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.
So today it is a year.
A year where, for me, time stopped.
A year from the day that started with high hopes but ended with despair and loneliness.
A year where I saw the best of humanity and the worst of emotions. Again.
Today I will relive those fateful final hours with my beloved Mum over and over.
I will remember the beautiful hours we shared talking about life and love … how I watched her smile as she looked at a video of my son … how she wanted a hair dryer so she could wash her hair before her operation.
I will remember it all in a bid to delay remembering the final hours.
Where I was looking for answers that weren’t forthcoming.
Where concern and fears slowly crept up on me.
Where I slowly realised things were not going as planned.
How I finally got to sit next to my Mum after her operation and despite her being totally sedated, I told her how much I loved her and willed her to get better.
Before things took their final turn.
And I was sent to wait in a room while they “checked things”.
Where I waited nervously with my wonderful friends Paul and Shelly who came to be my side … before I saw a DR and Nurse approach the room.
Who asked me to follow them and took me into a room opposite.
I knew what was coming …
As they spoke, I realised I was trying to hide behind my clenched fist. Ridiculous I know … but I was scared about the words they were going to say, even though I knew they were inevitable.
That moment it all became real and everything changed.
And yet, I still remembered to thank the Doctor and Nurse for everything they did.
The things that happened that night will stay with me forever.
At my lowest point, I still remembered the manners my Mum taught me … that she would want me to convey and express.
As I walked the short distance to see her, I didn’t know what to do.
Only 30 minutes had passed since I last saw her and yet now everything was different.
She looked serene, but I knew she wasn’t sleeping.
I felt frozen inside.
I wanted to reach out … to hug her … and yet I felt scared to do it.
I know that sounds crazy, but that’s how I felt.
So instead I kissed her on the forehead and gently stroked her cheek before sitting next to her and cried and cried and cried.
I wanted to try and be dignified – Mum hated being the centre of attention – so I held her hand and told her how wonderful she was … how grateful I was to have her as my Mum … how I will ensure Otis will always know who she was and how much she loved him … how I would do all I could to honour her and make her proud … how I was so glad we were together and that we had shared such a wonderful time in the morning.
And yet all through of this, I couldn’t shake the feeling of wanting to run away from the reality while feeling petrified to leave.
The moment I said goodbye … the moment I realised it was time to leave … it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to face.
I kept walking away only to come back. Afraid to leave. Afraid to give what had happened, validation.
From then on, everything has been a blur of emotion, confusion and challenge.
The things I needed to organise.
The jealousy I felt of seeing others with their Mums.
The decisions I didn’t want to make but had to.
The discovery Mum had been working in the background to try and make things easier for me should this terrible event actually happen.
In some ways, that is the ultimate demonstration of love … and yet I don’t like she did it because it meant she was thinking about that possibility and I never wanted her to be scared.
Since then, things have calmed down.
Things have been decided … acted upon … dealt with.
There’s still the odd moment of surprise, from receiving a credit card with her name on to – very recently – realising one of Mum’s friends doesn’t know what has happened and I’ve needed to write to notify them, but overall, thanks to doing things in the way I believe she would have liked, I feel I am slowly walking away from the shock and sadness of what happened a year ago today towards the love and memories of the previous 44 years together.
I still wish she was here.
I still wish that day, 12 months ago, had turned out differently.
I still wish she could have met Otis, her beloved grandson, ‘in the flesh’.
Everyday, when he does something wonderful [and it is every day] I wish I could ring her and tell her what he’s done … what he’s learnt.
To hear her voice … see her smile … just listen to her happiness.
But I can’t.
Instead, I think of her.
And feel lucky she was my Mum.
I miss you Mum.
I hope you’re with Dad, holding hands and laughing.
Rx
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.
Today is a hard day for me because today would have been my beloved Mum’s 83rd birthday.
Instead, it’s the first birthday since she died earlier this year.
In the 8 months or so since she’s gone, I’ve had a bunch of ups and downs.
Without doubt, I feel I have been handling things better than when I lost my Dad but if I’m being honest, that’s only because I now have my wonderful son to keep me occupied.
The reason I know this, is that over these past 8 months, I’ve been hit randomly by tidal waves of grief.
Some of these were set off by things you’d expect.
Correspondence from Mum’s lawyers about her will.
Reading the posts I wrote at my hour of need.
Experiencing – like today – anniversaries where we were together.
But there’s been other moments that seemingly came out from the blue.
Hearing sad situations that my friends are going through … from family members to pets.
Watching programs that shows someone doing good for the less fortunate.
Seeing Otis do something new and then realising I can’t ring Mum to tell her the news.
As much as I feel I am handling the grieving process as well as can be expected, I know that I have packed a lot of it up and hidden it somewhere deep inside.
The thought of going back to England scares me.
Part of me desperately wants to visit, the other part is petrified.
I want to see Mum’s house.
We had it completely renovated so the young family we wanted to help, could move in to somewhere special.
And it is special.
It’s like a totally new house.
And that’s both good and bad.
At first, I didn’t want to have it renovated. I didn’t want anyone to move in. I wanted to hire a security guard and just have them protect the house.
My house. My family home. The place where my history resides.
But then I realised Mum wouldn’t want me to do that. Not just because we could help a family who needed it, but because it would otherwise trap me in grief.
And – as usual – she was right.
By renovating the house, I was allowing a new chapter to begin.
Not just for the house, but for me.
That doesn’t mean what lived there has gone – it’s just taken a back seat, living amongst the particles that fill the house with life and love.
It took me a while to realise how important it was to do this – not just for me, but for the family who are now living there – because to have them stay in a house that felt like it still belonged to me, would stop them making their own precious memories and that would be wrong.
By taking this step, we all win.
The young family who has can have a fresh start – physically and metaphorically – in a beautiful house, in a beautiful place.
My Mum, whose name I hopefully have honoured by doing all this.
And me, because I get to keep the home that will forever be a foundational part of my history.
This all makes me feel good.
But as much as I want to see it … honour it … I am also nervous to see it.
To see the change.
To experience the familiarity but also feel a sense of disconnection.
To be a stranger in a place that has always been my home and – in some ways – still is.
And then I remember only 8 months have passed.
EIGHT MONTHS.
In some ways it feels like years and then, when I think of it, it feels like minutes … so this confliction isn’t too unexpected. Or at least I hope it isn’t.
That said, there are 2 things that really bite.
The first, as I mentioned, is when I get correspondence from the lawyer.
Any day now, I am expecting confirmation all the legal matters have been finalised.
I’m dreading it.
It means it’s done. Over.
Of course I know memories will live on, but the thought that my Mum will – legally and publically – cease to exist, rips me apart.
Her journey from being in the present to the past, will be complete.
I know this sounds strange for someone who has been gone for 8 months, but it’s how I feel.
The other thing is feeling I’m now on my own.
Yes, I have my wonderful wife, son and friends … but there is a very weird feeling when you realise you are the only one left from your original family.
You feel alone. Unsettled. Vulnerable.
But I know I am lucky.
I had amazing parents. I have an amazing family and I am surrounded with people I love.
But I miss my Mum.
So very, very much.
I would love to tell her so many things.
Things I told her a million times before and things I never said.
So if you will forgive me this last moment of indulgence, I want to say this to my Mum.
Mum. I miss you.
I miss you in a million ways.
I miss your gentle voice … your beautiful face … your kindness … your thoughts … everything.
I think about you every day. Every single day.
I wish with all my heart things were different.
I wish everything had turned out as it was supposed to turn out.
But I take solace in the fact you didn’t suffer and you knew I was with you at the end.
I take solace that you knew Otis was here and that he filled you with so much joy in your final few months.
And I take solace that you knew how much I love you.
I won’t let any of the things you taught me to go to waste, but I must admit I probably will still wear Birkenstocks in unclimate weather.
Sorry.
Happy birthday my dearest Mum.
I hope you’re holding hands with Dad and laughing.
Rxxx
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