Filed under: Anniversary, Comment, Dad, Death, Jill, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad, Otis
Today is the 8th anniversary of my Mum passing.
I’ve written a huge amount about how her death affected me.
How I realised that the operation to save her life, had cost her her life.
And yet, unlike Dad’s anniversary – that looms large over me, every year – Mum’s often slips my mind. There has been more than one occasion where the only reason I remembered it was because a friend wrote to send me their love on her anniversary.
Now I should point out I utterly love my Mum.
She was an incredible human who continues to influence how I look at the world.
But while her birthday is cemented in my heart and mind, the anniversary of her death isn’t.
Of course the circumstances between Mum and Dad dying were vastly different.
+ Dad died first.
+ I was 29 when Dad died and 44 when Mum did.
+ I was single when Dad died and a married father when Mum did.
+ I had just left home when Dad died and lived in lots of countries when Mum did.
+ When Dad died my Mum was still there to talk to, but when Mum died, I was alone.
I should point out when I say ‘alone’, I don’t mean literally – I had my wonderful Jill, who was amazing – but even that is different to having someone you can talk to about the life of the person who has died because you were both part of it for many years.
If you read this one day Jill, I hope you understand what I mean.
You were a rock to me. You helped me get through one of the worst times of my life without letting it become more terrible. So please don’t think I didn’t appreciate you – I did and I do and I always will.
This is all a bit rambling isn’t it?
The irony is that while I feel guilt about having to consciously remember Mum’s anniversary – despite having a tattoo of it on my arm – Mum would probably be very happy about it.
For her, she would see it as me remembering her birthday more than her final day – and that’s exactly how she would want it.
It took me 10 years to get to that stage for my Dad, but with Mum it was much quicker.
Again, there are probably many reasons for it – including Otis being only 3 months old when Mum died – but when I think of her, I think of her warmth, compassion, curiosity and spirit.
She was a gentle woman but also a determined one.
Actually determined isn’t quite right … she was, but in the pursuit of her independence. By that I mean in terms of her mind, beliefs, interests and life.
The older I get, the more I appreciate how she handled life.
It wasn’t the easiest, but she never complained or wanted help because she always recognised there were people worse off than her.
I can’t tell you how many ‘discussions’ we had about me wanting to give her money to make her life a little easier and her refusing to take it. It took years for us to find a way to make it work for both of us … which was me putting money in her bank account and she not spending a penny of it. Hahaha.
Oh I miss her.
I miss her voice, her face, her eyes, her questions and her love.
I am so glad I was with her when she died.
I knew one of her biggest fears was being alone when it happened … we had talked about it after it had happened to my Aunt – which is why of all the things I could do for her, making sure this didn’t happen is the one that I know she would have appreciated most.
Of course, not everyone is so lucky to know when this could happen – but with both my Mum and Dad, circumstances meant we were together and I’m so grateful for that.
Not that I always felt that way …
When I was much younger, the idea of being with my parents when they died was too overwhelming for me to consider.
I think I may even have told my parents.
How I imagined it would destroy me.
And it did.
But it was also incredibly important.
Because at that moment, everything was about them.
Their comfort. Their peace. Their ability to take that final step.
I’m not saying it was easy … I’m not saying it didn’t hurt … but in my mind, if it helped them, that’s all that really mattered.
And it helped both my parents.
Which means it helped me.
Because when they needed me most, I was there.
And while the pain of them dying will never heal, I know being there means it didn’t go as deep as it could.
When I think of this day, I think of everything that happened over that day.
It still stings.
But as much as I wish none of it happened, I am so glad I was able to be with her – and Dad.
Because I now see it as the most unlikely beautiful gift we could give each other.
I miss you Mum.
Love you.
Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Australia, Brand, Jill, My Fatherhood, Otis, Parents, Technology
A few weeks ago I went to pick up Jill and Otis from the airport.
They’d been in Australia to see ‘granny’ and had a lovely time.
Anyway, when I saw Otis, he immediately told me about an “amazing cool giant robot face” he’d seen in Sydney and showed me a photo he’d taken.
As soon as I saw it, I realised it was part of project I did with the founder of Gentle Monster.
Telling him this resulted in Good and Bad news.
Good: I’m now [Finally, if temporarily] cool.
Bad: He wants me to bring it home.
Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Attitude & Aptitude, Emotion, Empathy, Experience, Jill, My Fatherhood, Otis, Parents
First of all, I know Otis is 8.
But he said this to me when he was still 7 so deal with it.
As I have written previously, Otis was diagnosed last year with dysgraphia.
Dysgraphia is a form of dyslexia – specially writing and some motor skills, like holding a pen.
It doesn’t limit the capacity for learning, but it does affect how you do it.
I also wrote how amazing his school has been in helping him deal with this … letting him use technology for written assignments [text to speech] while very gently helping him keep practicing writing with a pen.
The effect has been remarkable.
He is happier, more expressive and even cheekier than before.
It genuinely feels like he has been freed from a feeling of oppression. Of not being good enough. And now he recognises his ability and his possibility. It’s so, so beautiful and I can never thank his school and teachers enough.
Of course, this is something he’s going to have to live with for the rest of his life. But thanks to his school – and technology – he doesn’t have to fear dysgraphia, he just can get on with it.
And get on with it he is.
A few weeks before the end of the year, he proudly showed us some work he had written.
As in, written with a pen, not technology.
That he showed us was incredible – because previously he did all he could to hide his writing from us. Whether it was because he was ashamed by it or simply believed it couldn’t be good as his classmates as he wasn’t as quick as them is open to question, but it is not hard to imagine that may be the case.
But here he was, showing us what he’d done.
I said to him, how good it was to which he replied with an viewpoint that was not only incredibly mature … but is a valuable lesson for anyone and everyone facing challenges in their life.
He said:
“Just because you struggle with some things doesn’t mean you can’t improve”.
How incredible is that?
He was seven when he said it. SEVEN!
That’s better advice than anything you hear from professional life coaches.
So to my dearest Otis …
I’m so, so proud of you.
Your attitude towards life is wonderful and inspirational.
And of course, you’re right.
You can improve.
You can always get better.
It’s not about glory, it’s about improvement.
Thank you for reminding me that life isn’t all black and white.
That how we evolve and improve and engage and embrace life is all done in the grey.
You’re such a brilliant human and we’re so proud to be your Mum and Dad.
Filed under: Attitude & Aptitude, Childhood, Dad, Death, Family, Fear, Home, Jill, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad, Nottingham, Otis, Relationships, Respect
I’m not back.
Not properly.
But today is the 24th anniversary of my Dad passing away and I couldn’t – and wouldn’t – let this pass without mention.
24 years means I’m fast approaching him not being in my life for half my life.
And yet he is always there.
Maybe not always in the spotlight of my life, but always on the stage.
A warm presence.
A secure presence.
And sometimes, a surprising presence.
You see there are times where Dad appears seemingly out of nowhere.
From deep in the shadows to centrestage of the light.
Anything can trigger this.
A song.
A place.
A situation.
But the most common of all is a pair of eyes.
Specifically these pair of eyes …
As the title of this post reveals, those eyes belong to Anthony Hopkins.
And while the life of him and my father could not be further apart in so many ways, his eyes could easily belong to my Dad.
Not just for their shade or shape, but their character.
They are welcoming. They are warm. Caressed by lines around each eye that shows they have seen and they have lived. A journey that has led them through fields of pain, fear, laughter and love. And while you’re left in no doubt they have the power to make you feel fear or guilt with just a glance … that the lines around the eyes curve upwards, reassures you their resting condition is to let you in.
And that’s what my Dad gave me.
The power to always be let in. Even when I disappointed him.
Yes, there were times later in his life – when he was ill – that became a little harder, but even that was just temporary.
Because his main focus was for me to feel his love and support not his fear or wrath.
And his eyes were his way of reinforcing that.
I still remember a moment towards the end …
Dad had had many strokes by that time which had robbed him of his ability to talk and walk.
One day I got a call in Sydney – where I lived – telling me he’d been rushed to hospital and may only have 24 hours left to live.
I caught the first flight home and after a traumatic journey from the other side of the planet, I was with him … relieved he was alive, devastated he may die at any time.
At some point Mum and I were told we should get rest and go home.
Their house was literally 10 minutes from the hospital and they assured us they’d ring if anything happened.
Reluctantly we agreed and as I was saying goodnight, we looked at each other.
A firm, focused gaze into each others eyes.
I can still feel the intensity of that moment.
How the feeling of love was almost breathtaking in its power.
Because I knew exactly what those eyes looking back at me were saying.
What those eyes looking back at me were saying for him.
He loved me.
He was proud of me.
He was so glad I was there.
But it was even more than that …
It was him trying to take in my face.
Every line. Every mark. Every detail.
To ensure he remembered how I looked in case what we both knew was going to happen, happened while we were apart.
I remember how I felt my eyes were overflowing with water as I looked down on him in his hospital bed.
Our hands gripped so tight with me kissing his over and over again.
Holding back the tears in an attempt to express what I wanted to say.
That feeling you’re trying to lift a huge weight in an attempt to not break down.
Massive pauses between words to not let any cracks take hold.
And I managed it.
I told him, “I know … I know … and I love you so, so much my dear Dad”
Then there was a pause as I wondered if I should finish what I wanted to say.
And then I decided I would, just in case …
“And you have to be here tomorrow. You have to be Dad. Please be here”
And as we walked out of that ward, with me constantly turning around to meet his gaze with my eyes, I hoped that was not the last time I would ever see him.
It wasn’t.
Despite us going through a similar rollercoaster 3 months later … a time where he would sadly not be able to find the strength to yet again surprise his Doctors, Nurses, wife and son … he did then.
And I still remember how we knew he was feeling stronger from the moment we walked into that ward.
Because my dad – that wonderful orator – had mastered another skill. This time, the ability to talk … through his eyes.
A million words and emotions passed perfectly through a look from his beautiful, blue, kind, warm eyes.
And while you may think that when I see Anthony Hopkins I get upset, you’d be wrong.
Because when he appears on the screen – even when I’m least expecting it – I am grateful.
Because he doesn’t reinforce the loss, he lets me feel like I’m close to my Dad again.
My wonderful, warm, supportive Dad.
Which after 24 years apart, is a gift.
So thank you Mr Hopkins.
And thank you Dad.
I miss you.
Give Mum a kiss from me.
Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Attitude & Aptitude, Comment, My Fatherhood, Otis, Parents
Having a kid is amazing.
I appreciate for some, the thought of that is unbelievable, but for me it’s true.
As I’ve written many times, watching Otis grow has been an incredible experience.
Amazed at his development. Terrified at its speed.
All the cliches of ‘how fast the time passes’ is true … in the blink of an eye, they go from gurgles to opinions.
While there’s a ton of examples I could talk about, getting his first ever text message literally stopped me in my tracks.
It was momentous when we had our first proper conversation … but when it happened via SMS, it was another thing altogether. Especially as Otis lives with dysgraphia, which makes things a bit more complicated for him.
But that’s also the brilliance of tech … because what could have genuinely limited his ability to express himself has been replaced by new ways to let his voice be heard and felt.
And sometimes, that voice can reveal exactly how you are seen in their eyes.
You see – as I wrote in Monday’s post – Otis returned from a trip to his grannies in Australia recently and he sent me this …
As lovely as it is that the moment he landed, he wanted to reach out to his Dad … I can’t help but feel my ONLY SON’s decision to remind me what his name was, meant he either thought he was away for far longer than the 8 days he was actually away or he thinks I’m so old, alzheimers has set in.
And my money is on the latter.
Savage.
And yet I love him with all I’ve got.
That’s the sort of power and control cult leaders wish they could muster.
Kids. Master manipulators in mini-size.