Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Advertising, Comment, Communication Strategy, Creativity, Culture, Death, Empathy, Experience, Family, Mum, Mum & Dad, Resonance
I know this week has been a week of super short, super bad posts – even by my standards – but today I end the week on a longer and more serious note.
A few weeks ago, the country singer Glen Campbell died.
Despite sharing the same surname, I have never shown any interest in this singer/songwriter because basically, I hate country music.
Sure, I knew a couple of his songs, but if you’d asked me who sang them, I would have not been able to tell you in a million years.
So why am I writing about his death?
Well, when he died, a friend of mine – who is a massive music guy – wrote on his Facebook about Glen Campbell’s life and there was one bit that really hit me which was how he dealt with being diagnosed with Alzheimers.
Rather than retire quietly, he stepped up his workload.
Not to capitalize on his illness or end his career on a high … but because music was something he loved and he wanted to enjoy it before he forgot it.
And he was forgetting it.
He needed a teleprompter on stage to help him remember the lyrics to his songs.
He needed to be reminded that some members of his band were his very own children.
But that’s not the thing that hit me, it was the fact that he wrote a song about his illness called, ‘I’m Not Gonna Miss You’.
To be honest, just hearing he had done that reminded me of the poem Clive James wrote about his impending death. A post that was extra significant at the time because I was about to fly to England to be with my Mum for her impending heart operation – an operation that sadly didn’t work.
As many of you know, I’ve written a lot about death.
Not because I particularly like the subject, but because I believe not talking about it can do us far more harm.
It’s never a comfortable topic to discuss, but I know my denial of my Fathers situation led to me experiencing 10 years of pain.
And while my Mum died unexpectedly, she had made sure that it was something we talked about in general terms and then – as an act of love that is almost impossible to comprehend – she quietly made arrangements to ensure that if she did not get through the operation, the legal ramifications of her passing would not add extra burden to my broken heart.
I must admit, I initially found it hard to think that she had done this for me.
Of course I recognised it as an act of love but as she had once told me that she was scared of dying alone, I imagined her fears would have become even stronger while she was preparing all these things for me.
I’ve got to be honest, it’s only writing this that has made me realise that regardless the nervousness Mum was feeling, she would also have had a sense of contentment that she was able to do this for me.
That’s a level of love that has literally made me tear up while I am writing this which reinforces why I am so, so glad that she knew I was with her when the worse moment happened.
I write all this because I hope Glen Campbell’s family will one day feel the same sense of love when they read the lyrics to his sons, ‘I’m not gonna miss you’.
I can’t imagine how it must have felt hearing this song for the first time – especially as his Alzheimers had only just been diagnosed – but in time, I truly hope they can see past the pain and feel the love of someone who, at their darkest hour, wanted them to know how much he loved them.
I’m still here, but yet I’m gone
I don’t play guitar or sing my songs
They never defined who I am
The man that loves you ’til the end
You’re the last person I will love
You’re the last face I will recall
And best of all, I’m not gonna miss you
Not gonna miss you
I’m never gonna hold you like I did
Or say I love you to the kids
You’re never gonna see it in my eyes
It’s not gonna hurt me when you cry
I’m never gonna know what you go through
All the things I say or do
All the hurt and all the pain
One thing selfishly remains
I’m not gonna miss you
I’m not gonna miss you
It those lyrics haven’t affected you, then you’re not human.
Which leads to a point I’d like to make about advertising.
No, really …
As you will have worked out by now, I am an emotional bloke.
Of course that doesn’t mean I don’t value intelligence or information or data, it’s just that if our learnings aren’t conveyed in a way that captures how our audience actually feels, it becomes ‘cold’ to me.
Part of this is because I believe our job is to connect to culture, part of this is because I believe creativity should push and provoke … but mostly, it’s because I believe the best work connects to audiences on a much deeper level than the superficial.
Put simply, it feels like it’s come from inside the culture rather than from someone observing it.
And that’s why Glen Campbell’s song is so powerful to me … because even though I hate country music, when I read his lyrics, I was reminded that great work talks in a way you powerfully feel rather than passively rationalize.
Thank you for the lesson Glen.
Filed under: Anniversary, Comment, Dad, Death, Emotion, Empathy, Fatherhood, Mum, Mum & Dad, My Fatherhood, Parents
Today is the 2nd anniversary of my wonderful Mum passing away.
If I’m being honest, I’m going through a strange time with it.
On one hand, it seems like yesterday.
The pain. The sadness. The despair.
When I stop and think about it, it re-awakens all the trauma from that day and the days that followed.
However, I am conscious that these thoughts only occur when I give them time to happen.
They are no longer just sitting in my mind, waiting to jump out … I have to open the door to let them in.
I think Mum would be happy about that.
She would never want me to still feel paralysed by the sadness of her loss.
All she would want is for me to think of her in happy terms … remembering the good times we had together.
And I do.
Almost every day.
But I have to admit, I feel a bit guilty about that.
It’s as if I’m not honouring her properly.
Part of it is because it took me 10 years to come to terms with my Dad dying.
Of course the circumstances between the two situations were entirely different, plus I now have Otis who ensures there is never enough time for darkness to fill my heart … but it still feels strange that only on her anniversary do I go back to ‘that day’.
I loved my Mum so much.
I still do.
I miss her every day.
I would do anything to talk to her one more time.
There is so much I want to tell her.
Of what has happened in the past 2 years.
Of what is about to happen.
I’d love to hear her opinion.
I’d love to hear her reaction.
I’d love to hear her questions.
I know this will sound ridiculous, but there are some days where I think I can.
No seriously.
It’s as if I’ve forgotten she has gone and all I have to do is ring her up.
I can’t tell you the amount of times I have stared at her Skype photo, just looking at her face.
I’ve talked to it. I’ve gently caressed it. I’ve even clicked on it a couple of times and let it ring … hoping she’ll pick up and everything will carry on as before.
But of course she doesn’t and she can’t … and yet there is something comforting that I still feel she is in my life.
By that I don’t mean it in terms of my memories – she’ll always be there – I mean the feeling that I’ve simply not spoken to her for a little while.
It means she lives in my present, not my past.
I know that sounds weird and I don’t want to make anyone feel uncomfortable – but while today represents 2 years since one of the worst days of my life – she, and Dad, would be happy to know I face this day looking forwards rather than being stuck in the past.
Love you Mum.
As you can see from the photos, we’re doing well, especially Otis, so don’t worry about us.
I hope you’re holding hands with Dad and laughing.
Rxxx
Filed under: Childhood, Comment, Dad, Death, Jill, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad, Otis, Parents
Oh Dad, how can it be 18 years.
How is that possible?
I remember that phonecall like it was yesterday.
You had been in hospital since Christmas having taken a turn for the worse.
And then on the 27th December, Mum called to say it was very bad and the Doctors had told her that I should come back right away.
In a weird way, this did not worry me.
We had gone through the same situation twice in the last 3 months and both times, you had pulled through.
But then I realised Mum’s voice sounded a bit different … more scared … and that’s when I started to get worried.
As you know, after a rather traumatic flight from Sydney, I got to Nottingham and was by your side at the QMC.
You were very poorly, but you knew I was there and it seemed to help.
But the strange thing is I can’t really remember what happened between arriving by your side and the Doctor asking me if I wanted him to remove the suffering you were going through.
I know Mum and I spent every day – from the moment visiting hours started to when they ended – next to you.
I know I told you how much I loved you. How I tried to will you back to health.
But the actual conversations and considerations are a total blank.
I’d like to say it’s because 18 years is a long time, but it’s actually because my brain refused to let me deal with the realities of your situation until that conversation with the Doctor.
4 years of delusion and denial pricked by a single conversation with the Doctor.
4 years of ignoring Mum as she quietly and tenderly tried to prepare me for the inevitable.
I certainly hope I was better when Mum passed away.
Of course, it was less expected than your situation and yet, deep down, I feared it may happen – as, it seems, did Mum – which is why I was much more aware of what was happening or what may happen.
So I need to thank you yet again, for helping me learn.
For trying to ensure I didn’t face more pain than I absolutely needed to.
Oh Dad, I wish you were here.
I wish I could hear the questions you would have for me.
I wish I could look into your bright blue eyes as you heard what I’d been up to over the last 18 years.
The decisions I’ve made …
The situations I’ve encountered …
The life I have somehow managed to live …
I would give anything to hear the pride – mixed with incredulity – you’d express about the career I’ve managed to forge.
The places it’s let me live. The people it’s let me meet. The experiences it’s let me enjoy.
The family it has let me have.
The daughter-in-law you would absolutely adore.
And the grandson you would be totally obsessed with.
But you’re not here … not physically, anyway … but in a weird way, Mum passing has made me feel closer to you.
Not that you were ever far away, but 18 years meant I had got used to the memory of you rather than the presence of you.
However now Mum has joined you, I kind of feel you’re both near me again.
I know that’s mad and I can see you shaking your head at me … but it’s true.
Don’t worry, I’ve not become a religious fool – but the fact you’re together has helped me a lot because I never was happy that you were both apart from each other.
But now, my mind, you’re back together, as you should be.
As you always were throughout my childhood.
And I cannot tell you how special that was to me.
Even more so now.
So while today is a day of sadness, it is also a day of joy … because you will be happy to know I am no longer lost in the pain of your final few years and can now focus on the wonderful life you had and we shared, exemplified when I had the honour of discovering the card you wrote to Mum when I was born.
I never doubted how much you loved me, but finding this was the verbal equivalent of one of your warm, wonderful hugs.
Sure I cried my eyes out, but oh what a feeling that was.
I so hope Otis feels the same way when he finally stops trying to wriggle out of my arms everytime I give him a cuddle. Ha.
So now it is time to go and I want to leave you by saying that while it has been 18 years, the love I have for you has never faded – if anything, quite the opposite – and even though I wish with all my heart that you were still here to be involved in the daily rituals of my life, the fact you’re with Mum makes the sadness a bit more manageable.
Still miss you though.
Love you Dad.
Rx
So as many of you know, I lost my wonderful Mum in 2015.
It was – and still is – a hugely traumatic incident, but as I wrote [and wrote and wrote] at various times over that dark period, there were moments of relief.
Some of that came from the outpouring of compassion and care I received from so many wonderful people, some of it was through the inappropriate – and yet utterly perfect – actions of my son, but there was one other that I haven’t talked about.
When we were organising Mum’s funeral, I was asked about what music we wanted.
While there were so many possibilities, I thought the best thing to do was choose songs that Mum loved and the easiest way to do that was to look at her iPad and review the ’25 most played songs’.
It was quite an eclectic list but that also was testimony to my Mum’s openness to music, regardless of era.
So after talking it through with Jill, we got it down to 3 pieces …
Nat King Cole’s Wonderful World
Emeli Sande’s Clown
Christina Perri’s Jar of Hearts
So far so good.
So we come to the day of the funeral – a day I was dreading – and the ceremony was beautiful.
The church was full of people wanting to pay their respects from far and wide, little Otis slept through the whole thing – ensuring we didn’t have to worry about him crying through a very emotional moment in our lives – the celebrant was utterly wonderful and I even managed to make it through my eulogy without breaking down too much.
As funerals go, it had been beautiful.
And then it happened.
You see, when we were choosing the songs for the funeral, I didn’t really listen to more than 5 seconds of them.
Part of this was because I knew the songs already and the other part was I had been too emotionally raw to hear all the songs all the way through given what they were going to be associated with.
Now before I go on, I should point out I’ve never been good with lyrics.
Even when I was in a band and wrote some of the songs, I could never remember what were the words. I am much more a melody person than a lyrical one … which is my way of explaining what happened as the funeral drew to a close.
The ceremony was over and people were invited to leave the church.
As we sat there, waiting to depart, Christina Perri’s song started to play.
Maybe it was because I had nothing to do as I waited to be able to leave my seat … maybe it’s because I was in deep reflection of what I had just experienced … but I started to listen to the lyrics a bit more intently.
This is what I heard:
I know I can’t take one more step towards you
‘Cause all that’s waiting is regret
Don’t you know I’m not your ghost anymore
You lost the love I loved the most
I learned to live half alive
And now you want me one more time
And who do you think you are?
Runnin’ ’round leaving scars
Collecting your jar of hearts
And tearing love apart
You’re gonna catch a cold
From the ice inside your soul
So don’t come back for me
Who do you think you are?
While the sentiment of the song is what I assumed it was – the sadness of the people you have left behind – the context of it was ENTIRELY different.
Instead of it being a heartfelt message of goodbye, it was a middle finger to a cold, selfish bastard of a player.
In other words, the most utterly inappropriate song to play at a funeral … especially at my wonderful Mum’s funeral.
On hearing this, I literally grabbed Jill’s hand and said, “Let’s go. Now”.
Fortunately, I found the whole thing a bit amusing – which stopped me from falling too deep in the darkness that I was feeling – plus there’s the fact it was one of her favourite songs so it was not an entirely random choice.
Later that night, I told Shelly – my best friend Paul’s wife – about the incident and she admitted that when she heard it, she had thought it was rather “an unusual choice of song”.
The thing is, I think my Mum would have found it amusing too.
I can imagine her laughing about it … like she is in the photo above.
Which is why if people were to ask me how my Mum’s funeral was, I would reply – as funny as it may seem to say – it was absolutely perfect.
Filed under: Comment, Death, Mum
So 3 years ago today was one of the worst days of my life because it’s the day I lost Mum.
I’ve written a lot about what happened and how it affected me, but 3 years down the line, I am more focused on the joyful memories we had together rather than the tragic last days.
Infact the shift in mindset is so great, that I was only reminded this day was approaching by friends writing to me to send their love and support for this most horrible of anniversaries.
Now don’t get me wrong, Mum is always on my mind.
Just last week I saw an elderly lady who – for a number of reasons – reminded me of Mum.
She looked kind and gentle. Her grey hair gently framing her face. And as she sat alone, waiting quietly for her takeaway order to arrive from the restaurant kitchen. I couldn’t stop stealing glances at her. Of course I knew it wasn’t Mum and yet there was something about her that made me feel like her energy was very similar.
Then I started crying.
Not loudly, not even obviously … but tears were running down my face and when she walked out the restaurant, I had to tell myself not to chase her out to the parking lot and tell her she reminded me of my wonderful Mum and could I have a hug.
Thank god for my brains objectivity or I could be writing this from jail.
But as I sit here, on the 3rd anniversary of her passing, I feel a different person.
Of course I miss her and would give anything to see her hold the precious grandson she never got to meet in person, but I’m in a much better place than I was and that is something I know Mum would be very happy about.
Of course part of this is because of time. Part of this is because Otis keeps us focused on the future and the joy of life. And part of this is because I now have a very different lifestyle to the one I had when all this happened, but that doesn’t take away the fact I now feel able to enjoy the life I had with my Mum rather than the last days.
And that is why, if she was here today, I would want to say this to her …
Mum, I love you.
I love you so much and I am so grateful for all you did for me and – in a weird way – continue to do for me.
I remember the days before your operation, we were talking about things that highlighted there may not be the outcome we all hoped would happen.
I tried to brush it off as I wanted us to stay positive but the fact I discovered how much organisation you had done in the weeks prior to your operation – in case the worst happened – showed this was something you had thought about a lot.
It breaks my heart you went through that.
I can’t imagine what it must have been like to sort through your papers incase something happened.
To put things aside for me to find.
To label things for me to be aware of.
To say a potential goodbye to the things you cared about.
And while I wish you didn’t feel you had to do it, I know it’s another demonstration of how much you loved me and it made a difference to how I dealt with those first few weeks of you passing.
But if you were around, there would be something else I’d want you to know.
One of the conversations we had was you saying how sorry you were for not having much to leave me.
I told you, you were wrong but now I can articulate that more clearly.
First of all, you left me a house.
Our house.
Our paid-for house.
That in itself is amazing and I’m so happy the family we chose to help in your name are enjoying it as much as we did.
But there’s more.
An incredible amount more.
You left me with a lifetime of wonderful memories.
Of love and support and values I live by.
You gave me recipes I feed my family with.
You gave me paintings [& some of your owls] that lets me always feel a connection between the life I had and the life I have.
You gave me the gift of playing a musical instrument by encouraging me to learn after thinking I showed ‘talent’ on the 2-string acoustic that was lying around the house.
You gave me the gift of growing up in a loving, caring, compassionate and supportive family that has become an amazing guide for how we want to bring Otis up.
[He’s an amazing little boy and calls you Nonna whenever he sees a photo of you or looks at the owl tattoo I had for you]
The reality is you gave me so much, but most of all, you gave me the best Mum I could ever wish for and for that I will be eternally grateful.
I’m so sorry you’re gone Mum but I’m so happy you were mine.
And always will be.
Hugs to you and Dad.
Love you.
Rx