Dad was an adventurer, he pushed the boundaries in life, probably chasing the highs to keep the demon lows at bay, but he enjoyed few things more than travel. He visited countries that nowadays are strictly on the Foreign Office No-Go list; Afghanistan, Iran and others, less imminent Islamic State danger maybe, but still incredibly remote and distinctly un-touristy: Colombia, Greenland, Faroe Islands, St. Kilda. Even when he visited me in the States, he turned it into an epic travelogue journeying from New York to South Carolina on the overnight train and then heading off across the Deep South for mint juleps and Bourbon in New Orleans. Life was an adventure as he saw it.
His intrepid spirit has always been there, having us two children wasn't a barrier to adventure for him. We certainly didn't have the standard 2.4 children 2 weeks in Spain all-inclusive resort style holiday, although I really, really wished that at the time! While friends of mine might have been heading to France or Spain or further afield in the Summer holidays, one year, we packed up our tiny white H reg Nissan Micra and headed up North for a road trip to the Outer Hebrides...just me, Adam and Dad, I have no idea to this day how Mum got out of it.
I was 11 I think, or just 12, a pretty vulnerable time for a girl, right on the edge of being a teenager, to head off for a few weeks with just the boys of the family and no female sanctuary or empathy at hand if needed. I was very self-conscious and sensitive at that age, I remember well feeling awkward and shy about everything in front of Dad, the naivety of childhood was wearing off and I knew I was growing up but didn't want to show it.
Anyway, despite the memories being mainly from photographs now, over 20 years later, we had an unforgettable time, mainly because we survived to actually remember it because thanks to Dad's "intrepid" spirit, we very nearly came a cropper.
We were at our final destination (nearly literally) on the Outer Hebridean island of South Uist; a perfect idyll, its white sandy beaches stretching out westwards into the Atlantic with no land between them until America. Hardly anybody lives there, only a handful of houses and businesses exist alongside a lot of birds! This one day, we had left our 'hotel' the Polochar Inn and were traveling around sightseeing when we ventured out across the beach on what seemed like a beach but what actually turned out to be a sandbank.
Well, turns out Nissan Micras don't particularly like sand, beachy sand or sandbank sand and we soon became wedged, me, Adam, Dad and all our belongings, perched on a sandbank on the edge of a beach on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean. At first, we were full of bravado, Dad was full of bluff, beginning to try and dig the car out of the sand but one man (and two young kids) are no match for sand-logged cars and we were decidedly stuck! At this point, we didn't realise we were on a sandbank so to be stuck all day and just keep digging was OK we supposed and we would eventually get out.
I don't remember the exact perceptible moment of shift in panic but it must have arrived very shortly after Dad noticed that the tide was beginning to come in and that it was heading straight for us on what we now clearly reassessed as a fucking sandbank, not just the beach. I was old enough to quickly discern that a) no one was anywhere close to help us b) even if we three managed to retreat fast enough for the tide, the car and all our stuff was doomed to the sea and c) we were at least a few miles away from the road, could we even reach safety ourselves in time, especially with Adam only being about 8?
Panic built and built into hysteria, from all of us and there a lot of stressful shouting and crying. For me, I just couldn't believe I was stuck in this awful situation. Why was I stuck on a bloody sandbank, why had Dad got us into another ridiculous predicament, why did these things happen to us, why wasn't my family just NORMAL. Lots of whys. And resentment, as always.
It was all hands on deck, or rather, sandbank as we all dug away at the wheels. Dad decided to leave us digging to go and search for possibly some wood or planks, telling us to start heading for the road if the tide really got a move on. Incredibly, he did find some wood, driftwood I think that ultimately saved us, we dug it in under the wheels and managed to scramble the tin can up and out of its ditch, then we sped off to Terra Firma! We were all euphoric at first but looking back later, I think the enormity of the situation crept over Dad. It's all fun and games if it's just you, but looking after your two children as well, that's where responsibility curbs adventure. Retelling the tale to mum on the payphone that evening, I think she was extremely pleased when we all finally made it back home in one piece and I think it was our last trip away with Dad for a while.
Saturday, 26 September 2015
Monday, 21 September 2015
9th (month)
I, or we as a family, I'm sure, are hurtling towards the 'one year'; the one whole year since Dad died. It's only been 9 months since it happened but it feels like years, lifetimes ago, as if it didn't even happen in my lifetime.
Obviously we all know 'one year' anniversaries are difficult; you have to live through all the 'firsts' once before they begin to soften with time but I'm feeling it ramping up already, we are going headlong into Autumn and it brings with it now a non-stop catalogue of endings and firsts that I'm struggling to keep down.
Last weekend was one year since one of my favourite groups, Matrix, played at the Jug. It was an epic night and one of the last times we were all together as a foursome in the pub. That in itself is an emotional memory but it has added sadness now which is overwhelming. Next, we have the end of the Jug itself, then the last time I saw Dad in October before he left for his stay in Ireland (and from which, we know, he didn't return alive). Our last contact is too painful to think about; I was so dismissive of him, I was tired and stressed after a busy day at work and an Imogen to bundle out of my Mum's house and get home for tea. Me and Dad were never really demonstrative on occasions like this so I think I just said 'Bye, be safe and we'll see you when you come back'. So, so awful thinking back now. I can see it as clear as day and when I heard he had died, it just reinforced the feeling I had when he left that the last meeting we had was going to be our very last.
For me, the hardest part of the next few months will be the minute-by-minute reliving of December into January. Sadly, we won't have just one clear day to think about. In the months after he died, we were little detectives trying to piece together his final days, hours even and pin down when we think the accident actually happened; trawling through messages, voicemails, emails and bank statements to look for last signs of use. We will not only have the week he died but the day/evening we found out he died on the following Monday, being dragged out of bed by a knock on the door from my mum and brother, knowing even as I walked down the stairs to the door that he was dead, having to drive to my Grandma's house, drag her out of bed to tell her that her son was dead. No one wants to tell their Grandma that and it's all going to have to be relived all over again. Will it always be so acute, so painful? I guess certain anniversaries will be; the evening we found out will stay with me forever, as will the funeral, no matter how 'joyous' we made that occasion for him, a funeral's a funeral.
Although we as a family will be together in remembering these firsts and hopefully we can talk them through and ease the burden, we will each have separate days and memories that are harder than others. A problem shared though and it's no cliché that remembering the good times shifts the pain.
Was he ever really here though? All I have are memories and photographs, I cannot now imagine him here again, almost as if he would be out of place in our lives? His entire existence feels like a dream to me now, was he ever real, did I ever have a Dad, was he ever a physical presence or just an abstract being? The whole thing is so surreal. And so awful, still.
Obviously we all know 'one year' anniversaries are difficult; you have to live through all the 'firsts' once before they begin to soften with time but I'm feeling it ramping up already, we are going headlong into Autumn and it brings with it now a non-stop catalogue of endings and firsts that I'm struggling to keep down.
Last weekend was one year since one of my favourite groups, Matrix, played at the Jug. It was an epic night and one of the last times we were all together as a foursome in the pub. That in itself is an emotional memory but it has added sadness now which is overwhelming. Next, we have the end of the Jug itself, then the last time I saw Dad in October before he left for his stay in Ireland (and from which, we know, he didn't return alive). Our last contact is too painful to think about; I was so dismissive of him, I was tired and stressed after a busy day at work and an Imogen to bundle out of my Mum's house and get home for tea. Me and Dad were never really demonstrative on occasions like this so I think I just said 'Bye, be safe and we'll see you when you come back'. So, so awful thinking back now. I can see it as clear as day and when I heard he had died, it just reinforced the feeling I had when he left that the last meeting we had was going to be our very last.
For me, the hardest part of the next few months will be the minute-by-minute reliving of December into January. Sadly, we won't have just one clear day to think about. In the months after he died, we were little detectives trying to piece together his final days, hours even and pin down when we think the accident actually happened; trawling through messages, voicemails, emails and bank statements to look for last signs of use. We will not only have the week he died but the day/evening we found out he died on the following Monday, being dragged out of bed by a knock on the door from my mum and brother, knowing even as I walked down the stairs to the door that he was dead, having to drive to my Grandma's house, drag her out of bed to tell her that her son was dead. No one wants to tell their Grandma that and it's all going to have to be relived all over again. Will it always be so acute, so painful? I guess certain anniversaries will be; the evening we found out will stay with me forever, as will the funeral, no matter how 'joyous' we made that occasion for him, a funeral's a funeral.
Although we as a family will be together in remembering these firsts and hopefully we can talk them through and ease the burden, we will each have separate days and memories that are harder than others. A problem shared though and it's no cliché that remembering the good times shifts the pain.
Was he ever really here though? All I have are memories and photographs, I cannot now imagine him here again, almost as if he would be out of place in our lives? His entire existence feels like a dream to me now, was he ever real, did I ever have a Dad, was he ever a physical presence or just an abstract being? The whole thing is so surreal. And so awful, still.
Monday, 1 June 2015
6
It was my 6th birthday, I think. I don't remember having a party, but I know I had a birthday as there's a picture of me in standard issue 1980s sailor dress, sage-green, with a number 6 badge pinned to the lapel. I don't remember if I had a party or not as the only memory I have belongs to my Dad.
As clear in my mind as if it was last weekend, we spent the day, it was a Sunday, cruising round Stoke-on-Trent looking for doctors/pharmacies/clinics/ANYTHING that was open so he could get some relief for an affliction that will remain unmentionable but that could be easily relived with a cream. The mood in the car was tense, as usual; when Dad was wound up, we were all a bit wound up and Mum was torn between being furious for my birthday being ruined and anxious to get him the relief he clearly needed.
I say 'clearly needed' because you wouldn't ruin your daughter's 6th birthday unless it was totally necessary, would you? Unless you absolutely COULD NOT wait until the Monday, you wouldn't take the family on a scenic tour of open all hours medical establishments, would you?
I could feel the guilt creeping back from my Mum from the front seat, I can still cringe a little bit today just to think of the scenario; how did she even sell it to me? To my brother, only a toddler at the time? Why did we all have to go trooping off? What happened afterwards, when we got home? These peripheral memories have long gone, but the memory of the car ride will be forever indelible.
It wasn't that I was unhappy, I remember being happy, I think. This was, of course, our normal, to be honest, it probably didn't even feel that weird at the time, it is only perspective and hindsight which draws the shadow over the event. For me, at 6, I was properly oblivious to any other life; my Mum, my Dad, their relationship, OUR relationship was all totally normal to me. Clearly, this scenario was not normal, any one of my little friends at my beautiful, expensive prep school would not have recognised this as normal, even then, but for me, yeah it was annoying but we just got on with it. In fact, this version of 'normal' remained that way for the next 19 years.
As clear in my mind as if it was last weekend, we spent the day, it was a Sunday, cruising round Stoke-on-Trent looking for doctors/pharmacies/clinics/ANYTHING that was open so he could get some relief for an affliction that will remain unmentionable but that could be easily relived with a cream. The mood in the car was tense, as usual; when Dad was wound up, we were all a bit wound up and Mum was torn between being furious for my birthday being ruined and anxious to get him the relief he clearly needed.
I say 'clearly needed' because you wouldn't ruin your daughter's 6th birthday unless it was totally necessary, would you? Unless you absolutely COULD NOT wait until the Monday, you wouldn't take the family on a scenic tour of open all hours medical establishments, would you?
I could feel the guilt creeping back from my Mum from the front seat, I can still cringe a little bit today just to think of the scenario; how did she even sell it to me? To my brother, only a toddler at the time? Why did we all have to go trooping off? What happened afterwards, when we got home? These peripheral memories have long gone, but the memory of the car ride will be forever indelible.
It wasn't that I was unhappy, I remember being happy, I think. This was, of course, our normal, to be honest, it probably didn't even feel that weird at the time, it is only perspective and hindsight which draws the shadow over the event. For me, at 6, I was properly oblivious to any other life; my Mum, my Dad, their relationship, OUR relationship was all totally normal to me. Clearly, this scenario was not normal, any one of my little friends at my beautiful, expensive prep school would not have recognised this as normal, even then, but for me, yeah it was annoying but we just got on with it. In fact, this version of 'normal' remained that way for the next 19 years.
Sunday, 3 May 2015
#1
Alcoholics, like cats, have got 9 lives. Like cats, alcoholics have no fear of physical repercussions, only of themselves, their minds; jump out of a tree? Drink 3 litres of vodka in a night? No problem, bring it on! If we die, so be it, if we survive, we live to see another day. Only, as we know, those 9 lives always, always run out eventually.
It's been nearly five months since Dad died, we think, but do not yet know for sure, from a tragic alcohol related accident and every day at some point, for a split second I think "Ah Dad, he'll be back from Ireland soon" and then, immediately after that thought, like a punch in the face, "oh yeah, he fell, he died, he's not coming back".
The immediate trauma and shock of what happened back in December may be beginning to fade but that now leaves behind a numbness and disbelief which is equally hard to fathom.
Grief is such a weird thing; it's like a dark, shadowy figure; 9 out of 10 times you go about your life quite normally and happily and then the tenth time, it jumps out of the shadows and grabs you, it invades your day and your mind, leaving you anxious, sad, despairing of the future. Then it disappears again, back to its dingy hole and your life carries on. But you know it's there, you know it will reappear again.
Apparently, writing things down and talking about things is cathartic and God knows, I need the catharsis. I have so much I need to get down, to record, to relay about my Dad, his life, our relationship, the ups, the downs; my journal of a fundamental relationship between father and daughter. Would he like what I want to write? Not always. Will everyone else like what I share? Probably not.
Well they can write their own story because this is mine.
It's been nearly five months since Dad died, we think, but do not yet know for sure, from a tragic alcohol related accident and every day at some point, for a split second I think "Ah Dad, he'll be back from Ireland soon" and then, immediately after that thought, like a punch in the face, "oh yeah, he fell, he died, he's not coming back".
The immediate trauma and shock of what happened back in December may be beginning to fade but that now leaves behind a numbness and disbelief which is equally hard to fathom.
Grief is such a weird thing; it's like a dark, shadowy figure; 9 out of 10 times you go about your life quite normally and happily and then the tenth time, it jumps out of the shadows and grabs you, it invades your day and your mind, leaving you anxious, sad, despairing of the future. Then it disappears again, back to its dingy hole and your life carries on. But you know it's there, you know it will reappear again.
Apparently, writing things down and talking about things is cathartic and God knows, I need the catharsis. I have so much I need to get down, to record, to relay about my Dad, his life, our relationship, the ups, the downs; my journal of a fundamental relationship between father and daughter. Would he like what I want to write? Not always. Will everyone else like what I share? Probably not.
Well they can write their own story because this is mine.
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