The Musings Of An Opinionated Sod [Help Me Grow!]

Why Nothing Says Love Like Forgetfulness …
March 9, 2022, 8:15 am
Filed under: Dad, Daddyhood, Death, Family, Jill, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad, Otis, Parents

I almost forgot today was your anniversary Mum.

That’s twice that has happened.

Though this time I remembered weeks before the date, which makes me feel a little less guilty than last time. Which was literally a few days. And that was because someone wrote to say they were thinking of me, because they knew your anniversary was close.

But I still feel bad.

I just can’t work out why Jan 16th is so burned in my mind for Dad, but March 9th needs me to actively think about it.

I remember your birthday. I remember your anniversary – in fact I wrote a post about it on the same day I wrote this – but the date of your passing is one that can pass by.

That doesn’t mean I don’t think of you.

I think of you so much. And Dad.

Those memories make me laugh, smile or sometimes, can tip me over the edge into a land of tears without too much effort at all.

Especially when I think about how much I wish I could share things with you. Or discuss things with you. Or just have you as part of my life … and my families.

Now I know you would say, “don’t worry about it”. You’d then back it up with something like, “you have your family to think about and you’re so busy”.

But you’d be wrong.

Because it’s never about ‘making time’ to think about you. You and Dad are always there which is why you’re definitely part of my family, even though you’re not here.

In fact we talk about you all the time.

Otis talks about his Nona, and asks if you ever met him.

He loves hearing you loved him and loved seeing him over FaceTime. He also talks about Dad a bit … and how “he died because his brain had a bleed”.

He doesn’t say it to be mean, he’s fascinated … so it actually helps me feel you are both still around. I mean, you are – in my heart and mind – but you know what I mean.

But forgetting the anniversary of your death does bother me.

I remember every single second of that entire day. And the days after it. You could ask me anything. If I was on Mastermind, it would be one of my specialist subjects. Every single detail is burned in my mind. From the moment I woke up early so I could see you before your operation right through to watching the ticking of the clock and not understanding why you were still in there right up to the moment Paul and Shelly took me back to their house so I wasn’t alone that night.

Hell, I even have it tattoo’d on me.

But maybe I’ve answered the question with this post.

Because when I look at what I’ve written, it reveals I think far more of the life we enjoyed, rather than ‘the’ moment it ended.

It took me 10 years to get to this place with Dad, but with you, it was much quicker.

I was older.
I was married.
I had experienced the tragic sense of loss and despair together.
I had a 3 month old baby – your grandson – to stop me falling too far into the abyss.

So your life is part of my everyday rather than defined by this single day.

And when I think of it by that, today suddenly is filled with optimism and love rather than darkness and despair.

And I know how happy that would make you, which would make me happy too.

So here’s to more anniversaries of pain that I remember late.

Because nothing shows how much I love and miss you than thinking about you every day of the year rather than just this one, tragic day.


17 Comments so far
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It’s weird. My mum passed when my kid was 3 months old. I never forget her birthday but the day of her passing can often creep up unnoticed. And then bam! I just feel… well, I don’t know how to articulate it. Unlike you.

Anyway, despite sounding like a conference twat who talks about themselves in someone else’s time, it’s a long way around to me saying that this post really struck a chord with me. It’s just crap that you have to write it.

Comment by Simon

Oh Simon, it means more to me than you would know to discover I’m not the only one who goes through this.

Thank you.

I hope this post helps you in the way your comment helped me..

Comment by Rob

sometimes youre alright you know campbell.

Comment by andy@cynic


Comment by Rob

The way you write about your parents is always a joy to read. Even when the subject matter is so difficult. I hope today is not too hard for you Robert.

Comment by Lee Hill


Comment by Jemma King

This is so beautiful Robert.

Comment by Mary Bryant

I can even hear the voice of your Mum saying exactly that.
Big love to you and the family.

Comment by George

Hahaha … yeah, so could I when I typed it.

Comment by Rob

Thank you everyone for the nice words. I know they are for my Mum rather than me, but beggars can’t be choosers …

Comment by Rob

Wonderful words, as ever, when you write about your family. Hope you’re ok today.

And I’ll hope you’ll forgive me for using this comment to recommend everyone read Maryna’s latest comment.

Comment by John

Thanks John.

It’s here if you’re looking for it.

Comment by Rob

This is really nice Rob. She’d be happy to read it.

Comment by DH

I know this posts marks a sad day for you Rob, but it’s really beautiful. I am inspired by how you express your feelings so openly.

Comment by Pete

Just beautiful, Rob. Thank you for your honesty and writing from the heart.

Comment by Piotr

Not ashamed to say this made me cry. Honest truths are brutal. That’s why they’re so important to hear (& share!).

Comment by Susannah

Oh thank you Susannah. She was – and is – a brilliant woman.

Comment by Rob

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