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
Filed under: Anniversary, Attitude & Aptitude, Charinee, Comment, Dad, Daddyhood, Death, Empathy, Experience, Family, Fatherhood, Health, Jill, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad
So this is the last post of this year.
Yes, I know it’s only the 11th December, but frankly, I can’t wait to see the back of 2015 and I need to spend a few weeks letting out all the angst of the past 12 months so I can start 2016 as I mean to go on.
It’s no exaggeration to say this has been one of the worst years of my life.
Of course, the main reason for that is my wonderful mum passed away.
Having a parent die is always going to be tough … but when that parent is so full of life and – after her operation – expected to blossom, it makes it especially hard.
Alas, things didn’t work out the way they were supposed to and the events of that day on March 9th, still haunt me.
The high hopes.
The precious time together.
The slow, almost torturous, delay in being told any news.
The creeping fear of what may be happening.
The battle between hope and devastation.
The realisation of tragedy.
The hell of loss.
That 5 weeks in England seems like another time. Involving other people.
Recently, I was sent a new credit card from my bank in Australia.
When I opened the envelope, there were 2 cards.
One with my name on it. One with my Mum’s.
I’d forgotten I had given her a supplementary card. Not that she ever used it – getting her to take anything from me was always a struggle – but there it was, with her name embossed on the front.
It affected me deeply.
It was something precious and sad all at the same time.
Despite having organised so many things following her death … things that honoured her legacy, respected her beliefs and gave me a sense of peace for the future … I still feel I haven’t truly grieved.
I need to. I want to. But I’m also scared to.
It took me 10 years to come to terms with my Dad’s loss.
He – nor my Mum – would not want me to experience that duration of pain again, but I feel haunted by her loss … reinforced by the numerous beautiful things my son does that I wish she could see, experience and share. But the fact is she died this year and it casts a dark shadow on how I will look at 2015 for the rest of my life.
But there is a but.
Despite living each day carrying a burden of loss and sadness, there have been moments of sunshine pushing through the clouds.
I find it amazing how the human spirit can still move forwards when you feel everything around you is collapsing.
At first, I almost felt guilty when there were things that I found filled me with joy – as if I was dishonouring my Mum – but I knew in my heart of hearts, it would be something she would want for me.
Despite the utter tragic reasons for it, one of the things I treasure from this year is that I got to spend 5 uninterrupted weeks with my wife and son and my best friend and his wife.
To have that period of time to spend with the most important people in your life is always a gift … to have it at your greatest time of need is almost divine intervention.
To be together – just hanging out – sharing, talking and being an active part of each others lives was something I will always treasure.
By having it … by feeling connected to it … it highlighted how much I miss that interaction. Don’t get me wrong, I utterly love my life and the fact I have lived around the World … but being able to just drive over to my best friends house with my family and just hang was something I feel I’ve not had for 20 years. I felt I belonged. That I was home. That I had come full circle.
And maybe that is why another of my favourite things from 2015 is when Shelly, Paul’s utterly awesome wife – and Otis’ “oddmother” [because we are not religious] – came to visit us in Shanghai.
She was only with us for 2 days, but being together reinforced how much I love her and Paul being close.
It’s brought up a lot of questions for me, things I don’t have the answers to yet … but I feel so lucky that they are in my life.
Talking of ‘in my life’ … another thing my Mum’s passing did was reconnect me to her family.
We were always a relatively ‘independent group’ … my Mum, Dad and me.
That doesn’t mean we had issues with the broader family, just we loved our independence.
But Mum’s passing brought them all into my life again, especially her Italian family … and reconnecting created a connection we have all embraced and nurtured and it feels good.
I cannot tell you how happy I am that Mum’s beloved sister, Silvana, got to hold Otis.
If my Mum tragically didn’t get to do it, I’m so, so glad her sister did.
And then there’s the other stuff that made sure there was a silver lining in a dark year …
Seeing members of my team reach new stages in their life and career … getting one of my colleagues to have a perm … somehow being recognised for being OK at what I do [not to mention, what I don’t do] … finally passing my teacher exams AFTER FIVE BLOODY YEARS … being given a level of support and compassion that reminded me just how special Wieden truly is … meeting old friends, travelling, laughing, feeling loved and cared for by people that stretched much further than I knew or deserved.
And that includes everyone of you who reads or even insults me on this blog.
But there’s 3 people that made sure this year had moments of happiness in them that transcend everyone and everything else.
Without taking anything away from all the people who helped ensure this year was not be as black as it could – or should – have been, those 3 protected, loved and cared for me during every bump in the road.
The big ones and the small.
From the worst moments of my Mum passing … to the hell of the legalities that death forces you to deal with … to the sadness of other situations occurring involving people I care about.
OK, so Rosie did it by being annoying.
Regardless how down I was feeling or sorry for myself, she would miaow as if she was the only one having a hard time.
And while I would never want to tell her this, her selfishness was kind-of lovely. It forced me out of my darkness to sort her out. It gave my brain an excuse to focus on something else.
The other person is my wonderful wife, Jill.
I have no idea – no idea at all – what I have done to deserve her, but I am so glad I managed to convince her I was worth having.
Her compassion, care and love got me through moments where I wonder how I’d cope without her. That may sound dramatic, but it’s true.
She makes me a better person. She makes the darkest days brighter and I can never thank her enough or show my love to her enough for what she means to me.
Thanks Jilly, you’re perfect.
And the last person is of course Otis.
12 months ago today, this little bundle of perfect came into the World.
Yes, my son is a year old.
Today.
A year old. Today.
That is bloody amazing.
[When you’re older Otis, click here for a birthday message]
A year ago, I literally had no idea what to expect … I was a mixture of nerves, fears and anticipation.
Nothing – absolutely nothing – could have prepared me [or should I say, would make me believe] for the joy this little boy has brought into my life.
Watching him grow has been one of the most beautiful and wonderful things I have ever experienced.
He has done far more for me than I have done for him.
He has made me feel a sense of pride and happiness I didn’t know existed.
Literally didn’t know.
He has shown me that the wonderful woman I married, is even more wonderful than I imagined.
He has made Rosie – that selfish, self-centred, pampered moggy – start to be a little bit gracious.
Sure, it’s only to him, but that’s a start.
He gave my Mum an energy and happiness that literally radiated out from her.
She sadly may never have got to meet him in the flesh, but he ensured the last 3 months of her life were filled with joy and pride.
For that alone, I can never thank him enough, but he did even more than that.
At my greatest time of need, he ensured I didn’t fall.
From giving me the most infectious smiles imaginable to the most delightfully inappropriate behaviour at the most inappropriately appropriate times … he made sure I always had hope and love to cling on to.
He has been a revelation.
I am so proud and honoured to be his Dad and I hope I can repay him for everything he has done for me in his first 12 months of life.
[Let’s face it, I probably can and will … especially if he starts developing the same tech tendencies as his old man]
OK … that has been a super long post.
Few – if any – will have probably read all of it, but this was done more for me than any of you, so I don’t care.
All that leaves me to do is say this.
To my beloved son, Otis … happy, happy birthday.
You are perfect in every single way.
Literally, every single way.
I am a better man for having you in my life.
Thank you my darling son, I love you so, so much.
To everyone else … every single one of you who was gracious and kind enough to care and be part of my year this year … I wish you a Happy, Happy Christmas.
Whether you gave me hugs, laughter or just a well-timed message, your actions meant more to me than you could ever imagine and I wish I could see you all in person so I could return the gesture.
I’m so grateful for all you did for me and I wish each and every one of you, nothing but happiness and the hope that 2016 is a stellar year in your life.
We all deserve it and I need it.
Have fun and make sure you tell everyone who needs to know, that you love them.
See you January.
Eden by DH Lawrence [with a slight tweak by Robert]
I have found a place of loneliness,
Lovelier than Lyonesse,
Lovelier than Paradise
Full of a sweet stillness,
Which no day can distress,
Never a noise transgress
The full moon sank in state;
I heard her stand and wait,
For her watchers to shut the gate
Then I knew myself in a wonderland,
All of darkness, and falling sand
Of hours hard to understand
Always waiting, again I knew
The presence of the flowers that grew,
Noiseless, their wonder noiseless blew:
And flashing kingfishers that flew,
In soundless beauty – and the few
Shadows the passing wild-beast threw;
Eve discovered on the ground,
Soft-given, strange, and never a sound,
To break the embrace that we had found
The perfect consummation,
The final, paradisal One,
Recovered now the world was gone
_________________________________________________________________________
My Mum would hate being here today.
Not just because of what it represents, but because she hated being the centre of attention.
But I always wanted to put my Mum in the spotlight because I have always thought she was an amazing, inspiring and special woman.
Since Mum passed away, I have literally been inundated with messages from all sorts of people who knew her … old friends, old colleagues – even her dentist – and all of them described her using the same words:
“Gentle. Generous. Kind. Thoughtful. Compassionate. Independent. A true lady.”
They are wonderful words.
They are words that describe a beautiful character … but if I was to tell her that, she would give me a sweet smile before changing the subject.
You see my Mum was an incredibly humble woman who didn’t think she was doing anything special. In fact, if you asked her what she was proud of, I would imagine she would say a maximum of 3 things.
1. Me.
2. Her attitude to life.
3. Her teeth.
But the fact is, everything she did was special.
Everything.
Not just in terms of her talent – of which some of you may be surprised to learn included being a wonderful painter and writer – but in terms of her generosity.
There’s a reason why many of my friends are here today – and it’s not just because she always loved it when they filled the house with noise and laughter – it’s because she always was warm, open and kind to them.
But in matters relating to me, my Mum’s generosity knew no bounds.
From a personal perspective, I can tell you that I never wanted for love.
I never wanted for support.
I never wanted for encouragement.
She gave me so much including teaching me what total, unconditional love really meant.
For example, when Dad fell ill, she was adamant I should continue with my plans of moving to Australia.
Of course part of her didn’t want me to go, and I felt the same, but she – and Dad – wanted me to live a life of discovery and fulfilment and they knew if I didn’t go at that moment, I may never leave which is why I hope the life I now lead repays their faith and love … though they may be more impressed by the fact I am wearing a suit, tie and shoes … which is something I didn’t even manage at my own wedding.
But my Mum is no longer here.
This was not how it was supposed to be.
My Mum was going to go into hospital, get her heart fixed and enjoy a new lease on life.
But it didn’t work out that way.
It is important you all know mum knew there was a risk.
And as risky as heart surgery is, she knew it was not as risky as not having the operation.
Mum embraced life.
She loved walking, learning, travling, exploring – we had gone everywhere from China to the North Pole together – but her illness had curtailed most of the things she loved which is why any chance of changing her situation was a chance worth taking.
And while the level of risk was relatively low – 10% – the reality is my Mum had rhumatic fever when she was a child and that is an illness that slowly – but continuously – attacks the heart.
While most people with that condition still have a successful surgery, my Mum sadly had a complication that only 5 people out of 8000 have had and that resulted in this terrible thing happening to her.
If there is anything to feel thankful for, it is that she didn’t suffer at all and knew I was with her.
And while I am eternally grateful that we got to spend so much time together in the last 5 months – including spending New Year together – and I’d do anything to have her back with me … I cannot tell you how grateful I am for that ending and I know she would feel the same way too.
While there is so much more I could say about her, I feel I need to say some things to the people in the church.
To her family, especially Silvana, Chris & Selene.
My Mum loved you so much. We were even talking about her maybe moving back to Italy as she loved the idea of being closer to you all. She would be so happy and honoured that you are here today.
To her friends, especially June.
Thank you for always being there. I know my mum was stubbornly independent but she always was greatful for the friendship and support you gave her over the years. To be honest, I don’t think she realised how many people thought so highly of her … but that’s because she didn’t realise how special she was.
To my friends, especially Paul and Shelly.
I can’t thank you enough for everything you did for my Mum and for me. We both appreciated it more than you could ever know. I don’t know if I will ever be able to repay your kindness and compassion but I will continue to try.
To my wife Jill.
My Mum loved you. She was so happy we were together, so happy I’d found you, so happy I had managed to convince such a beautiful, kind and thoughtful person to be my wife.
To her grandson Otis.
I know you won’t understand what I’m saying or will remember these words … but you need to know that while my Mum didn’t get to hold you in her arms – something she desperately wanted to do – she held you in her heart and I’m so greatful that you made her last 3 months so full of happiness.
You are a gift to all of us and I totally understand why she told your other Grandma that she rejoiced in your birth.
And finally to my Dad.
I know we are not a religious family, but I have to say I hope Mum is with you, especially as tomorrow would be your 51st wedding anniversary and you deserve to be together again.
And so I come to the end of my dedication and all I will say is this.
Thank you Mum. Thank you for everything.
The kindness, the support, the care and most of all the love.
You were a very special person and I miss you more than I will ever be able to express.
The world is a better place for having had you in it, even if it is now a sadder place now you’re gone.
You were – and are – a very special person.
I love you and always will.
Arrivederci mamma, molti baci.
_________________________________________________________________________
Do Not Stand At My Grave and Weep by Mary Elizabeth Frye
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
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