Oh Mum.
5 years.
It was the worst day of my life.
The hope. The love. The nervousness. The concern. The fear. The confusion. The horror. The prayers. The goodbye.
A lifetime of emotions run over the space of 12 hours.
I remember every minute. Literally.
And while I try not to think about it, I will. I will go back to that place so that I can feel close to the last time I was next to you.
Holding your hand.
Whispering words of love and hope.
Telling you how I would ensure Otis would know you and that I would always honour you when the tragic events of the day played its final act.
Oh how I still wish it ended on a positive.
Everything was set up for that … we had plans, big and exciting ones … but no, a rare condition put paid to that.
I still feel there was some weird circle of life stuff going on – from the conversations we had in our last 6 months together to the fact Otis was born 3 months before your operation [so I’m extra grateful that the doctor agreed to delay the operation to ensure both things didn’t happen at the same time] to the tragic reality that you died in the hospital where I was born.
And while that all fills me with sadness – even now – it also let’s me feel things were done to completion. Where the things we needed to say or show were done right. Where I could say goodbye to you in a way where I have no regrets.
Of course I am sad that we have not been able to share and talk about the adventures of the last 5 years. The moves. The madness. The wonderfulness of your beloved grandson … but given Dad’s situation changed so quickly, leaving us in paralysis and so many things frozen in time, it is a ray of light in an abyss of sadness.
That said, I miss you.
I miss you so much.
I would give anything to have one more chat … one more hug … one more kiss.
I always felt it, but now you’re gone I’m even more thankful you were my mum.
Honoured even.
Everything I am is because of something you – and dad – did for me.
The support and encouragement.
The lessons and the ideals.
The patience and forgiveness.
You were the one that taught me the importance of caring. You were the one who taught me to be open with my feelings and emotions. You were the one who created the foundation for me to build myself upon.
Believing in me in ways – and at times – that seemed madness.
Offering your gentle confidence.
A quiet shelter.
The time, space and attention for me to grow, explore and share.
Nourishing and nurturing me.
I cannot put into words all I am grateful to you for, other than to say my life is filled with memories either created with you, designed by you or encouraged by you and that is the greatest gift anyone could ever receive.
I miss you.
Give dad a kiss while you’re holding hands.
Rx
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
Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Dad, Death, Empathy, Insight, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad
I recently read a letter in the Guardian from someone wishing to thank the DR who helped them come to terms that their precious family member was going to die.
Before I go on, it would be worth reading it here.
I must admit it made a big impact on me, mainly because I went through it myself.
My father had been ill for a number of years – and on 2 previous occasions, 3 months apart – I had rushed back from Australia because I’d been told he was expected to only have 24 hours to live.
However, as I’ve written many times before, I still thought we would see a miracle and I thought that right up until the last few days of his life.
Dad had become ill again over Christmas and I had flown back from Sydney.
He was in a bad state … apart from complications from his stroke, he had blood poisoning.
He was ill. Worse than I had ever seen him.
And I remember this next moment with terrifying clarity.
Mum and I were by Dad’s side when a Doctor came to see him in the early afternoon.
Afterwards, he looked at Mum and me and gently told us that there was not much he could do but make him comfortable.
He asked if that is what we wanted.
I said yes, tears welling in my eyes.
He then asked if I – and it was specifically me – understood what that meant.
For the first time in years, I could no longer deny the inevitable, my Father was going to die and he was going to die soon.
I didn’t want that. I wanted him to be with me forever. But this was the moment of truth … where what I wanted was not nearly as important as what he needed and the best way I could show how much I loved him was to allow him to go, with dignity and peace.
As I nodded to the doctor, the tears started pouring down my cheeks because after years of my wonderful mum trying to gently coax me into realising the severity of his situation, I finally realised it.
I think we had a couple more days together until that Saturday, on January 16th 1999, when we were called into the hospital early in the morning.
I am incredibly grateful we were with him … that he knew we were by his side as he slowly walked the bridge between life and death … but as much as that day represents unbelievable sadness to me, I will always be grateful to that Doctor.
He was empathetic without being condescending.
He was factual without being cold.
He was present, without being overbearing.
His actions not only ensured we could give my Dad the peace he needed … the peace he deserved … he gave my Mum and me a chance to say the final words we wanted to say. The words that still bring tears to my eyes 17 years later.
I wish I could remember the name of that Doctor.
I remember he was quite young … but if I was to see him again, I’d say thank you.
Because while he wanted to ensure we knew the reality of the situation, he did it with respect and grace and while I may have once thought those truths were the last things you’d want to hear, you realise they are the best demonstration of someone who appreciates humanity.
Thank you Doctor.
Tomorrow is the 17th anniversary of my Dad passing away.
It’s also the 1st anniversary of my Mum & Dad both being gone.
I suspect this will mean the day will have a different effect on me from previous years.
I’ve written previously how it took me 10 years to come to terms with my Dad passing.
And how an event on the 10th anniversary, changed everything for me.
But tomorrow will be different.
I don’t know if that will be in a good or bad way, but it will be different.
It’s strange, but my year is now split into 2 halves.
The half when my parents passed away [the first 6 months] and the half when my parents had their birthdays. [the second 6 months]
That isn’t meant to sound as depressing as it does, it’s just how I now work out where I am in any given year.
Of course there are many other ‘pointers’ … happy, positive, pointers … but that doesn’t take away the sense of utter loss I feel not being able to see or talk to my beloved, wonderful parents. Especially on these days of significance.
But they would not want me to feel depressed, even though it is a sign of how much they mean/meant to me.
Well, maybe my Dad would – but only because he could be a cheeky chap.
So to acknowledge tomorrow – the first time my parents will be together on the anniversary of my Dad’s death – I want to tell a little story of my Dad.
My Dad was a wonderful man, but he had ‘his ways’.
He was the slowest eater in the history of the universe.
He would literally cut his peas in half before eating them. PEAS!
He was also in possession of the most twisted ‘dessert’ creations ever known to man.
Some were tasty, but the fact is, he combined flavours that just sounded wrong together.
He was a kind, generous, intelligent man but there were definitely some ‘quirks’ to him that meant we occasionally clashed.
But despite that, I never wanted for love and support. He made sure I knew how much I meant to him and I will never forget the level of care, compassion and encouragement he – and Mum – gave me.
One day sums it up more than most.
Actually, there’s lots of ‘one days’, I could talk about, but I want to tell you about the time I crashed his car.
So I was 17 and my Dad had a Toyota Celica.
He was very generous in lending me his car, probably more generous than I deserved … though there was the time he rang Paul’s house at 11pm demanding I brought the car back immediately, which was made even more embarrassing by the fact Paul and I had a couple of ‘female friends’ with us, which meant we had to get them a taxi home rather than driving them back ourselves.
Anyway, one day he lent me his car and I drove down to Central Avenue … which was West Bridgford’s ‘high street’.
I can’t remember the reason why, but I do remember looking to my left at something before the terrible sound of crushing metal hit my ears. Yep, I’d hit another car.
Badly.
Of course it was my fault, but what made it worse was the whole community seemed to come out and started shouting at me as if I’d just tried to murder the person in the other car.
Fortunately no one was hurt and even though I was in a daze, I was able to ‘swap details’ with the other driver before the slow drive home.
Dad’s car was in bad shape.
The whole front side was smashed in … which says more about the standard of Toyota’s manufacturing in the 80’s than my driving, as I wasn’t going very fast.
I was badly shaken.
Apart from the fact it was my first crash, it was in my Dad’s car.
I had ruined my Dad’s bloody car.
I slowly drove home and as I pulled into the drive, I could see my Dad was in the front room with a client.
I got out the car, went into the house and knocked on his door.
He obviously hadn’t seen the damage as he called me in to say hello and to meet his client.
I burst into tears. Massive, uncontrollable sobs.
He immediately got up to hug me and asked, “What’s wrong?”.
I told him.
“I’ve had a crash. I’ve smashed your car. I’m so sorry”.
He asked me if I was alright and how it happened, then said we should go see the car.
It was bad. Really bad.
And do you know what he said?
He said I should get back in it and go to Asda to buy some milk.
Instead of being angry, he was concerned that the smash would stop me from wanting to drive ever again.
He wanted me to ‘get back on the horse’ as quickly as possible so I would realise an accident doesn’t mean a disaster.
I still can’t believe his generosity and compassion.
Sure he was upset but he didn’t lose his temper, didn’t tell me I was an idiot [even though I was] … he just focused on ensuring I was OK both at that exact moment and for the future.
Sure, when things had calmed down we talked about what happened and what I had learnt from the experience, but even then, it wasn’t about ‘telling me off’ or limiting my use of the car … it was about ensuring I didn’t do it again because he loved me and didn’t want me to ever get hurt or feel that terrible again.
That was how special he was as a father.
How wonderful he was as a human.
I hope I can be half as considerate to Otis when he does something like that to me.
Dad … I hope you’re holding hands with Mum and laughing.
I love you.
I miss you.
Rx