Life & death

I started pulling this portfolio together weeks after my Mum died. Less than two months later, I am an orphan. It's only been a week since Dad died so it may seem strange to be writing this at all, let alone making it my first musing (I hate the word blog). It's a bit of a buzzkill, isn't it?

But writing is how I make sense of the world. It's my way of dealing with issues, big and small. Even when I struggle to find the words to say, they seem to flow out of my fingertips. Like these words I wrote to my beautiful father just a day after he died.. It's too much, too soon, to hold a funeral for him. None of his four children can face it . So we're having a private cremation and we'll celebrate his life when we can find the strength.  In the meantime, here's to you, you beautiful man.

Our Dad was such a generous, loving, kind and funny man. He was my North Star, the person I looked up to most, the person I never wanted to disappoint. I can’t believe he has gone, too, less than two months after our Mum. I am so very sad.

But I am trying to take a leaf out of your book, Dad. I am trying to be grateful.

You were so grateful for your life. Even though, growing up, you often had to watch out for your own mother, too beset with her own mental health issues to care for you. But you never complained and were grateful instead for the bond you forged with your beloved father. And even though circumstances split you from your twin as a child, you were grateful to become close as adults.

And when you met the love of your life, Patricia, your gratitude overflowed. A gratitude that remained deeply rooted in your soul through every joy and every sorrow. As your children, we have been deeply affected by the example you have shown us, not just in the way you told us - freely and often - how much you loved us and were proud of us. But the way you navigated the hard knocks life dealt you. Especially the cruellest of them all.

When Mum was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in her 60s you were grateful that you could support her and that together, you could be advocates and help other couples, and medical staff, better understand this awful journey. 

As she worsened, you were grateful you could care for her, even though you probably did so for longer than you should.

When Mum had to go into a nursing home, you were grateful that you could visit her as often as you wanted and sit by her side, holding her hand and stroking her hair, even though she no longer knew her husband of 60 years. Your beloved Trish.

You were grateful for the care shown to her at St George’s - and how the staff there loved you, too. When Mum died in August, there were so many asking after you. It broke our hearts not to tell you but by then you, too, were fading in the grip of dementia and we knew it would be too painful for you to relive such a loss in a loop, the way you were doing with so many things.

When you went into hospital and it became clear you could not return to your own home, you were grateful for the home Kaye and I found you at Parry House. You told us so every time we visited you, many times over. You were grateful for the wonderful carers. And they clearly loved you. Kaye and I were overwhelmed by the number of hugs we received from staff who said they were going to miss you so much. A lovely gentleman, they all said. And so you were.

Most of all, you were grateful for your beautiful family. If I had a dollar for every time you said just that over the years, I’d be rich beyond words. In a life measured in love not money, I am anyway.

I don’t believe in the afterlife and neither did you, but I like to think somehow yours and Mum’s souls are intertwined and you’re dancing together somewhere, you crooning one of your favourite songs in her ear. That somewhere deep down you knew she had gone. And you just didn’t want to be here without her.

We are going to miss you every day, Dad. But I am going to try to remain grateful for every day we had with you. For the privilege of having you as our loving father and grandfather to our children. Our role model. A man so honest he'd never even take a pencil from work. Our spirit lifter. Teller of terrible jokes, lover of puns and spoonerisms.

You had the best heart, Dad. And gave the warmest hugs. You made us feel so loved. You leave the biggest hole. But I am so very grateful you were my Dad.

PS: When we can all be together, we will raise a Bacardi and coke in your honour - and I don't even like the stuff!