Filed under: Corona Virus, Dad, England, Family, Italy, Jill, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad, My Childhood, My Fatherhood, New Zealand, Otis
So on Sunday, it would be Mum’s 92nd birthday.
Now of course, she has been gone 9 years … however despite that, I still feel deeply connected to her birthday so for me, that number still feels very real to me.
I often wonder what life would be like if she was still here.
I say that, because had she still been alive, I don’t think we would be in NZ.
When COVID happened, we would have brought her to us in London … so she would be kept safe, cared for and loved.
I would imagine it would have been quite the challenge to get her to agree because she was always fiercely independent … but apart from the fact Otis would have been the major draw card, the fact is that towards the end of her life, she had accepted she needed some help. Not much, but a little. Even if that was just so she had someone to talk to every now and then, despite loving her own company.
And if that was the case there is no way we would have left the UK.
If anything, we would have been more likely to move to Italy … so she could be back in her homeland, near her sister and nieces.
Not that she would have expected us to do that – oh no, she was adamant I had to live my life, not look after hers – but that was a [gentle] tension we endured throughout our time together.
Her wanting to look after me by never demanding anything of me.
Me wanting to look after her by being protective and supportive.
Fortunately, towards the end we had found a calmness in how we dealt with it.
She’d accept what I sent her, and I’d accept she’d do nothing with any of it. Hahaha.
I know that might sound like some weird kind of ‘truce’, but it worked for us and I presume many other families work in a similar way. Acceptance, compromise and convenience … not because it ‘keeps the peace’, but because ultimately, you know the other person is doing it with love, even if it’s not exactly as you wish/hoped they’d act.
My Mum was the master of seeing the love.
Or dealing with challenges with love.
I can’t help but feel we’d all be better off if we followed her way of living rather than the self-serving, myopic, populist, egotism that the world is riddled with these days.
While I’m glad Mum didn’t have to endure the challenges of COVID, I’d have been so happy if it had meant she would be with us. I’ve written before how one of the worst of times was – thanks to my huge privilege – very special for me. By that, I mean in terms of COVID allowing me to be with my family 24/7.
They may have been sick of it, but I utterly loved it. Treasured it even.
But the reality is Mum had died years before, which meant NZ became a real option for us. And what a move it has turned out to be for the family. And while we won’t be here forever, we have valued and enjoyed every minute … which is why on top of thanking Colenso and the country for making it what it is [which is Otis’ FAVE EVER country, hence I’m going to ruin his life again one day in the not too distant, but not close, future] I also need to thank my Mum for kinda making this happen.
Or said another way … thank her for looking after my best interests even when I don’t fully realise that until later.
What a human. What a Mum.
Happy Birthday Mum, I love you.
Big hugs to you and give Dad a big kiss from me.
Filed under: America, China, Dad, Death, Emotion, Empathy, England, Family, Home, Hong Kong, Jill, Love, Loyalty, Mum, Mum & Dad, New Zealand, Otis, Parents, Rosie, Shanghai, Singapore
So tomorrow marks the 2nd month since Rosie passed … and I am still struggling with it.
I appreciate how pathetic that may sound, but it’s how I feel.
In many ways, the loss of Rosie feels very, very similar to the loss of my parents.
I don’t say that lightly.
I also don’t say that because my parents weren’t wonderful.
Frankly, they were amazing and gave me a childhood where I can honestly say I never wanted for love, support or encouragement. And while I didn’t really appreciate how special that was until I was much older and realised not everyone got to experience that, I definitely understand how blessed I was for what they gave me and left me.
However, while Mum and Dad were my physical and emotional constant throughout my first 20+ years of my life … as I went through my key adult ’life stage’ years – such as marriage, moving countries [a lot] and starting a family – they weren’t. Part of this is because by then I was living far, far away from them – so only connected to them by phone, albeit on a daily basis, as well as my annual visit home – and part of this is because sadly, both of them died over this period of time. Which means from 2007, Rosie – along with Jill – were my physical and emotional constants.
Wherever I was … whatever I was going through … they were the ones who I went back to each and every day.
Who were there for me, each and every day.
In essence, they were on the other side of the bridge that took me between childhood to adulthood, which I hope helps explain Rosie’s significance and importance in my life.
But there is another reason I feel such loss and that is because I can’t help but feel I had something to do with it.
At the end of the day – while it was out of love to ensure she didn’t suffer given her kidneys had stopped working – I/we made the decision when her life would end. And for all the compassion, care, gentleness and tears we shed, it is something I still feel guilty about.
Of course it is full of irrationality …
Somehow, I am of the belief that we could have nursed her back to health. That … had we not taken her to the vet that Saturday morning for a routine injection, she’d still be with us.
And maybe she would … except the likelihood is she would have ended up suffering far more as we wouldn’t have had the time to get her the specialist care that ensured she didn’t suffer more than she had to.
But that Saturday is burned into my mind.
That morning she was almost back to her old self.
Jumping on our bed in the morning. Wanting food. Doing her loud ‘surprise happy scream’ every time she saw us. We even said, “she’s back to her old self”.
The injection at the vets was just to help with her arthritis – nothing more – and yet a quick blood test set off a chain of events that led to us saying goodbye to her 48 hours later.
And while I know the reality of the situation is her kidneys had started to properly fail … in fact, her readings had more than doubled within the month – from an already terrible score of 400, which represents ‘stage 4’ out of 4 possible levels for a cat’s kidney health to just under 1000 – I still find the image of leaving our house looking well and returning ready for goodbye hard to reconcile. Hard to let go of my complicity in creating this situation – even though every vet we spoke to had already warned us of the severity of her situation and, if truth be known, we were aware that her previous illness a month earlier signified a major shift in her wellbeing. As I wrote in the post announcing her death, that shift felt similar to the final stages I saw my Dad go through before he passed.
Doesn’t make it any easier.
Doesn’t make being home any less challenging.
Because everything screams she is not there.
It’s all so heartbreaking. I keep wanting to ring the vet who helped her sleep to give her an injection to make her come back alive. To erase the decision we made, even though it was absolutely the right decision … a decision that I think even Rosie wanted. Especially as kidney failure gives a cat about 30 days before it all ends in tragedy and we were close to that timeline being hit and yet I want to ignore all that as I just want her back.
Hell, I keep finding myself saying, “come on Rozzie” when we go to bed … expecting to hear her feet make a little sound as she jumps off wherever she was to follow us down the stairs. But the hardest thing … the thing that absolutely reinforces she’s not longer with us is that I no longer have to check the front door when I leave in the morning or get in at night.
Each day, as I was heading out to work, Rosie would come upstairs with me. While this was because she hoped for extra Friskies – despite I had just given them to her downstairs – I would end up giving her a couple more because I couldn’t resist her face and it was the best way to ensure she didn’t sneakily follow me out of the front door where she felt a compulsion to explore, even though she knew she wasn’t allowed to. And at night, when she heard my car come down the drive, she’d be waiting at the glass next to the front door where I would see her silently meow to me through the glass as a way of saying hello, before trying to get through my legs when I walked in.
Occasionally she’d succeed and then proceed to sit under mine – or Jill’s – car until finally getting bored [or tempted with treats of falling in reach of one of our arms] but it was a daily ritual and now I can keep the door wide open and it literally fucks with my head.
I miss it. I miss all the things she did.
Even the stuff that annoyed me … like coming into the lounge at night – when Jill and Otis were asleep – and literally screaming at me, telling me it was time to come downstairs to bed with her.
She did a lot of screaming, but over the years she ‘educated us’ to what each one meant.
One was that she wanted to sleep under our sheets in bed and needed us to lift them up for her to go underneath. One was that she was hungry and wanted us to hand deliver treats rather than eat the food in her bowl. One was for us to open the lounge doors so she could go and sit out on her special bean bag cat bed on the deck so she could look out on the trees and feel the sun on her fur. In fact, the only time she didn’t scream was when we were actively looking for her, fearing she had got out when we came home and didn’t realise.
She did do that a couple of times, but never went far. Or for long.
She knew where home was.
She knew how well she was cared for.
She was definitely not a stupid cat.
And that’s why I can’t think about getting another. At least not yet.
I did look for cats who needed adopting very soon after Rosie had gone, but then I realised I wasn’t doing it to replace her, but to replicate her and that is both impossible and unfair to whoever we adopted.
So we need time. And while this may all sound dramatic for a cat, I point you to the post I wrote about Denise – the woman that I need to apologise to. Who gave me a very early warning as to what this would feel like. Because a pet is not just for life, a pet adds to your life and Rosie was – and will forever be – my first animal family member and I’d do anything, as I would for Mum and Dad, to have her back. Even for one day.
So regardless who you are or what you’re doing, don’t take the good shit for granted.
Because as annoying as it can be, it is better than it not being there.
And that is why – despite having experienced death throughout my life – Mum, Dad and Rosie’s passing has been the most significant.
What is interesting is that at my age – which I recently heard described as ‘the youngest of the old bunch’ – I am heading towards more of that. Including, my own one day … albeit hopefully a long time away. But it does make you re-evaluate what is important and who is important, which is leading to a lot of discussions and considerations about the future we want to have rather than the future we will get given.
But while there is a lot of sadness in this post, I want you to know I’m not in a bad way.
I was, but not now.
Part of that is because we have Rosie’s ashes with us and weirdly, it feels like she’s home.
Not exactly as we would like.
But exactly where she belongs.
And that, I’m increasingly learning, is the real definition of happiness, fulfillment and success.
______________________________________________________________________________________________
This is the last post I’ll be writing for 2 weeks as I’m off on a ridiculous trip for work.
Across Canada. Across America. And a quick visit to Australia. Quite bonkers.
But I am eternally grateful for it. Not just because of the air miles, but because it is being organised by a client who wants me – and 3 colleagues – to really understand who they are.
The details. The nuances. The values. The realities.
At a time where so many clients want simple, superficial and easy, they’re going out of their way to make it difficult for all of us … but in the most brilliant, rewarding and valuable way ever.
And for that we’re all eternally grateful.
Not because it’s rare, but because it means they give a fuck about what who they are, what they do and what they want us to create together.
They’re invested in making something great, rather than just expecting excellence without contributing anything to it beyond deadlines, mandatories and distain.
And you know what this ‘in it together’ approach achieves?
A team very, very motivated to do something extraordinary for them.
That’s contrary to what many companies think is the way to work with agencies or partners these days. Believing that if they treat people like disposable commodities, they’ll get them to work even harder for them. Which means they value you nothing other than the price they pay for something.
And while I appreciate what we do costs a lot of money and so being on top of things is important, I’ll tell you what ends up costing a whole lot more: treating partners like shit. Not because they’ll stop caring about what they do, but because they know you don’t even care about who you are.
Which is why we’re thrilled to be going on this trip … because nothing shows commitment like inconvenience.
See you on the 29th … as there’s a holiday in Auckland on the 28th, hahaha.
Filed under: Age, America, Attitude & Aptitude, Cats, China, Death, England, Family, Hong Kong, Jill, LaLaLand, London, Love, Otis, Rosie, Shanghai, Singapore
I want to apologise to someone.
Her name is Denise and I worked with her for a few months back in 1996.
While I don’t remember much about her, I do remember this …
1. She was a freelance media strategist.
2. She was a wonderful human.
3. She had amazing ginger hair.
4. She loved her cat.
The reason I want to apologise is that one day, we heard she wasn’t coming into work for the week because her cat had passed away. And frankly, I was a prick. Not because I said anything to her or about her – but because I distinctly remember thinking her reaction was a bit extreme.
A week off?
For a cat!
But of course it wasn’t just ‘a cat’ and it wasn’t just ‘a pet’. It was family.
I know some people may think calling a pet, ‘family’ is a silly statement to make … but unless your pet is a ‘working animal’, I can only imagine the reason you think that way is because of how you treat it, rather than how it treats you.
Because pets love you.
And they want you to love them.
Sure, they show it in a myriad of ways, but to them – you’re most definitely family.
Even those independent, demanding, constantly judging beasts-on-four-legs known as cats.
They may make you work hard for affection.
They may turn their back the moment they get what they want.
But they love you … almost as much as you will likely love them.
So why do I want to apologise 28 years later to a person I have no knowledge of where they’re at and who I only knew fleetingly?
Well, even though the moment I had that thought I was angry at myself for how fucked-up selfish I’d been letting that thought enter my head even for a second, I want to apologise because it breaks my heart to say I now have first-hand experience how losing your precious pet feels because earlier today, we had to say goodbye to our wonderful, cranky, seven-country-living, Singaporean street cat: Rosie.
We’re all devastated.
Totally adrift in grief.
And even though we know she had an amazing 17 years of pampered, spoilt, and deeply-loved-and-cared-for life – which is much, much longer than the average tenure of a street cat [which is 2 years] – it still doesn’t feel long enough.
No where close.
While she’d had a kidney problem for a long time – as well as some arthritis in her back – it was being managed by a special diet and us putting little steps around the house so she could climb on whatever she wanted. But that aside, she was generally in good health. In fact it wasn’t that long ago the vets were surprised how old she was as she seemed so much younger in her spirit and overall well-being. And over these 17 years, there had only ever been one occasion where she had become properly ill so she was a strong little thing.
But then one day recently – about a month ago – things changed dramatically and suddenly.
Loss of appetite. Her meow sounded like she was smoking 70 cigarettes a day and she was restless. The vet had given her an injection to relieve the arthritis pain and some meds to help with her kidneys and it worked for a few days but – even though her spirit, meow, calmness and complaining returned with gusto – her loss of appetite kicked in again.
We took her back to the vet and her blood test showed a huge decline in her kidneys function – far more in a month than we’d seen in almost a decade – so we took her to the cat hospital for a few days to see if more intense treatment could help.
It was very sad in our house because while we hoped for the best, we feared for the worst.
For me, it all felt a bit like the last days of my Dad. I described it at the time of someone walking around their big, old house and closing all the windows, turning off the lights, closing the doors. One by one. Bit by bit. Getting ready to depart for the last time.
And that’s what it felt Rosie was doing.
Still loving – in her own, unique way – but spending more time in her own world.
Ironically, in the days leading up to her going into the hospital, she was more loving than maybe she’d ever before. Wanting us to wrap our arm around her while she slept next to us in bed rather than adopt her normal practice of balancing precariously on our hip. Like she was trying to say goodbye. A final loving cuddle. I even thought that at the time but I tried to put that idea out of my mind, not wanting to contemplate it or consider it in case I tempted fate. But the reality is, I knew things had changed and nothing reaffirmed that more than when we went to see her in the hospital and it was obvious the treatment wasn’t working.
She was happy we were there.
She came out for a cuddle and a brush.
But she was not great. Not just because of the sedatives, but because she was not well.
And maybe, that was the first time, we accepted we had to make a decision.
A decision no one wants to make.
A decision where you actively have to fight your instinct to be selfish and keep them around.
But while she was not in pain, her lack of eating – and the increasing effects of her kidney disease – meant she was getting very thin and her quality of life was starting to be impacted and that was the very last thing we would ever want for her. Would ever do to her. So after a call from the hospital, we brought her home today, Monday 12th, … spoiling her with love, kisses, brushes and walking her all around the house, including the deck outside, where she loved to be for hours, in the sun, in nature, watching the birds fly by … before gently letting her go this afternoon, at 2:15pm, surrounded by us by her side.
And we’re inconsolable …
For her loss and the feeling of confusion and pain we felt making this decision.
Knowing it was the right thing for her, but hating it at the same time … all while trying to fight off the feelings of guilt that we knew when her last day would be, before her.
And even though it honestly feels like she knew it was time and wanted it to be, it still feels so wrong and hurts so deeply … to the point I feel sick thinking about it, physically sick. That’s how much our wonderful little Rosie meant to all of us.
I mean Otis had had her in his life, his whole life.
Even my Mum had met Rosie, that’s how long she’d been part of our family unit.
Hell, anyone who has read this blog at anytime over the past 17 years, would know her as she made her first appearance within days of her coming into our lives.
And yet for someone so small, it’s amazing how much she filled our house.
Her presence. Her sounds. The little signs she left to make sure we knew this was ‘her house’.
Without her, it all feels quieter, emptier, less welcoming now.
Every corner reminds us of her. Every little place and piece.
Of all the places she lived – and there were a lot, from being a street cat in Singapore to HK, China, America and the UK – she loved this place most.
She loved the peace, the nature, the hiding places and the opportunity to run out the front door when we would come in and then annoyingly sit under my car until finally being tempted out with Friskies.
In fact, to remember her we’re going to make a decal of her, as mocked up above, that we’ll place on the window at the side of our front door. The place where she would come sit, meow and greet us whenever she heard our cars come down the drive. And we’ll also scatter some of her ashes in the trees she loved to look at from the deck at our house as well as get another tattoo in her honour to go with the one I’ve got of her nose and whiskers from years ago.
If you think this is all a bit over-the-top, I don’t care … because I cannot put into words how much I loved that cat.
I cannot tell you how grateful I am to Jill for finding her and bringing her into our life.
And while she was my first proper pet, she was more than that to me.
She was a member of my family.
Crazy I know, but she was.
Hell, I even turned down a job – ironically at Colenso – because of her. Well, partly because of her, because the New Zealand authorities wouldn’t let people based in China bring their pets to the country. Fortunately, having moved from China to the US and the UK, it was all good.
In many ways, I don’t want to end this post because then it means it’s final. Official. The end. And while I know her memory will stay with me/us forever, the reality is our wonderful Rosie has gone. Which is why I end the last post for this week with this …
Rosie. I love you.
You made an old man very happy – even when you made me bloody annoyed.
Like the time you broke my brand new X-Box. Or destroyed that expensive lamp.
But you always did it with style.
Just like the way you would find new places to hide.
Giving me a heart attack thinking you’d got out and run away.
Like when you made Jill climb up onto the roof of a block of flats in London … only for you to be found an hour later sleeping in our wardrobe, having purposefully stayed quiet while watching us run frantically around, shaking a bag of treats shouting, “Rosie, where are you?”
I am so grateful for all you were.
I am so glad we could give you the most loving of homes.
But most of all, I’m so grateful for all we were together.
We’ll never forget you.
Please don’t forget us.
And please forgive us.
Because we love you so much.
Always will.
Thank you for everything you gave to us.
We send you off with hugs, kisses, brushes and Friskies.
Sleep well our dear Rosie.
Sleep well.
Rosie. 1st July 2007- 12th August 2024.
Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Attitude & Aptitude, Cats, Death, Emotion, Empathy, Family, Hope, Jill, Love, Loyalty, Mum, Mum & Dad, My Childhood, My Fatherhood, Otis, Paul, Respect
This week has been a week of pretty heavy posts.
But given the standard I normally write at, this has – if I may say so myself – been pretty good. And hopefully today will top that off, albeit in a pretty emotional and confronting way.
Let’s see …
When I was young, I remember thinking that I never wanted to be with my parents when they died. My belief was the pain of watching them go would be too much for me to deal with. That seeing their final moments would leave an indelible scar on me for the rest of my life.
Thank fuck I came to my senses …
Because while their deaths were – and continue to be – the worst days of my life, I’d have been haunted if I’d not been by their side.
It could have happened.
It could have happened easily given I was living in different countries when they passed.
Australia for Dad. China for Mum.
But for reasons I’ll be eternally grateful for, I was there. With them. Able to tell them how much I loved them, was grateful for them and would do my best to honour them.
Because even though I was drowning in a sea of overwhelming grief as I witnessed them take their final breaths, it was the moment I understood – with absolute certainty and clarity – why I had to be there.
For them. And for me.
A few years before Mum died, her sister-in-law passed away. It was unexpected and she died at home on her own. To be discovered the following day.
Mum was understandably very upset about this. Not just for the loss of a woman she liked very much, but that her final moments had been on her own. That she must have been so scared. So desperate to be surrounded with the people she loved.
One day, while visiting from Shanghai, Mum confessed how she feared this would happen to her. That she’d be alone. I’d never heard her say something like this before and it genuinely haunted me. Not just in that moment, but till the end.
My Mum was an amazing woman. She had endured a huge amount of hardship through her life and all I wanted to do was look after her. But she was also fiercely independent, so it was always hard to get her to accept anything from me. In her mind, I had to focus on my life – not hers – which is why revealing her fear was so heartbreaking.
You see, not only was she acknowledging her own mortality – which was devastating to hear, let alone for her to say – she was admitting there was something I could do for her, even though we both knew it was something that was almost impossible to ensure.
What made this even more emotionally charged is that we both knew that this admission had ‘slipped out’.
Mum spent her life trying to protect me from pain and inconvenience at all costs – from her gentle words to try and coax me out of my delusion that Dad would miraculously get better after his devastating strokes through to me finding notes she’d written prior to death to make sure it was easier for me to handle her affairs – so the pain of hearing her fear was no doubt matched by the pain she felt for causing me sorrow.
She was that sort of person. A wonderful, compassionate and considerate human. A woman who would genuinely give someone her last £1 than keep it herself. Which I admit, annoyed the fuck out of me sometimes. Ha.
And that’s why I’m so grateful I was with her when the worst happened. As I was with Dad. And if you look back to March/April 2015 on this blog, you will read the anguish and pain I went through. But among all the desperation and loss, you’ll also see clues why I was so happy to be there on one of the worst days of my life.
Because while the idea of not having to see your loved one’s die, makes some sort of sense – the reality is quite different.
In fact, I’d go even further.
As bone crushingly devastating saying goodbye to a loved one is, it’s not as agonising as you would feel for not being there.
You see at that point, it’s not about you – but them.
However you feel has to place second-fiddle to their needs and situation.
For them, knowing they’re not alone at their final moments gives them peace. A way to leave with love rather than just fear. It doesn’t matter if they’re conscious not, they know and I can say this with absolute certainty.
As I said at Dad’s funeral, when we arrived to be by his side after an urgent call from the hospital, we found his body in the throes of turning off all the lights. Imagine someone walking around their old house and checking that all the windows were closed, all the lights were off and all the doors were locked. Making sure everything was done before they left for good. That was Dad and his body had almost finished its final check bar one little candle flickering in the night. But the thing was, he wasn’t going to blow that out till we were there … till we could tell him he could go … that we loved him … that we were grateful for all he had done for us … that we knew he loved us.
And when we did that, we watched him metaphorically blow out that final light out without fuss. A dignified, quiet passing, leaving us distraught with the loss but happy we were together.
Which is why I am so glad I came to my senses about not wanting to be there when my parents died. Because if I did that, not only would I have left my parents to experience fear instead of comfort and loneliness instead of love, I would have spent a lifetime trying to come to terms with what I’d done. How in my selfishness, I’d left people I loved – and love – at their most desperate and alone, at a time where they arguably needed me most in their life.
Of course, for some, they don’t have the option to be there.
Sometimes it’s because of circumstance, sometimes because of situation. And to them, I hope they are able to find some sort of peace because I can’t imagine the pain and burden that must inflict on them.
Now I say all this for 2 reasons.
One. Because tomorrow is the 9th anniversary of my wonderful Mum dying.
Two. I recently read an article that brought all this back to me … but through a perspective I’d never considered – the final days of a pet.
As you know, I bloody love my cat Rosie.
She’s basically my first real pet … and while we originally got her to keep Jill happy, she has become a true member of the family.
I’ve turned down jobs because of her.
I’ve started companies to bring in her favourite food for her.
I’ve taken big freelance jobs to aid her movement to new countries for her.
She is very, very special to me.
She is also, very, very old … and while she is generally fit and well … for the last few years I’ve wondered if this is the year we have to say goodbye.
It will happen eventually. I mean she turns 17 this year. SEVENTEEN. And my worst thought is having to one day take her to the vet to put her down.
And despite the lessons I’ve learned from my parents passing, my initial thought was if we had to do that for Rosie, I’d not be able to be there. It would be too hard.
And then I read this.
[Whether a pet owner or not, please read it]
Of course it should have been obvious.
Of course it should never be even a consideration.
But while we treat pets like members of the family, at the worst moment – many of us disassociate ourselves to try and protect ourselves.
Forgetting that at that moment, it isn’t about us – but them.
Yes we will be devastated.
Yes it will be horrific and hard.
But how do we think it is for them?
To face your final moments and not see the person who has been there loving them and looking out for them must be terrifying and confusing. Alone in an unfamiliar room with unfamiliar people.
As the article states:
“You have been the centre of their world for THEIR ENTIRE LIVES!!!!”
“90 per cent of owners don’t actually want to be in the room when he injects them so the animal’s last moments are usually them frantically looking around for their owners”.
Frantically looking for their owners.
Take that in.
I don’t imagine its that different for people in their final moments.
They need us. They need us to feel they still have us. That their final moments are with love and not abandonment.
I know it’s hard. I know it’s horrific. But I also know it’s not about us – not really.
So I write this to say that should you be of the opinion you don’t want to be there … that the pain would be too much. Know I sympathise, but also know it won’t nearly be as painful or deep as the knowledge that you weren’t.
Give the people. pets and places you love a hug, call or kiss this weekend.
See you Monday. I hope, ha.
Filed under: Attitude & Aptitude, Dad, Daddyhood, Death, Emotion, Empathy, Family, Fatherhood, Humanity, Jill, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad, Otis, Parents
A while back, I saw a tweet by the incredible Alison Moyet, quoting CS Lewis.
It was this:
It captivated me. Both for how beautifully it is expressed and how true it is. At least to me.
You see the older I get, the more I realise the phrase ‘everything happens for a reason’ is the perfect encapsulation of how life is.
Whoever we are, wherever we live, we experience a rollercoaster of emotions.
Good, bad, scary, sad … you name it, we go through so many of them each and every day.
In many cases, they’re but a temporary moment in a day full of temporary moments. But occasionally, they can be something that leaves a lasting scar … a scar that transcends all that has gone before and shapes all that comes after.
That doesn’t mean it’s always bad, far from it. But it does mean that it is the start of a period of your life where it creates a lens of how you see and live life.
What is interesting is that while you are living through it – and think you have clarity because of it – the reality is we often only get understanding of why something happened with time.
Not that we realise that at the time, sometimes it can take decades … however even though we may stlil find what occurred unfair or unjust, there is a sense of enlightnment because of it.
The feeling that everything finally and suddenly makes sense.
Of course, that can also trigger disturbance inside you all over again … because you discover the scar you thought had healed, was just hiding … but it does have this amazing affect of revealing something you had not seen.
And that’s why that CS Lewis quote hit me so hard.
Because I went through some of that, especially when my Dad died.
I was full of anger and anguish.
Tears and tantrums.
At a loss for what to do or how we had got to this point … even though Dad’s journey to death was over years, rather than days.
And then a decade later – on the eve of my birthday – something happened where the byproduct of that experience was that I learned the last 10 years of my life had been spent in mourning.
Which had been a byproduct of denying my Dad’s health reality for years.
Not due to stupidity, but a need to survive.
To think it was not going to be the end – even though my wonderful Mum tried to gently get me to acknowledge the reality of his ill-health.
And what she did … and what this enlightnement did … and what my wife and Otis did ultimately led to me being able to better handle the tragedy when Mum died, 16 years later.
I was still devastated.
I still had anger and anguish.
But this time, because I knew why, it let me move forward … so I could focus on her wonderfulness, not get lost in the injustice of her passing.
It’s why I think it is so important to talk about death.
Fuck it, it’s why I think it is so important to talk, fullstop.
Not the mindless shit, but to make time for the personal and important shit … because nothing shows love and generosity than ensuring someone you care about doesn’t lose decades of themselves because of things they wish they knew or things they wish they’d said.