A Tribute to my Dad

Making Memories, Experiencing Loss

This is going to be painful to share. I will start by sharing that just over a month ago, I was on vacation with my parents, and my brother with his family, in the Cotswolds, UK. That week was such an incredible time full of making memories. One of the memories I hold especially close from that time is watching my dad fish. I haven’t shared much here about my dad, or his fight with Parkinson’s Disease. It has been a very difficult battle for him, and fishing which was his hobby and passion was impacted by this disease. For the week we were in the Cotswolds, we stayed in a lodge that had a deck sitting on a lake. A lake full of carp and other fish, with a deck that was safe and enclosed where dad could fish as much as he wanted to, without the need for us to help keep him safe from the water. I cannot quite describe how precious that memory is, of watching dad fish. He fished pretty much from the second he woke to when he went to bed, for those 7 days! The only breaks he took from fishing were to play cards with one of us or to eat! It was a special time I hold onto. 

I hold onto that time especially because 1 day after we got back from that holiday, my dad died. Just writing those words breaks my heart. It was sudden, it was unexpected, and it has been so indescribably painful. And in a strange way, there is something within that pain that I am thankful for - this loss hurts so deeply because I had a lifetime of memories with a dad who was loving, kind and intentional. I was, and am, incredibly blessed to have a dad like him, and that is a gift I am so grateful for.

My dad’s death has been so traumatic for me and my family, not least my sweet mum, and I cannot yet put properly into words the shock of losing him. I miss him so much, and this past month has been a blur of grief, sadness and a feeling of absence, of loss, while also moments of smiling and laughing while remembering memories and hearing the memories my friends and family also had with him.

Our family have been overwhelmed by the support of so many friends and family. The cards & memories shared, flowers, chats, meals brought round, help with practical arrangements for the funeral, there are just so many people to thank! Personally, I have appreciated so much the friends who have just come alongside me and been ‘there’ during this time of grieving. Sometimes I haven’t even had the words to speak, and I feel blessed to have friends I can just sit comfortably in silence with while I try to process this loss. We celebrated and remembered dad last Thursday, and were overwhelmed to have almost 200 people there at the service, as well as one of my closest friends, Rachel, and her family watching from America.

I also want to thank the emergency services from Folkestone and Hythe, Kent. There are no words that I could adequately use to thank them for everything they did on the day dad died. Their quick, concerned & professional response combined with their caring words and actions felt far beyond what could ever be expected of them. They were so kind to us all as a family in a moment of utter shock and grief. Thank you. 

I would like at some point, to share some more about this painful time in the past month since dad passed and the difficult experience of beginning to mourn him. It feels too soon, and raw, for me to share about that now. But in time, I hope to share more about the ways grief and complex PTSD have intersected for me, and how I have discovered that carrying existing trauma can amplify an already deeply painful experience of loss. I’m learning that grief looks so different for everyone, and I hope that by sharing some of my own experience, it might one day help someone else who finds themselves walking into grief while already carrying trauma, mental health struggles, or wounds of their own.

But that is a story for another time. Today, I want to share a tribute I wrote to my dad.

Remembering and Honouring my Pops

I remember as a child doing so many things with Dad. Fishing trips, including nights by the sea that were so cold, although Dad never seemed to feel it and would eventually give us kids money to buy chocolate to warm up! Fishing was such a big part of our childhood with him.

Dad would drive me to different activities and teach me songs as we went. We would sing together everywhere we went, I can still hear his voice singing those songs with me. I remember camping vacations every summer, and long walks where we talked about everything, and about faith, and Dad pointing out the birds we saw and telling me their names. If we went past water he would definitely have to stop to look at the fish! I remember every November doing a camp fire with fireworks at the end of our backyard, and writing our names with sparklers. 

Dad was one of the kindest people I have ever known, in such a genuine way. He saw the best in people and would talk to everyone he met. In fact, the day he died he had gone to the local library that morning and I was able to talk to the librarians in the days afterwards. They knew dad very well and the memory they shared with me & my mum was that he would always come up to their desk and talk to them for a while and ask how they were, every time he went in. 

My dad was incredibly patient, so many times when I was younger and struggling with my mental health - struggles I now recognise in part as trauma responses - he would always listen to me, talk with me and pray with me. I remember one night I needed to talk about something I was worried about, and how he calmly switched the TV off, turned to me and just listened and talked for hours. 

Dad was calm, laid-back and peaceful, very independent, strong - and perhaps a little stubborn! - and he would always take everyone on an adventure, usually unplanned!

A year ago, after 18 years living in Romania, I came back to the UK to help support Dad and my family through his Parkinson’s operation. Following that, my parents were navigating recovery from the operation and daily life with Parkinson’s, and I ended up living with Mum and Dad for the past year, and I cannot express what a gift that year was for me. It was a gift to be able to try and help support my parents day to day, in what they were going through. But also, it was a gift to have just so many moments with them and make so many memories. There are so many things I wish I could do one more time with dad; like go for an ice cream from Rio’s and sit watching the sea. I wish I could take him fishing; there were so many peaceful moments, we would just sit there for hours, talking, fishing and sometimes just sitting there not saying a word, but just being together. I wish we could go for another walk or play cards.

I miss his smile, and I miss his laugh

My dad had been my hero my whole life. I was so proud of who he was and what he did, as a teacher and head teacher, and seeing him touching people’s lives. It felt like we couldn’t go anywhere locally without a former pupil, parent or teacher stopping to speak to him! But when dad was diagnosed with Parkinson's 12 years ago, a new battle began for him. It was so difficult and painful for us all to watch him go through that battle, but also, it was SO inspirational, to see how he never gave in. He didn’t let Parkinson’s stop him from doing the things he wanted to do, and he would always encourage others with the disease. Every morning he would put on an Elevation worship playlist, and do exercises and physio to help him with mobility, I loved at doctors appointments how he would always smile and tell jokes, and had said to his consultant last visit that he would bring photos to show her of his fish at his next appointment. Dad was known as the 'Lamborghini' at the Parkinson's Boxing group he went to weekly, for being so fast doing the exercises! He just had a quiet determination and refusal to let Parkinson’s stop or define him.

And this time of his life is where 2 major parts of his life combined, because of all the things I remember my dad for; he was a man of faith. His Christian faith was at the heart of who he was. I can’t count how many times he said, “Shall we pray about this?” or quoted a Bible verse. If I could choose one word to describe his faith, it would be steadfast. He believed, he trusted, it gave him such peace, and he lived his faith, and I never saw him waver in it. 

And I saw his deep faith face to face, when he was in the hospital last year for his operation.  My siblings, Ruth, Peter, and I were rotating staying overnight with dad for the month he was there. And this particular night I had stayed with him and to be honest he had a rough night. The next morning, as I sat with him and held his hand, I wasn’t really sure what to do, or how I could help him in that moment. So I put his Elevation playlist on my phone, and laid it on his chest playing, and I will never, ever forget the look of peace that came over his face in that moment, the little smile, and he was just so calm. The first song we listened to was a song called Graves into Gardens and he started humming it and moving his head to it. I saw in that moment the power of Dad’s faith and I will hold onto that memory forever. 

I miss my dad so much, but I am thankful that he is free now and that he is not suffering with Parkinsons anymore. I am glad to believe and feel assured of where he is, and for my own faith that he inspired; I have shared here before about my faith and the importance it has in my life, and also the way it helps me with navigating my mental health difficulties. 

I am so thankful for my dad, for the memories I have with him, and to have heard recently so many memories that others had with him. I am grateful for a dad who was also one of my best friends.

A Letter to my Dad

I would like to end this with the last paragraph of a letter I wrote to dad last week and put in his coffin:

‘I just love you and I miss you pops. I can just imagine you, with Jesus, no pain, no Parkinson’s, no fear, no brain implants, you are just you. That gives me such peace, and I believe I will see you again one day, and I cannot wait for that day! Until then, I want you to know I love you, I will feed your robin for you, and it's too soon yet, but one day I will fish and remember you.’