A long pause and a long life
You may have noticed the very long pause since I last wrote a blog post. When I went to write this one I found that I had saved a photograph of a peeled orange with some intention to write about my dad at the time. He used to challenge himself to peel his clementine in one piece and I photographed the results a few times to share with my daughter. He got such satisfaction on the days when he succeeded!
I was caring for my dad, who was as astute as ever but living in a failing body at ninety-five. Then he died the day before his ninety-sixth birthday. How extraordinary that he lived exactly five times as long as his oldest grandson. I wrote in a previous blog post about my feelings around him and my son and suffice to say, as an addendum to that post, I never did ask him that question but now it seems unnecessary. He loved me and as much as he was able, he loved my children.
The winds of change
So I have now lost both my parents and I am officially an orphan. My mum died just five years after my son and I was affected but remember really noticing how gentle the breeze of grief was that I experienced following her death in comparison with the tsunami following my son’s death. Thirteen years later my dad died then and I was more affected this time. Perhaps a brisk south-westerly this time. But nothing in comparison.
I found myself feeling deep pangs of regret over missed opportunities and omissions on my part and it was hard for a number of months to think some of the thoughts that occurred to me. As I went through all the things in their house I found myself upset over a plastic and wire device in the kitchen drawer, that mum used to slice hard boiled eggs. I found it hard to throw it away. I realised that this was a much milder version of the deep pain that I can still experience when I come across something of my son’s.
The imbroglio of feelings and pain
It wasn’t easy losing my parents but it was totally manageable. Perhaps the hardest thing was the way that the pain of losing my boy came relentlessly and painfully to sit on the surface again in a way that it hadn’t done for a long time. All my feelings about so many things all swirling around together. I was one step away from undertakers and coffins when my mum died as my dad organised her funeral. But with my dad I wanted to do those things for him and it knocked me sideways rather and took me suddenly close to that devastating territory from all those years ago. Choosing a coffin and deciding what he should wear in it for my son was surreal and I am not sure I so much chose as fell into a decision but this was just one in a series of searingly painful things I had to deal with.
A legend in his own lifetime
I knew exactly what I wanted for my dad - British racing green. He was fanatical about cars and used to race them as a younger man. We played the theme from the grand prix, The Chain, at his funeral (loudly) and it felt as if he was going off for his final drive in his coffin.
The last brand new car he bought had a V6 engine. He was in his early 80s when he went out for a drive and opened up the throttle for a bit on the motorway. He was pulled over by the police for driving at over 100mph. He had to go to court and there was an obligatory ban because of the speed.
He sat in the court and was asked if he had anything to say for himself. He spoke clearly and steadily, his tone of voice belying his years “The conditions were good, the road was clear….and I was tempted.”
He was banned for just one week. The minimum the magistrate could allow.
I remember Sam telling his grandad that he was a legend in his own lifetime. He was. I really miss him and I really miss my mum—it’s almost as if I have a totally different relationship with them both now and its great—I appreciate so many things about both of them. And they both loved Sam—of course they did—they just had no idea at all how to connect with me about him for all those years after he died.
So I miss them very much but nothing, nothing at all, compares with the way I miss my beautiful boy.