A while back, I received an email from someone at Queen’s Medical Centre.
The QMC is a hospital near where I lived in Nottingham.
It was once the biggest hospital in Europe, but its real significance is it is the hospital that saved my eyesight, saved my Mum’s life, saved my Dad’s … until they couldn’t.
It’s a place that ignites an insane amount of emotions in me.
I obviously haven’t been in it for a long time, but the last occasion I was there – when I went with Mum to see her specialist to try and delay her op as it was going to coincide when Otis was going to be born – so much came flooding back.
It smelt the same.
It had the same bustle and noise.
It had the same cafes and newsagents.
It had the same corridors, doors and places of eery silence.
I have spent too much of my life in that place.
It may be a place that saved me and the most important members of my family … but it also subjected me to feelings that I never want to experience again.
Fear. Worry. Pain. Confusion.
So it was strange to receive this email from a medical student [QMC is also a medical training and research hospital] saying they had found this blog and discovered the posts I had written about my Mum and Dad dying.
They told me they were doing a project where they were reaching out to people who had suffered great loss to see if they would be willing to write about their experience and how they came back from their darkest points – so that it could help others going through a similar thing.
I was both flattered and terrified.
Flattered to be asked. Terrified what it may reignite.
Because despite Dad having been gone 23 years and Mum 7, I can still be affected by their loss with the most random of triggers.
And it was then I realised why I had to do it.
Because while Anthony Hopkins eyes can make me think of my Dad … or random elderly women in Thai Restaurants in Manhattan Beach can make me feel compelled to give them a hug … the rush of emotion they ignite has gone from drowning to reconnecting.
I know that might sound strange.
And I can assure you that isn’t how it feels when you’re in the moment of it.
But after – when the moment has been allowed to overwhelm – it is exactly how I feel.
Which is why I sent them this. I hope it does someone good, somewhere.
I hope it lets Mum and Dad know even though their loss can stab me with pain.
I’m OK.
And so is the pain.
Shadows
And then there was no one.
He was on his own.
An adult who still felt like a child but had no other choice than to grow up.
This was not part of the plan.
Yes, he had some vague notion of the concept of death.
But they were going to live forever.
But silence reinforced truth.
They had both gone.
And despite the decades of life he’d lived.
And despite the family he’d raised.
He never felt so alone.
Abandoned.
An orphan.
Drifting in a sea, with no life jacket left to protect him.
And as truth took hold
He entered a black hole of time.
Not knowing if he would be able to cope.
Not sure if he wanted to.
But somewhere deep inside there was a will that was starting to take hold.
And while the first days and weeks made him a slave to his tears.
Bit by bit he crawled his way back.
Out of the darkness and back into the light.
Still struggling to make sense of anything.
But out and alive.
But despite all the years
A shadow still remained.
In the background.
Far enough to be out the way.
Not far enough to fully escape it.
And it stays there, waiting to pounce whenever it pleases.
Waiting to drag you back into its darkness.
They say time is the great healer.
But that’s not exactly right.
Because time doesn’t heal, it reframes.
And while you never know when it will happen, you know when it does.
Because one day the shadow will strike.
Envelop you to drag you down.
Take you to a place that feels like a prison … except of being locked in, emotions escape out.
But the tears now have a different role.
They’re no longer about what you don’t have.
They’re for memories of what you did.
The silly, the ridiculous, the bland and the majestic.
Each tear becomes a memory of what those two meant to you.
The people you would give all you have to see again,
But now you realise they’re not completely gone.
Because the shadow is no longer a sign of loss.
But a reminder, they’re still there.
Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Anniversary, Attitude & Aptitude, Childhood, Comment, Dad, Daddyhood, Death, Emotion, England, Family, Happiness, Home, Jill, Love, Loyalty, Mum, Mum & Dad, Otis, Parents, Paul, Respect, Shelly
Hello there.
I hope you all had a wonderful festive season.
I hope 2022 rewards us with all the opportunities and possibilities that the past 2 years took away.
I hope we can see our friends.
See our families.
Be healthy.
Be happy.
Live with hope and optimism.
Now I said this blog wasn’t going to be back until Jan 31st … and it isn’t.
And frankly, after the December I had – which included the death of a dear friend, an unexpected hospital visit for me and an emergency operation for Otis [who is fully recovered, thank god] – I need all the time I can get to recuperate.
However on Sunday, it is 23 years since my Dad died.
In just 6 years time, he will be gone as long as he was in my life.
And in 9 years time, I will be the age he was when he died.
They will be two very significant moments in my life and – if I’m being honest – I’m nervous of one and scared of the other.
Nervous because it just seems impossible he will have been out of my life more than he was in it.
Of course he is still in my life, but you know what I mean.
Scared because the reality of death comes ever nearer.
Now I know no one knows when someone is going to die – but the idea that it could be when I’m 60 – like he was – is an irrational thought that just sits there. Coming out when I least expect it.
And when it’s quiet, another ridiculous idea enters my mind.
Because Mum died at 83 and Dad died at 60 … I can also convince myself I’ll die between those 2 ages.
So 72.
Now I get 72 is quite a way a way, but it feels a fuckload closer when you’re 51 and your son is only 7.
But all this could be the melancholy of this being Dad’s anniversary, because the reality is I’m happier in my life than I’ve been for a long time.
Not that I was unhappy, but there were moments … but right now, I am in a truly good place and my parents would be so happy to know that.
Which is why I want this post to be about something that would make Dad smile.
A few weeks ago, Jill and I were talking about books that made us laugh to the point of pain.
While we both had a few, her major one was Catch 22 and mine was the first Adrian Mole book – The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole aged 13 ¾.
Adrian Mole’s ‘diary’ came out in 1982 but I got it in the summer of 1983 … which means I read it at the same age as Adrian was.
I loved it. It was hilarious, poignant, tragic and uplifting.
It covered so many issues so many kids were going through.
Family. Friendship, Girls. Sex. Arguments. Parent and Grandparent arguments.
It was, in some ways, the diary of every kids aged 13.
I loved it and still love it when I revisit it every 5 years or so.
But the reason I’m telling you this is because of when my Dad read it.
I think Mum had told him how much I enjoyed it so he decided to check it out.
Anyway, one morning I came downstairs and Mum asked me to ask Dad about what happened in the night.
She said it with a smile, so I knew it wasn’t bad.
I went in the lounge and he was there in his favourite rocking chair.
“Mum told me to ask you what happened last night”
As soon as I said it, he looked at me. His face lit up, a big smile came on his face that allowed his gorgeous dimples to come into the spotlight.
“Oh Robert …” he said, “I was reading your book last night and the bit about the Christmas turkey not being defrosted made me howl with laughter.”
“It was 2am and I had to come downstairs to try and calm down”.
“The bit where they’re trying to thaw the turkey under the hot tap in the bath …” to which he he burst out laughing again with tears in his eyes.
Of course, seeing my Dad like this made me laugh too and then I heard Mum laughing from the kitchen at the state of both of us.
While I never really understood why that bit tickled him so much, I have an idea.
Whether it was the time Mum invited a really miserable elderly couple to our Christmas dinner but only announced it a few days before Christmas and we already had a house full booked … to Dad’s terrible first ever experience with a microwave that literally carbonised sausages … to drunk family members causing scenes … to buying a turkey so big it didn’t even fit in our over … to a not-very-funny-but-very-funny episode with a glass of water when his Mum came to visit.
Who knows. Maybe it was some of that, maybe it was none of it.
But regardless of the reason, I will always remember how that paragraph revealed the child in my Dad and that is why I will always love that book.
It might also explain why I love the Plenty Christmas ad from a couple of years ago. Because watching it again, it’s basically that scene made as a commercial.
I miss my Dad.
I miss him so much.
I would give anything to be able to talk to him and discuss what I’ve done in the last 23 years.
Introduce him to his daughter in law and grandson.
Tell him that Paul and I are still inseparable and mischievous.
Show him all the places I’ve visited and lived and then tell him about all the things I’ve done and still want to do and try.
Watch him try to take it all in and then hear all his questions.
But as I can’t, I’ll honour him by sharing the paragraph that made him roar [which is at the very bottom of this post] and say this:
Dad. I love you.
I think about you all the time.
I am almost overwhelmed with the things I want to say and share.
I hope you’d like [most] of the decisions I’ve made. I know a few would raise eyebrows, but hopefully not too many.
All I’ve ever wanted to do is make you and Mum proud.
I hope I’m doing that overall.
A kiss to you and Mum.
And a lifetime of my love.
To the rest of you, give your loved ones a hug and see you on the 31st.
_________________________________________________________________
The Secret Life Of Adrian Mole Aged 13 ¾ by Sue Townsend
Friday December 25th (1981)
I went up to the bathroom and found my mother crying and running the turkey under the hot tap.
She said, “The bloody thing won’t thaw out, Adrian. What am I going to do?”
I said, “Just bung it in the oven.” So she did.
‘We went down to eat Christmas dinner four hours late. By then my father was too drunk to eat anything.’
Filed under: Anniversary, Comment, Dad, Daddyhood, Family, Fatherhood, Jill, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad, My Fatherhood, New Zealand, Otis, Parents
Tomorrow my dear Otis turns 7.
Seven!
In some ways it seems impossible it has been that long …
Hell, it only seems like yesterday Jill went into labour and we walked to the hospital from our apartment in Shanghai.
But it can’t be because since that day, so much has happened.
We’ve lived in 3 new countries, started 3 new jobs – not to mention started 2 new companies – seen my wonderful mum pass away, get made redundant, gone through a global pandemic and turned 50.
Even for 7 years, that quite a lot.
And yet, trying to remember my life without him in it, seems almost impossible.
Sure, I can remember certain parts if I try really hard …
The travel.
The dinners.
The concerts.
The ability to go wherever we wanted whenever we wanted … without having to spend 2 hours ‘preparing’ for the trip.
But while that was all very nice … and, to be fair, I still get to do a version of it all at times … it’s so much better now.
Being a Dad has had a huge effect on my life.
What I care about, what I value, what I aspire to achieve.
That doesn’t mean I’ve lost all sense of personal ambition, drive and selfishness [hahaha] – it’s just I view achievement in a different way.
Whereas once it was very much about where I get to in my career, it’s now much more focused on what I can change.
More specifically, what I can change that enables others to win.
I know that sounds the sort of pandering statement you used to hear spouted from a Ms World contestant, but it’s true.
I’ll talk more about that in another post, but while I hope I’ve always been a compassionate person, Otis has made me more so.
But more than that, he’s also impacted the decisions I make.
There’s been situations I’ve faced where the decision I made was the total opposite of what I would have done prior to him being around.
Hell, even moving to NZ has more to do with him – and his Mum – than anything I’d have thought of doing previously, even with the temptation of the lovely Colenso.
Having Otis made me think about what my decisions would teach him about all manner of things.
Life. Money. Career. Happiness.
And because of that, it’s had the effect of teaching me what is really of importance to me now.
I was pretty old becoming a Dad – 44 – and yet, when Jill was pregnant, the issues that affect many soon-to-be Dad’s were affecting me.
Mainly money.
Would we have enough to give him a good home?
Would we earn enough to give him what he needs?
It was ridiculous, especially given the immense privilege we were enjoying in our life, but it was there and it was real.
Then he was born and everything changed.
Suddenly money was not the focus, instead it was about doing things that would make him proud of who his parents were. Helping him have a life of excitement, enjoyment and fulfilment. Exposing him to situations and circumstances that would help equip him with how to deal with things in life.
And while there have been stuff-ups along the way – predominantly by me – the joy of this adventure has been incredible and infectious.
It even made me feel grateful for COVID … because while I would not wish the suffering people have had to endure on anyone, it has been an utter privilege to basically be together 24/7 for almost 2 years.
See him wake up.
Have breakfast together.
Take him to school [when we could]
Have lunch together. [when we couldn’t]
Have dinner together.
Chat, laugh, play.
Put him to bed.
Before that I didn’t really get to do much of this. Maybe at weekends … otherwise it was a hotchpotch of a bit of this and a bit of that … and doing it all the time is much, much better.
And while he is growing up far too quickly for my liking – resulting in me getting obsessed with random lookalikes in the Guardian Newspaper – I have to admire the evil genius of how parenthood works.
From the moment you have a kid, you want them to stay exactly as they are.
Everything they do is just perfect and you revel in getting more of who they are.
The sounds. The squirms. The way they look. The way they react to things.
But you can’t stop evolution and bit by bit, more and morenew things happen.
Now while that should be annoying because the things you love get overtaken by the new … you deal with it, because those new things become a whole new set of wonderful features and quirks you fall in love with.
And this keeps going and going.
Each step of evolution takes you to somewhere even more adorable.
Until you’re here.
At seven.
Which forces me to write this:
_______________________________________________________________________
My dear boy.
Oh how I love you.
I can’t put into words how wonderful I think you are.
I’ve loved watching every second of you exploring, experimenting and discovering the world you’re in.
I’ve laughed at your good-natured cheekiness
Felt pride at the way you’ve embraced the challenges and changes I’ve forced on your life.
Been overwhelmed by your level of compassion, consideration and kindness.
And been in awe with your ability to learn and absorb … even when that has meant seeing you beat me at certain video games and horrify me with your use of Roblox slang such as, “call those muscles, look at these guns”.
To me and your Mum – and maybe even Rosie – you are perfect.
It’s an honour to be your Dad.
I still can’t believe I could have something to do with creating someone so wonderful. Sure, your Mum has the most to do with it, but I’m in there too.
I hope the next year is even better than this.
I don’t simply mean in terms of you being able to go out and enjoy life without restrictions and limitations … I mean in the adventures you have and the friends you create mischief with.
You have handled the past 12 months with such amazing grace.
Now houses … new schools … new countries … new friends.
It is a huge amount for anyone to deal with – and more than any young boy should – but you have taken it all in your stride. But I do not take that for granted. And I do not forget I have put you through this 4 times in 6 years. But I can assure you I won’t put you though it again for a very long time. So embrace your new home. Enjoy the possibilities of the world you have. You are a delightful kid and the world is better for having you in it.
Happy birthday my dear Otis …
I hope you have an amazing day.
I am so, so proud of the person you are and excited to see the person you become.
Love you.
Rx
Filed under: America, Attitude & Aptitude, Australia, Childhood, China, Comment, Culture, Daddyhood, Emotion, Empathy, Environment, Family, Home, Jill, Love, My Fatherhood, New Zealand, Otis, Parents, Respect, School
3 different nationalities.
4 different countries [In 4 different continents]
5 different homes.
4 different schools.
Two major long lockdowns.
All of this in just 6 – but soon to be 7 – short years.
And yet despite all that change … all that waving goodbye and learning to say new hellos … he remains a happy, curious, cheeky and compassionate kid.
And while he loved his life in China, America and the UK … he is blossoming in NZ.
Sure, some of that is because he has been able to get back into some sort of routine, meet new friends and play with other kids his own age – at least until Delta struck and he got locked down with his parents for weeks on end – but it’s more than that …
Outdoor life is a way of life here.
Being outside is no longer a conscious choice.
The line between indoors and outdoors is now very slim.
No need to change clothes. No need to wear shoes. Spontaneity is allowed to flow which – let’s be honest – is exactly how a kid should be able to live their life.
I’ve lived in similar environments before … in Australia and America for example … but whether it’s because I’m older or now live in a bloody treehouse or have a kid of my own, I appreciate it so much more.
Watching him be able to run around outside is a real privilege.
Of course, for people born here, that’s a normality … but I have lived in environments where that’s not the case, which is why even seeing him watch his iPad in the sun is something I don’t take for granted.
We cannot discount the importance of being able to play outside, but sadly many governments and councils seem to.
Viewing it as ‘a favour’ rather than a fundamental right.
Playing outside helps kids in so many ways.
Bond … learn … imagine … express … play … explore … compete … respect.
It’s not a ‘waste of time’, it creates a deeper foundation for life.
An ability to think outside of lines and others definitions.
Giving kids an environments where they can be outside is basically an investment in a countries future.
A nation of curious, interested, healthy people.
But not everyone gets this.
Some actively try to stop this.
Often people of immense privilege who either associate outdoor life as something for either the elite or the rough.
Fortunately NZ does not see it this way.
They revel and celebrate it.
They have the best parks I’ve ever seen in my life.
Parks made to enjoy and encourage kids to push their boundaries.
A new discovery of what you’re capable of with every visit.
And while for most kids it’s about developing, for Otis it’s also about grounding.
A place he can feel is his.
A connection to where he lives in a way he’s not had before.
Because while he is young, I do not underestimate what he has been through.
Fuck, there’s people I have worked with who have literally freaked out when asked to move office desks … and yet here’s my kid, who has moved countries, homes and friends and still embraces the possibilities of every situation.
So much of that is down to his brilliant Mum who has helped that change happen in the most comfortable, seamless way … but it still requires a mindset to look at what you’ll gain rather than just what you lose.
And while I know one day I’ll no doubt be dragging him off for another adventure somewhere else on the planet [but don’t worry, it won’t be for ages. Probably] I want you to know that I love you from tip to toe and let you know I’m so, so proud to be your dad.
Thank you Otis, you’re a little legend.
Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Attitude & Aptitude, Authenticity, Brand, Comment, Confidence, Context, Craft, Creativity, Culture, Cunning, Devious Strategy, Distinction, Emotion, Empathy, Experience, Family, Love, Loyalty, Membership, Perspective, Relationships, Relevance, Resonance, Respect
Like most things in life, there tends to be 2 sorts of people.
Those who chase the cash.
Those who chase their passion.
Or said another way, the business folks and the creative folks.
But one thing I’ve learned from working with a number of highly successful bands over the last few years is this.
Those who chase cash can be hugely financially successful, but they’ll never achieve the level of creative respect those who chase their passion will receive.
Now you may go, “who cares, they’re rich”.
But here’s the thing …
People who chase their passion can end up being even more financially successful than those who simply chase the cash.
Sure, it doesn’t happen often, but it also happens more than you may imagine. And when it does, that’s when things get really interesting.
I’m working on a project for a band [not Metallica] that is – quite simply – bonkers.
Not just bonkers in terms of what they want to do, but why they want to do it.
And why do they want to do it?
Because they their die-hard fans to be properly rewarded for their die-hard loyalty.
I don’t mean that in terms of getting early access to something they have to pay for – which is the way many companies think loyalty works. I mean rewarding them with something that has real – and long term – economic and emotional value to them.
Obviously I can’t go into specifics … both for the fact I’d be murdered and there’s still a fuck-ton of hurdles to be dealt if we stand any chance of pulling this off … but what I’ve loved seeing is how artists who have built their fortune as a byproduct of their passion [rather than just a focus on the cash] seem to reach a point where they kinda turn into a musical version of Robin Hood.
I should point out this does not mean they suddenly start doing things for free.
Nor do I mean they start giving all their money away.
There may do some of that but by then, they’ve finally learnt the value of their value.
No, what I mean is they put a lot of effort into ensuring their long-term fans feel the respect the artist has for them and all they’ve done for them … and one way they are increasingly doing this is by finding ways to ‘steal’ from the rich, so they can reward the loyal.
Case in point.
Billy Joel.
In 2014 he started a residency at Madison Square Gardens and vowed to keep playing there once a month until his concerts stop selling out.
Well, he’s still playing … and given he allegedly makes US$3-4 million per show, it’s proven to be an incredible relationship.
But this is where it gets fun …
You see Billy Joel no longer allows the first row of the venue to have people sitting in it.
There are 2 main reasons for this.
1. It stops scalpers from making huge money off him.
2. He hated looking down and seeing rich people looking back at him. Not really into the evening, just there because they could afford the seats and could brag about it to their friends.
So instead, every time he plays, he gets his crew to find fans who are sitting in the worst seats in the venue and gets them to bring them down and give them the best seats in the front row. People who are really happy to be there – not for the bragging rights – but for the chance to get the best view of an artists they love, singing the songs they adore.
In essence, he uses the wealth of the uber-rich to pay for the seats for the real fans.
Giving them the night of their life and letting Billy show that money can buy lots of things, but it can’t buy the respect he has for his true fans.
Now before anyone slags this post … or Billy off.
While I appreciate what he’s doing is not perfect … it’s more considerate, respectful and loyal than 95% of companies who talk a great game in terms of their customers/employees being their greatest asset right until the point it actually might result in costing them more than they want to spend.
Which is why I’d rather be loyal to a kinda musical version of Robin Hood than a smiling snake.
And before I go, I just want to leave you with my favourite little film about Metallica.
Unlike the Billy Joel story, this is not about repaying fan loyalty – at least not in the way I’ve just described how Billy Joel has. This is more about the sentimentality the band has for people and places that they believe has had a significant impact on the life of the band.
I’ve written about this before, but whereas that was about their ongoing relationship with Cliff Burton’s father … this is about one of James’ guitars.
That might not sound enticing, but I assure you it is.
Because while this film talks about where this guitar came from … what it represents and how it was crafted to have even greater meaning and significance to James and the band … it’s really a story of loyalty, legacy and love.
Enjoy. They’ve come a loooooooong way since Some Kind Of Monster, ha.