A Lucid Dream about my Dad

Me with my Dad, November 2011

I began this blog on the death of my Dad in 2012. I can't believe we are coming up to 5 years since he died. 

Last night I dreamed that I went to Dad's house to pick him up for Sunday lunch. I went upstairs to find him, and he was lying in bed with the newspaper over his face, he had fallen asleep reading it. I was worried for a second that he might have died, but when I picked up the paper it woke him up, he was fine. 

He was moaning about having to get ready to go out, and as I was making his bed I was saying, 'Dad, I don't know why you're making such a big deal, you're so much better than you were in the nursing home....' As I said it, I suddenly realised he had been in the nursing home because he was dying, and he had died, and so this must be a dream. I turned around and sat on the bed, and Dad said, 'what's up?' because I was crying. 

'I've realised this is a dream, and I don't want to wake up, I want to stay here with you.' I got up and hugged him and he put up with it (he didn't really do hugs). Sort of patted me on the back and said, 'you soft sod, you know you've got to go to work.' 

I tried to hold onto him, but I woke up. 

I've not let myself think about it all day, but now I'm home from work I keep thinking about it, because I want to remember how it felt, and how lovely it was - it was so real. But it means I can't stop crying. I feel like I've lost him all over again.

Deja Viewing

I think I've mentioned before how there's something about Timothy West that reminds me of my Dad. I watch him on his barge programmes, and on Eastenders, because sometimes (more often on the barge than on Eastenders) he'll do a 'Dad' look, or a smile, and it is sort of comforting. In the same way as stalking old men around Tesco's if they remind me of Dad is, but without the potential for freaking out innocent elderly men. 

Unsurprisingly, it was a bit of a shock to find out that Stan Carter, Timothy West's character in Eastenders, had prostate cancer (the cancer Dad died of). That was nothing to Tuesday's episode though. 'Old'Stan was a curmudgeonly character, not like my Dad at all. Of course, in true soap style, he has mellowed, and we have seen a more sensitive and vulnerable side to him of late. Then after all that softening up, what happens? He only suddenly goes off his legs, doesn't he? The exact same thing as happened to my Dad. It was horrific to watch, I went through all the emotions of that night again. Same cause as well - metastases in the spine. 

Now I get to watch my pseudo-Dad die in exactly the same way as my real Dad did. Not so much deja vue as deja view. 

At least if it gets too much I can change channel this time. Real life is a single channel you don't get to turn off.

The Mystery Vice

Yes folks, I really am talking about THAT sort of vice, rather than one of my many others.

Today I had to go into Dad's garage to do a meter reading. As I've mentioned before, the garage is a place that is immediately redolent of Dad, so it was the first time I've been in there for ages. As I took the meter reading, I noticed his overalls still hanging next to the meter, and I stood and looked at them. Then I thought to myself, 'I'll just take a little look at his tins' - the individual tins of nails, nuts etc that he kept on his workbench - a massive workbench that's the size of the one above, with a huge vice attached to it.

I turned around and SHOCK! The workbench was gone! Not there! I wandered over to the window (it was under the window), but STILL it didn't appear. And the vice was gone too. There was a smaller table still there, but no vice, no tins, no little cabinet with many drawers. All gone.

I went into Mum and said, 'what's happened to Dad's workbench?'

'Eh?'

'Dad's workbench, the one with the vice. It's gone.'

'Oh. I dunno.'

And then we went off to the shops. I wasn't too worried at this point. My sister Mandy had sold Dad's car when she was over here last, and I sort of assumed she must have taken the workbench or moved it somewhere.

But no. When I told her, she was horrified, as her husband had wanted the workbench and vice, and she had wanted all the tins and the cabinet.

'Was the radio there?'

I knew which one she meant. 'No. The 1970s one was, but I'm pretty sure the 1950s one wasn't. Ionly noticed the one radio was there because THE SHELVES WERE EMPTY!' I'd only just realised - the shelves were EMPTY. They were usually crowded.

Now this may all sound like we were getting het up about nothing much, but the thing is, this is like losing part of our childhood. The rags Dad would use to clean our hands of paint were kept draped on the cabinet. His toolbox included stuff that belonged to GRANDAD even. All this stuff is stuff we've handled as kids, things that physically connect us to him and his dad.

There was only one explanation. Either Mum had given everything to the rag and bone man or some other nefarious transient (so that they would think what a nice woman she was), or it had all been stolen.

So Mandy phoned Mum's friends (a couple who take her out), and then phoned her next door neighbour. Nobody knew anything about it. But since the neighour knew nothing, the rag and bone man was an unlikely option - it's one of those roads full of curtain-twitchers (well-meaning curtain-twitchers, to be fair) where everyone sees what goes on!

The mystery remained, even though the garage contents were largely gone.

BUT THEN.....

Mandy phoned me back. The friends had just phoned her. They'd gone over to Mum's to see, and THE WORKBENCH ETC WAS THERE!!!! Not only that, but the vice, the tins, the little cabinet, everything was there perfectly as normal.

The husband said he thought I'd maybe been confused, because the car wasn't in the garage so it looked empty. But excuse me, the only way you can get into the garage properly is when the car is out of the garage! I've spent my life in the garage without the car in it!

Plus, you know how it is when something isn't where you think it should be. You sort of stand there looking and staring, as if it will by magic reappear. Plus, if it HAD been there, I'd have just messed with the tins and then gone out again.

So what on EARTH is going on!!!!!

ANY possible explanations gratefully received.....

Death is Another Country

My conscious mind is only too aware that my Dad is dead. Yet my unconscious hasn't caught up. In my dreams, my father is still there: still ridiculing lads in low-slung jeans whilst his own trousers are falling down cos 'I don't like anything tight around my stomach', still going to look at really obscure things in shops to see how much of a crowd he could attract, still tatting around the house stopping it from falling apart. In my dreams, I never have those moments where I think, 'oh, here's Dad, so it must be a dream'. It always feels perfectly normal, just like the dreams I had before he died.

Yet every day I am reminded he isn't here. I come downstairs and there he is on my mantelpiece, and there is his cushion on my chair. Every day there isn't even one phone call from him. He used to call most days, and once he was home after breaking his hip he would phone AT LEAST once a day, and usually more. He somehow ended up with three zimmer frames, and they have now been donated to where I work. One still has a hospital wristband attached to it with his name on, and I can't bring myself to take it off. Yesterday I referred to it as the 'Harry Field Memorial Frame', and it's what it always will be in my mind. Then when I go over to Mum's, it is like a little shrine to him - but at the same time the house screams the lack of his physical presence - because it is almost just as he left it.

In some ways, he will never be truly gone. I still have to consciously think to remember to say, "going to Mum's" cos I always used to say "going to Dad's". When I phone her, the phone number is listed as 'Dad'. The drawer where all the bills and other important stuff is kept is still 'Dad's drawer', there's still 'Dad's chair', and his bedroom is still his.

Dad's drawer is a weekly ordeal - every week there's something I either need out of there or have to put in there. It breaks my heart to see his spidery writing on envelopes when I go looking for tax returns and stuff, all filed and labelled. Then there are the little booby traps in there - his FC Barcelona keyring that he got when we were there in the 70s, the signet ring he used to wear, medals for golf, soccer, bowling.

If I wanted, I could go into his wardrobe, where all his clothes still are. The shelves hold his aftershaves, so opening the door it even smells like him.

I can cope with all of this - from the empty seat where he should be sitting, to the Dad-Smelling Wardrobe. But there is one place I will not enter. The garage. I had to go in there before he died, and even then I couldn't stop crying, just knowing he was never going to go in there, never going to touch all his perfectly ordered stuff ever again. Everything has its own place, from his little tins of nails, nuts, bolts etc on his workbench to the tools hanging on pegs or stored on shelves. Worst of all is the smell. Some combination of slight damp, oil, paraffin, metal, all the different things he stores in there. It's the smell of my childhood - of waiting for him to oil the chain on my bike, or to clean my hands with his thinners rag, or of helping to pack away the 'bloody nuisance dahlias every damn year'. It's the smell of where we would find Dad when he was at home - messing about under the car, or working on something at the vice. It's not something I can face, and I don't know if it ever will be.

So whilst I know very well that he is dead, some part of me hasn't fully taken it on board. The only explanation I can come up with is the same reason I have for sometimes forgetting even now that my brother is dead. In my family, we are quite used to not seeing eachother - my brother lived in Minehead, my sisters live in Buckinghamshire and Germany. I was used to not seeing my brother from one Christmas to the next, so it's no wonder I sometimes forget he is dead for a second. I think there's a part of me that thinks Dad's just another family member who's moved away for a while. That one day he'll visit, or I'll go and visit him.

Maybe that part of me is right. I hope so.

Circus Boy 11 - In Which I Text Him

So still in a happy little bubble, that Saturday I went off for a pub lunch with the girls and their kids. And my ex-husband and his family (including my son). We all get on well.

So well, in fact, that Heather and I were still sitting there drinking when the evening drinkers arrived - including P_ and her family, who hadn't been able to come to lunch because they were geocaching or orienteering or trekking to Alaska or something equally healthy and energetic. They certainly deserved their drinks. I'm not sure I deserved the ones I continued to consume.

I don't actually remember getting home that night. What I do remember is waking up on the sofa in the early hours of the morning, and SHAMEFULLY deciding that since Circus Boy was always going on about how I never text him or call him, now would be the PERFECT time to make him happy by texting him.

Sometimes I look back on the days when we didn't have mobile phones with nostalgia and fondness. This is one of those times. In the 80s, we had to use pagers to make complete drunken arses of ourselves, and that took an amount of dedication that was not usually possible when half-bladdered, half-hungover.

Then I went to bed, waiting for a reply, but, goodness knows how, I fell asleep whilst waiting.

Fast-forward to Sunday morning. I get up in time to listen to The Archers (one mustn't let a hangover get in the way of an Ambridge catch-up), and am suddenly overcome with utter FURY. That BARSTARD hasn't bothered to text back! Now, believe me, I am fully aware of all the reasons why this fury is irrational. I'd doubtless texted after he was in bed. He wouldn't yet be up. I'd not particularly texted anything that needed an urgent reply. But this is all way after the fact, when neither you nor I are in the grip of a frenzied anger.

Better people than me would have let it go anyway, and LUCKY THEM, for they now wouldn't feel wracked with guilt at their behaviour. Not me. I fired off not one, but several utterly arsey texts, about how DARE he say I never text him, because what was the point when he wasn't going to text me back, and he is a complete LOSER anyway, and I don't even LIKE him.

Then my phone rang. It was him. For like one second I was a bit apprehensive, but lucky old me, the fury took over again and I picked up. 'WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?'

The rest of the phone call went pretty much along those lines. Give Circus Boy his due, he was way nicer than I deserved, didn't get angry at me, seemed genuinely puzzled about what was going on (as well he might be!), and was trying to placate me. Even though I told him he was unable to follow through on ANYTHING, right down to not even getting his hair cut when he said he was going to. Even when I told him I wasn't emotionally unavailable, but that he was a gameplayer and I was sick of it. Even when I told him I never, EVER wanted to see his sorry face again. EVER. And then he came out with the most mortifying line perhaps ever spoken to me.

'I think maybe you were right. Maybe I shouldn't have slept with you the other night. You seem to have.... changed.'

Wind. Out. Of. Sails.

'Sorry,' I said, in a wee small voice. 'I think maybe you are right.' And in my head I could see visions of all those shags that we could have had flying away on little angel wings. 'You must hate me, I have behaved really badly, it's YOU who must never want to see ME again, I've gone completely loopy haven't I?'

'Yes. But that's ok. I do really like you, and I do want to see you again... But when you've calmed down a bit maybe....'

Well, yes. So we said goodbye and I slid under my crocheted hangover blanket and waited for the sofa to eat me.

My son got home later on and I told him what had happened. He was horrified. 'It's ALL YOUR FAULT!!!' And it was.

Which makes the aftermath even odder.

An the Monday morning, I woke up feeling a bit odd. When I went to get out of bed, I couldn't feel my left leg properly, it sort of wasn't under my control. Ditto with my arm. I realised this when I tried to touch my face, because as I looked in the mirror, I could see the left side of my face was swollen - but not as swollen as it felt.

I could hardly make it down the stairs - had to go two feet to one step. Opening the living room door really hurt and it was like I was trying to remote control my arm very poorly.

In my head I was terrified I'd had a stroke, but I had to get Son off to school, and I was even considering going in to work - but realised there was no way. I phoned in sick and got a GP appointment, thinking she would just reassure me and then I'd get off to work. But she didn't - she referred me up to the hospital, and even offered an ambulance to take me there! Well, no way - I got a taxi, and two nurses from the Stroke Unit were waiting for me. They examined me and told me I would probably need to be admitted overnight. for various tests and scans. Now, I was scared, but not THAT scared.

'But I CAN'T! I've got a son, and my Dad is dying and my Mum has dementia, and I don't have time for this, there's no-one else to take mum visiting him, and he could die at any time, and I need to be there and...' I was crying by this time, and one of the doctors was watching from the desk. A short time after this he came over.

He said I could choose to stay and have all the tests if I wanted, or - and he wasn't against this at all, because my obs were fine and I wasn't in pain, didn't have a headache or any other signs of brain compression - I could just go. There are some funny things that happen, he said, neurological illnesses that seem to come out of nowhere and act a bit oddly and, like my migraines, can happen at times of stress - and it sounded as though I was under stress. I nodded, I definitely was under stress, and so I was only too happy to go home. He said to rest and to try not to worry, because he had never in his career heard someone who had had a stroke begging to be allowed to go home, because normally they felt really rough, so he was 99 per cent sure I was fine. But to come back if I got worse at all.

So off I went. In my head, I had translated what he said as meaning I'd had a weird sort of migraine. I didn't actually feel any better, but I didn't feel worse either, so when I got home I just lazed about on the sofa feeling a bit cruddy.

Shortly after Son got back from school, someone knocked at the door. I got off the sofa, all swollen face, cried off make-up and greasy hair in a ponytail (because I hadn't felt like washing it when I thought I'd had a stroke). It was Circus Boy, standing a short way away from the door, with his friend from The Night When I Sided With His Mother.

'I thought I'd come and see if you'd calmed down,' he said, trying and failing to not show how nearly he had yelled out, 'WHAT THE HELL HAS HAPPENED TO YOUR FACE!'

'Is that why you have moral support, ' I said, gesturing to his mate.

'Well, I wasn't sure what mood you'd be in.'

They came inside and stayed for a couple of hours chatting, and Son was VERY excited to see Circus Boy, because he really likes him. And Circus Boy was quite keen to show off his new haircut. To which the only response could be for me to apologise yet again. Because it doesn't matter how much a person says you are forgiven if you can't forgive yourself. Then off they went 'to look for beer'.

Circus Boy was DJing on the next Saturday, and he was wanting me to go and see him - now as it happens, a couple of girls from work were going out with their friends that Saturday in that town, so I said I'd probably go if they were up for meeting there. So when he left on the Monday night, the plan was we would probably meet up on the Saturday.

Five hours after Circus Boy left, my Dad died and all plans were off.

And I know he is young, and I know he meant well, but when he rang about the Saturday and I explained, I wasn't impressed when he said, 'come out anyway, celebrate your Dad's life.' This was only four days after his death, I wasn't finished grieving the loss of him.

Now by all rights this should have completely been the end of it, and it was nearly the last I've heard of Circus Boy, but there is one more incident that has had me laughing whenever I think of it, that perfectly sums up all there is to know about Circus Boy, all in one simple telephone conversation.

But it deserves a post all of its own... ;-)

Circus Boy 10 - Just a Bootie Call

Now IIRC I didn't hear from Circus Boy for about a month, and I pretty much had put it down to experience and forgotten about it - even more so because at this time my Dad got very, very ill. We are talking moribund here. My Naughty Little Sister Mandy came over form Germany because we thought he was going to cark it at any second and she wanted him to see his new grandchild before he died. My older sister phoned to see if she had to come up the weekend Mandy was here, and was told by the MacMillan nurses in no uncertain terms that not only should she come, but if there were any family members who wanted to see Dad before he died, they should come ASAP.

The old bugger lasted another month!

Then out of the blue one Thursday - it's usually a Thursday, I must be his Thursday Girl - Circus Boy phoned and asked me if I wanted to go for a drink to the open-mic night. Except it was 10.30pm, the open mic would have surely been closing and I had a son but no babysitter. So I said no. He then wanted to come around, but since I felt a teensy bit annoyed at his 'no contact for a month but now you just drop everything for me' attitude, I said no, I was tired and going to bed. But I wasn't horrible, and we chatted a bit. then the second he was off the phone I stuck on facebook about how I had just had a booty call, cos I have no doubt that's what it was.

That Sunday I went to bed exceptionally early, even for me. I put my phone on 'very quiet' when I go bed - I still can't sleep without it next to me cos I still have a bit of Steve-stalking fear - so that if I am awake I'll hear the little 'beep' it makes, but if I am sleeping there's no way it would wake me. So I was drifting off and I have to admit I did hear the 'beep', but I was too drifty to attend to it, and fell off to sleep.

I woke up to find I had FOUR missed calls from Circus Boy, but no message left, and no text to explain. Now I actually felt a little bit guilty, because I had heard the one beep, and maybe he was stranded somewhere and in trouble and.... well, do you see how my rescuer mentality gets me into trouble?

So I texted saying sorry I hadn't replied, and was he ok, cos seeing all the missed calls had got me worried. Then I went off to work. Kept checking my phone to see if he had replied, but nothing, not a sausage. Got home from work and about 6pm he texted, but said NOTHING about the night before, just asked if I was ok or some such (can't remember, but can remember he said bugger all). I texted back saying all the calls meant I'd been worried and I hoped this meant he'd escaped the mad axe murderer. (I'm not being nuts here am I? Four missed calls would generally mean there was something a bit urgent going on, wouldn't it? And one would generally feel obliged to explain one's importunity in such a case, wouldn't one? <Prince Charles mode now off>) He then texted back a set of instructions on how to dodge axe murderers. This was not a reply and even M_ from work, who is notoriously romantic (so much so that she even held out hope for Steve to come good), was unimpressed.

Fast forward almost week of hearing nothing from him again. Once again it is Thursday night, and once again my phone rings. But it is only about 8pm, and this time Circus Boy is phoning to see if he can come over after open-mic night. So I said yes.

This may be a good point to catch you up with my bed situation. You will recall that Circus Boy and I managed to break my bed. I decided that the repair with tape really wasn't a keeper, and so I'd ordered another bed - a metal one. It was self-assembly, but I am Queen of the Flatpack, so no problem, and I had it up within a couple of hours. Now experience made me query the strength of its construction, as I could see that the central joint was the main load-bearer, and it was held together by one small screw (I'd need a diagram to fully explain this, but take my word for it). So I wrapped loads of sellotape around the joint as a precaution (I was out of electrical and gaffa tape by this time).

About a week later I had a drunken and ill-advised cop-off with a negligible bloke who turned out to be married. Not that he ever admitted it, but I am convinced it is true. Mad thing was, I was trying to be grown up and sensible, and I decided that because he was 40-odd he fitted the bill. How wrong could I be? But still, one drunken grope and fumble and a bit of bouncing too far on that bed, and the whole bloody thing collapsed underneath us! So, in a matter of six weeks I had managed to break not one but TWO beds. Oh how proud I was!

But I know my rights, and so I got in touch with the sales company and quoted the Sale of Goods Act which states that products should be fit for purpose, and since beds were used for sex as well as sleep, they most definitely should not fall apart during the act, however vigorous. Gotta say, metalbedsworld.co.uk were great, the girl who phoned me went through a good few bed suggestions with me that I could choose from. I said that if they sent someone to take my bed down and put the new bed up, then I would pay the difference in price (cos it was about £200 for the one I chose), but otherwise I wanted the new bed completely for free to compensate for my time and inconvenience. She said that was perfectly reasonable, and so that is what happened - I put up the new bed (much more sturdy) and I got a much better bed than the original - YAY!

At the time of putting up this bed, I had sort of thought what a shame that I would never have the chance to test it with Circus Boy, but by this time I was pretty sure this wasn't going to happen, and it was the furthest thing from my mind when he came over that Thursday.

So when he got here we were immediately into the chat and catching up on what we were up to, and then Circus Boy said, 'I don't know why we don't see eachother very much because I really like you.'

'Well maybe we don't see much of eachother because you blow hot and cold - one minute you are all over me and the next you ignore me, and I don't know where I stand.'

And do you know what he said? What he had the CHEEK to say? He said, 'I don't think that's me - I think that's you. You are the hot and cold one - I actually think you are what they call Emotionally Unavailable.'

'You what!' I was laughing with surprise, because emotionally unavailable is a phrase used on Baggage Reclaim, so here he was, accusing me of being what HE is, and he was able to do that because of stuff he'd read on a website I had recommended to him, to help him in his personal relationships! I was well miffed.

I pointed out that he was the one who hadn't contacted me for a month.

'Well, you could have rung me,' he said.

'That's not the way it works, and you know it,' I said, and his little-boy-caught-out grin told me I was right, he DID know it.

And then the killer blow from him - 'you unfriended me on Facebook!'

'I EXPLAINED THAT!! And I told you to send me a friend request if you wanted to, and you didn't!'

'Well it still upset me. I thought we were friends....'

So after a bit of discussion, we decided that yes, we could be friends, and I actually felt a bit relieved that now I knew where I stood, and I wouldn't be worrying about what he thought of me, and he could relax cos he wouldn't think I was wanting anything more, and I felt fine with that.

After loads more chatting and laughing, it was really late, about 1am. I was going to Birmingham the next day after hydrotherapy, for an consultant orthopaedic appointment with one of the residents. This was a big deal for various reasons and so I wanted to get a good sleep for it, which I told Circus Boy. 'So I'll have to chuck you out now.'

'Can't I stay here?'

Well, I suppose it was a bit late to be wandering the streets without a unicycle, so I said ok. Bbut where would he sleep? 'I can bring you down the spare quilt and pillows, but you're quite tall, so you might want to take the cushions off the sofa and sleep on them on the floor.'

'I'd rather sleep with you'

'I don't generally sleep with my mates.'

But he gave me one of his puppy-dog looks and so I thought, oh, ok, it's not very comfy down here. 'But NO FUNNY BUSINESS!'

I thought he was completely disregarding this instruction when he got into bed naked. I knew for sure he was disregarding it when he started groping me. With his penis.

'Look, I told you, we're just mates now, this isn;t going to happen.'

'But why not? Why can't we be mates who sleep together?'

'Because that's just messy, I don't do messy...'

This conversation continued along much the same lines but with more and more added snogging for about an hour. And then I suddenly thought to myself, 'hang on, here is a 24 year old that I fancy the arse off, begging me to have sex with him. And I WANT to have sex with him. So why the hell am I saying no?'

And that is the closest I have come to playing hard to get with him. Pathetic aren't I? :-(

But at least the bed got a damn good testing.

I was late to hydro the next morning, but I decided the way to go was to brazen it out.

'Sorry I'm late, I have no excuse aside from being an utter slut who's had no sleep cos I've spent the whole night shagging a boy.'

Luckily only M_ had got there before me, and she just wanted an excuse to believe that me and Circus Boy were destined to be together, and here it was. So we had a nice morning chatting about what had happened and how and all the gory details.

Cos by this time I was fulfilling my own 'messy' prophecy. That morning he'd had a bad back, so I'd done a bit of naked fixing it (that isn't a euphemism, I quite literally did naked physio). And then on my way to work I'd dropped him outside his house cos it was chucking it down with rain, and he'd sat chatting for ages (whilst I held up half the town due to inconsiderate abandoning of the car rather than proper parking - but I'd thought he'd just jump out). Then as he went into his driveway he turned to blow me a kiss as I drove past. It's that sort of thing that makes me sort of fall a bit in love with a person. But that is the old me, so while my heart was still being an idiot like it has for the whole of my life, my head was telling me this was another 'hot' and that could only mean that 'cold' was on the way.

'I promised I'd add him on facebook'

'So have you?' asked M_

'Have I heck as like. If he really did want me to be his fb friend, he'd send a request himself.'

Then that evening he confounded all expectations. He texted to find out how the orthopaedic appointment had gone. It was the last thing I expected, really thoughtful.

So maybe things were changing, maybe he was ditching the hot and cold?

We will never know, because I was about to screw things up between us BIG TIME.....

Picking up the Pieces

A little pause in the Circus Boy saga, cos we are near the end by now (although he is always popping up, so who knows). I wanted to talk about some recent changes in my life.

The last year has been lost really. Ever since the first Sunday in December last year when Dad collapsed and was taken to hospital with pneumonia, I haven't really had time to do anything except live day to day. My life has been a mess - my house and my work have reflected that pretty much.

It's the little things that get you. I avoid certain rooms at my Mum's cos she leaves piles of his clothes around, as though they still need ironing. Last weekend I went to the shops and had it in my mind to get some pop, then in the aisle I saw it - Schweppes lemonade. I picked it up and put it in my basket, and it was all I could do to not cry right there and then, but I have a well developed stiff upper lip, and I know how to use it. You see, Dad was fussy about his lemonade - he would only drink the cloudy sort, or Schweppes. It took me unawares, seeing that bottle, and reminded me that I was never going to have to buy it for Dad ever, ever again.

Went home and cried and didn't stop for two days.

But otherwise, over the last few weekends I've been getting my life back together. The house is now clean and tidy except for the spare room (which contains all the crap I've moved from the other rooms). I've started to sort out my work. I've started taking my asthma meds properly, and taking my vitamin tablets again. And strangest of all I have stopped drinking.

I've always liked a drink at the weekends. Even if I wasn't going out, I'd have some wine. Then I got a tummy bug, and I've not wanted it since. 4 weekends of no booze - weird. I currently don't see the point in drinking unless I'm socialising, so for now I'm not going to do it.

But the biggest change? The biggest change is a move forwards, not back. My older brother's death 6 years ago was the first time it came home to me that I wasn't immortal, that life was short and not to be wasted. So I got divorced. This time, partly through talking with Circus Boy that festival weekend, I've realised that my Dad lived his life for other people - for his parents, for my mum, for us kids, for his bosses. That's not a completely bad thing, if the people you put first are doing the same for you, and if you aren't losing yourself and your dreams completely. I think Dad did lose out on lots of his dreams. What's worse - I've realised I have no dreams. When me and my husband (my son's dad) split up, I hadn't thought any further than 'being free'. I had no plan of what to do with that freedom. I still don't, but that's going to change, because having no dream to lose saw me in a worse prison (domestic violence) than marriage ever was. I'm now free of Steve, and there's no reason I can't do anything I want - I just have to find something to want :-)

Clean house and clean me. The Invasion of the Bodysnatchers would appear to have begun.

Except it hasn't - this is me, and I am BACK

Eulogy

Dad's funeral was last Friday. To say I'd been stressed about it really doesn't do justice to how bad it was. For starters, my Mum was convinced I was ripping her off and that funerals really don't cost thousands of pounds, and so she wouldn't sign the cheque to pay for it. Problem solved when Mandy (Naughty Little Sister) got here from Germany - Mum always does what Mandy tells her. Problem reared its head again when the Funeral Director phoned to ask where payment was as it was in the terms and conditions that the deposit (two-thirds the cost) be paid three days before the funeral. This was three days before, and Mandy's car had broken down, plus Mum was being recalcitrant because she'd been out of the house once that day already :-(

So the only option was to pay on my credit card and hope Mum would pay me back. then there was all the worry of how the service would go, as I'd organised everything from the date and place to the order of service, the flowers and the music - there was no other way as my sisters live too far away. I discussed most of it with Mandy, but I still felt responsible - and worst of all I was worried no-one would turn up. You see, the telephone book my Mum had next to the phone had none of Dad's friends' phone numbers in it. Or any of his relatives - and we haven't seen Dad's side of the family for ages really. I knew lots of Dad's friends were dead (he used to joke that 'I spend so much of my time on Bushbury Crematorium, there'll be no bugger left to see me off'), but there was definitely Big Cyril to contact and he was nowhere to be found.

Once again, Mandy saved the day, putting notices in the local paper and somehow finding Big Cyril's phone number. Then, would you believe it, when she phoned up, Cyril had only ALREADY PHONED MY MOTHER to apologise for not being able to attend the funeral due to ill health!!?? And she'd seen me looking around the house like a headless chicken a million times looking for his number! She may be senile, but she doesn't half play on it when she feels like it!

Then there are the things you aren't prepared for. For me the big shock was choosing the clothes for Dad to wear in the coffin. We'd decided on 'comfies', but picking them out and seeing his things, smelling his smell, it was heartbreaking. And the photos for the party afterwards - all those pictures of him from a child up to a grandfather - all that life, and experience and emotions; all the specialness of the person that he was, all come to nothing, all now just a shell in a coffin.

So after this, strangely, the day wasn't too bad at all. My sister and I both spoke, and it was a ceremony full of laughter as well as tears - at the things we said and the exit music - 'Theme from The Great Escape' (it was the last bit of music I listened to with him). Some of his old work colleagues came, his niece came, and we had a really good party afterwards too.

This is what I said - not sure how I got through it, cos I cried uncontrollably every practice when I got to the last few paragraphs -but I did, and I'm really glad I did.

Five Things My Dad Taught Me

1. Take good care of yourself and your things

Dad was a great believer in doing things properly so that they would last. He’s one of the few people I know who actually reads instructions and follows them He was never much of a reader, but he had manuals for his car, for DIY, and for healthcare, and if anything went wrong, he’d look up how to fix it in one of his books.

When we were little, Mandy and me used to think it was really funny when Aunty Mary would come and visit at Christmas, and without fail she would ask Dad, ‘have you still got all your own teeth, Harry?’ We didn’t realise how unusual it was at the time for someone his age to have kept them and Dad kept all his right into his late 70s. He went to the dentist every six months, and always made sure we did too, and I can confirm that partly thanks to Dad’s good example, both Mandy and I still have all our own teeth. I’m not sure about Susan tho....

Mandy’s talked about how Dad was a great one for DIY and repairing things, but what was odd was that for a man so meticulous about doing things properly, he had a blind spot, and that blind spot was his belief that anything could be repaired with gaffa tape. It didn’t really matter that by 1979 our Christmas tree was more gaffa tape than tinsel, or that the mat in the kitchen still doesn’t move because even though the gaffa tape is long gone, the sticky remains. What really kept us on our toes were Dad’s gaffa taped electrical appliances. There was the electric razor that delivered little shocks as you shaved your legs. Then there was the death-trap light-fitting that shocked you if you tried to change the bulb. And of course the incredible exploding iron that made doing the laundry that little bit more exciting. It’s lucky Bill and Matt were good with electrics, otherwise Dad may not have lived to the ripe old age he did.

2. If you don’t know the answer, ask the internet

In later years Dad discovered the internet. That’s not to say he was into technology, because he couldn’t even turn on a computer, but he knew that whatever he wanted to know, the internet could tell him, and he could contact it via his daughters. So Dad was always phoning us up saying things like, ‘my insurance is due, can you ask the internet what’s the cheapest buildings and contents? Or ‘can you ask the internet is Val Doonican dead?’ Sometimes he did expect a bit much, and questions like, ‘can you ask the internet what’s wrong with my mouth?’ or 'can the internet do anything about tax?' did make me wonder if he thought we were communing with some sort of oracle.

3. Children should be seen and not heard

Dad used to say this a lot, but it must have been more of an aspiration, because he really wasn’t that strict with us and we could be quite boisterous. He especially didn’t like our game of ‘give us a cuddle Dad’, where both of us would climb all over him while he tried to fend us off. In the end, if it all got too much he’d have to resort to asking Mum to ‘tell ‘em, Beryl’. 

We did drive him to distraction sometimes, and one time at a particularly noisy Sunday lunch he shouted out, ‘less eating, more talking!’ Which was obviously the opposite of what he wanted to say, but it’s been a regular saying at the dinner table ever since.

4. Nothing is too embarrassing

Nothing ever fazed Dad and things that would be embarrassing to other people were the source of a good story for him. Quite soon after Mandy married her first husband, she fell downstairs and thought she might have broken her ankle, so she phoned Dad to take her to the hospital. He dropped her at the entrance and went to park the car. By the time he got back to A and E, Mandy had disappeared, so Dad went to reception and said he was looking for his daughter. 

‘Name?’ asked the receptionist. ‘Mandy... Amanda, ‘said Dad.

‘Surname?’

Well, she was only just married. ‘Hmmm, I don’t know,’ said Dad.

‘No problem, date of birth?’

‘No, don’t know that one either.’ By this time Dad had noticed he was getting a funny look from her. ‘Well I’ve got four of them, I can’t be expected to remember all their birthdays!’

The receptionist wasn't very hopeful by now. ‘Address?’

‘Hmm, now... I don’t know the name of the road, but it’s near the corner, just opposite where the butcher’s used to be....’

Well somehow she tracked Mandy down, and called Dad back to the desk.

‘Follow that green line around to the left.... No. (sympathising voice) You just wait here love and I’ll get someone to take you.’

And my ex-husband will never forget being left alone with Dad for the first time. He came running into the kitchen in shock and said, ‘your Dad has just taken his trousers down and shown me his hernia scar!’. Back in the living room Dad was a bit puzzled. ‘So, this Anil? He’s not a doctor then?’

5. Your dad is the one person you can always rely on

As well as always rising to the special occasion and being the life and soul of the party, Dad was also the person you would turn to in a crisis. If you needed rescuing, Dad would be there. If you were in trouble, if you needed someone to talk to the Police, or take you to hospital, Dad would be the person to call.

But it wasn’t just the dramatic things. All our lives Dad drove us around wherever we wanted to go – music practices, nightclubs, lifts home whether you lived in Birmingham or Cardiff, he’d take you there. He’d do little things that we didn’t really think about at the time too – if you had paint on your hands he’d clean it off with his special rag and thinners. And if you trod in dog poo, you’d leave your shoes outside the back door and next day they would be clean, like magic.

It’s only since he hasn’t been around at home that the amount of work he used to do has become really obvious. It was Dad who kept the house in order and the garden tidy, and for someone of his age it must have been a full time job.

Most of all, Dad was the person who always knew what to do. We didn't need to ask the internet because if you had car trouble, he could give you a rough idea of what was wrong. He could tell you all the steps to wallpapering properly. If you wanted to know how to unblock a toilet or apply for a passport, Dad would tell you. He wasn’t someone for talking about emotions, but if you were worried or upset he’d say, ‘it’ll turn out right in the end.’ And you would know that if it went wrong he would be there to help, so it was reassuring. My first thought when I realised Dad was dying was that without him I had no idea what to do – and I no longer had anyone to ask.

Dad would have loved to have been a professional footballer, and if the situation had been different, he might well have been - he played for his school team and for Wolverhampton boys, and was proud that he was often mentioned in the Express and Star. He always said you could tell a really good player by watching what he does off the ball. Well Dad lived his life like he played his football – he wasn’t just a star when all eyes were on him, he always worked hard, even off the ball.

We are all going to miss him very much.

Night night,  Dad.

Tightrope Walking Without a Net

My Dad died on Monday night. His care home phoned to tell me at about 11.30 - I knew though, even before I picked up the phone. It's the call I've been expecting for about six weeks (my Dad is WAS such a strong man; despite being riddled with cancer, only skin and bone and living on pineapple juice alone, he hung on for six weeks longer than the MacMillan nurses predicted). I hated that every time the phone would ring, my heart would beat hard and fast, and I would wonder if this was it. At the same time, of course, I dreaded the day the ring didn't terrify me, because it would mean he was dead.

So here I was. I phoned Mandy, my little sister in Germany, and we sat on the phone until gone 2am, talking about all sorts - mostly Dad. Then I sat up all night. Not intentionally, but I just wasn't able to even consider sleeping. I was the same when my brother died - it was impossible. Not even due to being distraught, but just a wakefulness.

Of course, the next day was a bit of a  Field cock-up. We'd decided not to tell anyone else that night, as my Mum has dementia and lives alone, and my older sister, Sue, would have been asleep, lives a good way away, and couldn't do anything. Mandy was going to phone everyone the next day, but not Mum. I had to go to work, because if not the other staff would have to cover any patients that couldn't be cancelled. However, I knew that I would be able to leave once my patients had been cancelled, so I would go to my mum's and tell her then. Now on a Tuesday Mum gets picked up by her friends, a couple who used to live next door, to go market shopping. But no problem, Mandy would ring them, tell them what had happened, and tell them to put mum off if she asked them to take her to visit Dad, using the excuse that they knew I was taking her later.

Just before I left for work, Mandy rang to say that they had been very upset about Dad dying, and they had said that they would like to tell Mum themselves. Which was fine, it was just something I wouldn't have put on anyone else.

So eventually I am on my way to Mum's when Mandy phoned again.

'OMG, OMG, you'll never guess what's happened! I just phoned Mum, and I'm going, 'how are you, are you feeling ok? Poor old Dad, eh, but at least he's out of pain' and eventually Mum goes, 'what do you mean?' and I said, 'Dad. Dad being dead.' And Mum sort of moaned and I asked her didn't she remember and she said no-one had told her. I asked her if she'd seen J and D and she said yes. So I thought maybe they'd told her and she'd forgotten. So I phoned J and she said, 'well we decided not to tell her because she was going to be left on her own.' So I said to her, 'well I've just told her, and she's on her own!'

So of course, after that I rushed over as fast as I could, dreading what I would find. I walked in, and there she was - eating her lunch and watching one of her antiques programmes.

'Are you ok mum?'

'Yes, love. Are you stopping?'

'For a little bit. I've got to go and pick up the cause of death certificate soon, but I wanted to see how you were taking the news about Dad.'

'Oh yes, that reminds me, you'll have to give me all his money now. And get his telly back from the home.'

I couldn't believe it. I know she's money-obsessed (as in she spends it on crap and is constantly badgering me about when I'm getting her pension, even though I get it every Wednesday), but I'd have thought she'd at least make a TINY effort to at least PRETEND to be upset. Especially since I've had to drive her to visit him every day near enough (not weekends cos Sue would take her on a Saturday). And bearing in mind I work, and live about half an hour away.

'No, mum, you aren't having that, because it's for paying bills. What did you think I was doing? Squirreling it away for myself?'

She pulled 'The Face' - a pursing of the lips with a frown that has her eyebrows meeting. 'Yes, actually.'

'Yeah, that's why I drive you around in a 14 year old Corsa - cos I'm rolling in Dad's cash. Where do you think the money for the gas and electric and phone and everything except food comes from?'

'Oh.' She was a bit put out. 'Well I can't do any of the organising for his funeral.'

'Yes, I know mum. Don't worry, I can do everything. All you'll need to do is sign the cheque.'

'WHAT!!!! What for???'

'Because the bill account doesn't have enough in it for the deposit with the funeral director.'

'Why??? How much does a funeral cost?'

'Just over three thousand pounds.'

'I don't believe you. You just want his money.'

FFS! Effing Freudian projection in technicolour or what?

Today has been packed full of registering the death and arranging the funeral. And the worst of all - picking up Dad's stuff from the care home.

I don't think there could be anything sadder than walking into his room and him not being there. Just an empty bed and his stuff in a big box. All the mini pineapple cartons he hadn't drunk. The Dairy Milk mum insisted on taking him, even though he kept refusing to eat it. His clothes - still smelling faintly of him despite being laundered. And of course the TV. I somehow kept it together until I was safely in my car, and then I cried my eyes out.

I'm not grown up enough to be doing this. I'm not the sort of person who is organised and sorts things out for herself - I've always had someone to prompt me and help me along, someone to consult to make sure I am doing things right, someone who can ultimately be responsible for things rather than the responsibility being solely mine. And most of the time that person has been my Dad.

I'm not one of those people who needs money from their parents or who runs home whenever things go wrong. Quite the opposite; I left home at 18 and (apart from holidays) never went back, and even paid for my own wedding. But Dad was always there if I wanted to know how to buy a car, what might be wrong with my central heating, how to apply for tax credits etc. I didn't always ask him, and latterly it has been me doing things for him (because they are so much easier to do online). But I knew he was there if I needed him. For anything. And like Dumbo's feather, that gave me confidence to do things.

Now I feel bereft. The most important adult in my life is gone. I feel like a tightrope walker whose net has been taken away. It doesn't matter that I've never fallen before - it's still a far more frightening experience.