Dad's Birthday

Today is Dad's birthday. He would have been 57. He died four weeks ago today.

It was a very sad day, as you would expect. My mum wanted to scatter Dad's ashes at a place he used to fish near the Firth of Clyde. She wanted to "put him somewhere he'd been happy" and somewhere near the sea. Fair enough. The fact that it was his birthday upon which we chose to undertake this task was, in all honesty, somewhat of a coincidence - more a matter of timing and opportunity than anything else (or perhaps it was fate). We scattered Dad's ashes early in the morning. Oddly for Scotland, it was a warm and sunny day.

My husband and I thereafter visited the Crematorium Garden of Remembrance later in the afternoon to leave two bunches of flowers and a birthday card I'd made for Dad. I hadn't visited the Garden of Remembrance before and I wasn't sure what to expect. I was initially unsure about leaving a card, thinking no-one else would do that kind of thing. My husband was not particularly encouraging either and I could understand his viewpoint. We weren't sure. I eventually decided I didn't care either way as I wanted to give Dad his birthday card and I had nowhere else to leave it. As it transpired, I needn't have worried - the Garden of Remembrance was full of flowers, teddy bears and cards. It was a very sad and moving experience, but I'm glad I've found somewhere I can visit Dad in future. There were lots of memorial plaques on the walls around the Garden of Remembrance and I'm going to arrange one for Dad within the next few weeks. We read some of the memorials and many referred to children or young adults who had died very prematurely. It is as though we have been thrust into a whole new world; a sad but realistic world where death does not spare the young. It is not that I am unfamiliar with death and illness, as we have had lots of "events" in my family, including my brother's leukaemia diagnosis when he was aged 2 and I was aged 8, the death of my grandparents and the recent death of two cousins (one aged 30 and one aged 34). Having said that, it is very difficult to envisage yourself in the position of losing someone so close to you; I now know that there is no way to comprehend what that is really like unless you actually experience it yourself - although that is not something I would wish for anyone. I miss my Dad every day, many times per day. I am scared I will eventually forgot small details about him, but thus far I have not. His memory is very firmly in my mind.

I wish my Dad had been here to celebrate his birthday. I appreciate he had said that he didn't want to celebrate this year, as his birthday was also the first anniversary of the death of my cousin (aged 34; his eldest sister's only daughter). Having said that, I'm sure we would have done something to celebrate even in a minor way and we always bought him a birthday cake each year and asked him to blow out the candles! It would have been nice for him to have had the choice, although that was not to be. I would never have guessed we'd be in this position. Nor would he. I am really struggling to believe that he didn't live to see his 57th birthday. I see people much older than him hobbling around and I wonder what my Dad did to deserve this... although I know it is not that simple.

I can't believe that my Dad won't have any more birthdays (except in our hearts and minds, as he will certainly live on in that regard). I am sad for my Dad. He had so much to see and do; he had retirement plans and those have been stolen from him. I feel he worked so hard all his days but got very little in return - and that causes me great pain. I am so sad for him.

Find Joy in the Little Things

I made a card for my aunt - my Dad's eldest sister - today. Her daughter/my cousin died on my Dad's birthday last year, so in a few days it will be the first anniversary of her death. She was only 34 when she died. My aunt now has to contend with her grief for my Dad on his birthday as well as her grief for her only daughter (and the four children my cousin left behind who now have no mother) on the same day. It is a terribly sad state of affairs; words do not really describe the situation with any degree of adequacy. On that basis, I have given up trying to put things into words. I made the card just to let her know that I am thinking of her and to tell her that I know that my Dad would have been thinking of her and my cousin on his birthday were he still alive. I know this because he and I had discussed it and he was not keen to celebrate his birthday this year. I hope my aunt likes the card and I hope it gives her a small degree of comfort to know that we are - of course - thinking of her.

I used my new Quickutz Revolution die-cutter (for the first time) to cut the scalloped edges. The rubber stamps used are part of a current "Stampin' Up" set sent to me by an American friend (as they are not currently available in the UK)... and I like them a lot!

The Sad Cafe

Thursday 15th March 2007. The second worst day of my life, secondary only to Saturday 3rd March 2007.

My Dad’s funeral took place today. I know this is a simple statement in some respects, although it has complex ramifications and it follows the devastating, sudden and unexpected death of my Dad on Saturday 3rd March 2007.

Let me begin by quoting a few lyrics from “The Sad Café” by the Eagles, the song we arranged to be played as my Dad's coffin was carried in to the crematorium:-

“Now I look at the years gone by,
And wonder at the powers that be.
I don’t know why fortune smiles on some
And lets the rest go free”.

“There’s no use in asking why,
It just turned out that way”.

The Eagles were my Dad's favourite band. They are my favourite band too and we'd been to see them twice over the last five years, once in 2006 and once in 2001. I think these lyrics sum things up reasonably well in the way that, perhaps, only song lyrics can do. There are no words which can properly summarise the situation.

There was no logical rhyme nor reason to my Dad's sudden death. Medically, it was caused by a subarachnoid haemorrhage as a result of a ruptured cerebral artery. My Dad was fit and healthy and he was only 56 years old. He was fitter than me, and I am only 34! He would have been 57 at the end of this month. He had everything to live for and he had not yet fully lived his life. He worked incredibly and ridiculously hard all his days and, hopefully, he was nearing retirement and a new period of his life when he would have been able to find some free time to enjoy himself. I am both sad and angry that those opportunities have been "stolen" from him. He was a very good, caring and kind family man and he genuinely deserved to have that which he has now lost. I am well aware that there are many other people who have lost such opportunities - some of whom will have died at a younger age (for example, two of my cousins who died at age 30 and 34 respectively) - and that saddens me too. The old adage applies, though - you never think it will happen to you or your family and you don't really expect it to land on your doorstep no matter how common it is. It's always something you read about or hear about from a distance and you dutifully comment on how tragic the event in question was.

My Dad was sitting at his PC when my brother left the house to go to the DVD rental shop around 5pm. He was dead upon my brother's return, less than an hour later. We think he had been dead for at least half an hour when my brother found him and we believe he probably died almost instantaneously and fell to the floor thereafter. There was no sign of a struggle and he had made no attempt to send an email nor pick up the 'phone which was beside the PC. My brother and the paramedics tried to revive him, but to no avail.

It is very difficult to comprehend what it feels like when something like this happens - unless, of course, you have experienced it or something similar yourself. It was just another day. An ordinary day. We had no warning - and nor did my Dad. We were sitting down to watch the skating programme on ITV when my mother 'phoned. I put the 'phone down and said something to my husband along the lines of "I need to get my shoes, my Dad's dead". Less than an hour later, we were sitting in a dirty room in a hospital being informed that my father had "passed away". Those were the words the young female doctor used. I looked at her as though she was mad. It was like something from a Monty Python sketch and it still feels completely surreal.

I am so sad that I will never see my father again except in my mind, photos and dreams - which is no substitute whatsoever. I am equally sad that I will never have the benefit of his sound advice and that, likewise, nor will I again experience the joy of his quick wit, intelligence and sense of humour (which was second to none). There is a huge hole in my life and it cannot be filled. I would not attempt to fill it, as there is no substitute. Most of all, though, none of these things matter. What really matters is my Dad; it is him that I am sad for - rather than for myself or my family - and I am completely defeated by the thought of what he lost so quickly and suddenly that first Saturday in March. He had so much to live for and we had all assumed that the next few years would be the happiest years of his life. We had no idea what was around the corner. Nor did he. We had holidays planned and things to look forward to. If I have any children, they will never know their grandfather and he will never have the joy of knowing them.

I know that there is no point in saying "if only". It serves no real purpose. If I were to say that, however, I would say "if only I could have told him what he meant to me". I hope he died knowing just how much he meant to me and to others. He deserved that - and so much more.