throat. He was like a drowning man clutching for air.
Joe freed himself from Freddie's grip and eventually he calmed him down. Then, exhausted by the strain, Freddie promptly fell asleep. We phoned Dr Atkinson, and he came over and gave Freddie an injection of morphine to help him through the day. Joe later told me Freddie was allergic to morphine, but it was now so late in the day it didn't seem to matter.
Mary came by later in the morning and we all stood around in the kitchen, waiting to hear Dr Atkinson's prognosis. He said: "Freddie will probably last until Thursday."
Joe and I looked at each other. We both knew that there was no way Freddie could last that long.
Mary left shortly after that. The rest of that day Freddie nodded in and out of sleep. I felt the need to get well away from Garden Lodge, so that afternoon I took myself off to Holland Park where I moped around for an hour.
By the time I got back, Freddie was as ill as I'd ever seen him. He seemed to know what was going on around him, but couldn't respond to any of it; he could hear, but couldn't move his eyes to acknowledge he'd heard. He just stared straight ahead, eyes glazed.
Dr Atkinson stayed at the house all afternoon and left just after 6.30pm. I thanked him for having stayed so long, saw him out, and then went straight back to be with Freddie. Freddie made clear he wanted to go to the loo. After the terrible convulsions which had followed his morning visit to the bathroom, I wasn't bold enough to try to cope with him again single-handed. I flew downstairs and found Phoebe.
By the time we got back upstairs, Freddie had wet the bed.
Phoebe looked over at me and asked:
"Shall we change the bedclothes?"
"We'd better," I answered, "If we don't and he wakes up he'll go absolutely apeshit." I don't know why I said that; perhaps it was my subconscious trying to make out that things were less serious than they were.
Phoebe started changing the bed while I took care of Freddie. As I was changing Freddie into a clean T-shirt and pair of boxer shorts, I felt him try to raise his left leg to help a little. It was the last thing he did. I looked down at him, knowing he was dead.
"Phoebe," I cried. "I'm sorry, he's gone."
I slipped my arm under Freddie's neck, kissed him and then held him. His eyes were still open. I can remember the expression on his face - and when I go to sleep every night it's still there in front of me. He looked radiant.
One minute he was a boy with a gaunt, sad little face and the next he was a picture of ecstasy. Freddie's whole face went back to everything it had been before. He looked finally and totally at peace. Seeing him like that made me happy in my sadness. I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. I knew that he was no longer in pain.
I stopped the tiny fly-wheel of the wind-up carriage clock by the bed. I'd given it to Freddie because he told me he'd always wanted one. It read 12 minutes past seven. I've never started it again