the perfect waste of time

Another sunrise with my sad captains
​With who I choose to lose my mind
​And if it’s all we only pass this way but once
​What a perfect waste of time

(Sad Captains by Elbow)

Since the last post a couple of years ago, much has happened.  My reason for not writing during that time was based on not wishing to disclose information about my Dad, his story, without his knowledge.  I wanted to protect the private man he was.  I understand that for others writing helps with coping and, as someone who loves to write, you’d think it would make sense for me to do likewise.  But I was uncomfortable, it seemed wrong.  It was neither cathartic nor appropriate.

So, whilst I decided to bring closure to this blog a few months back, it’s taken some time to put the words together.  I’m sure many of you won’t be surprised by that.

This is the last post.

I’m running out of miracles … oh my soul

Given the circumstances of Dad’s last few years, it was nothing short of miraculous he was still with us last June.  And, even knowing during that last surreal weekend, when an accident robbed him (and us) of the peaceful ending he so truly deserved, one more miracle was too much to ask for.  But we hoped nevertheless.  We hoped that it would all make sense, regardless of how it turned out.  I’d been here before; another time, another hospital bed, another helpless situation, the same inevitability.  Yet hope was present, in the middle of it all, palpable and invisible, like a blanket enveloping us.

 Hope is a state of mind, not of the world; either we have it or we don’t.  It is a dimension of the soul and it’s not essentially dependent on some particular observation of the world or estimate of the situation.  Hope is an orientation of the spirit and orientation of the heart; it transcends the world that is immediately experienced and is anchored somewhere beyond its horizons.  Hope is definitely not the same as optimism.  It is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out (Vaclav Havel, Disturbing the Peace).

From the day Dad was diagnosed with vascular dementia, he never mentioned it again.  He just got on with the hand he’d been dealt, trying to squeeze as much as he could out of the life he had left.  His determination was unmistakable during those times; when his mind played tricks on him, his deterioration apparent, his thoughts too far away and confusing, times when anger spilled over and disorientation resulted in tears and frustration.  For both of us.  We tried hard not to let those times deter us in moving forward with each day, perhaps for the sake of one another.  But we kept going.  We prayed and we hoped that tomorrow would be better.  It usually was.  So up until that point last June, we’d survived.  Without consultation, and with silent attitude, we continued to ignore the ever present thief attempting to steal our past, present and future; our very souls.  We clung desperately to our shared memories whilst at the same time adjusting to new realities occurring almost on a daily basis.

I knew the plot, though lost it often, never knew the lines and ad-libbed a lot.  Looking back, I remember spells of hyper vigilance to the point of exhaustion, trying to anticipate every move then reacting to unforeseen forces that colluded to make our lives almost impossible; stretching our resolve to the limit.  At other times, I gave in to a supernatural force I could sense at my back pushing me forward or carrying me through times I wish I could forget.  Mostly I made it up as I went along and hoped for the best.   This is what caring is.  People look and wonder how you’re managing to hold it all together when, for you, it’s actually all falling apart.  But you keep going because it’s not about you.  It’s about another human being.  You need to look after yourself, they said.  I try, I’d say.  It’s like looking after a child, they said.  No, actually, it isn’t, I’d reply.  This is my Dad and if I start to consider him to be a child then he is no longer my Dad and I’m clinging on to that as long as I can thank you very much.  It’ll be a relief when it’s all over, when the time comes, they said.  Will it?  I couldn’t imagine it’d be a relief.

And if it’s all we only pass this way but once
​What a perfect waste of time

How could that precious and treasured time together, doing simple things or indeed doing nothing, a time that will never be repeated, ever be anything other than a perfect waste of time?  It was during this time I got to know the man who happened to be my Dad.  We didn’t have the easiest of relationships but, in truth, dementia gave me an opportunity to get to listen to his life stories in his words, his perspective, his experiences, his happy memories, his regrets.  I’m truly, truly, grateful for this time.

I’ve known grief.  I’m not ashamed to say I wasn’t prepared for saying goodbye this way.  Not long afterwards a chaplain friend of mine told me not that dying is the last hardest thing we ever do.  I hadn’t heard that before but it summed up my Dad’s last couple of days with us.  I’m sure many of you will understand that it’s not only the bereaved that hurt.

No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing.  At other times it feels like being mildly drunk, or concussed. There is a sort of invisible blanket between the world and me. I find it hard to take in what anyone says. Or perhaps, hard to want to take it in. It is so uninteresting.  If only they would talk to one another and not to me (C S Lewis, A Grief Observed).

My Dad was laid to rest on a gloriously sunny day in June last year which was fitting because he loved days like that.  We said goodbye in the sunshine and I was able to smile, remembering choc ices and walks with a dog we once had and what a loving and proud grandfather he was.  Isn’t it funny the things that pop into your head.

The last few months have given me the chance to reflect on those times and I’ve come to realise how hugely influential this man was in my life.  He introduced me to black and white movies, Gene Kelly not Fred Astaire, classical music, good books, Frank Sinatra, political awareness, a love of dancing, my mining ancestors and stories of union meetings, an appreciation of architecture and art, Henry Fonda in Twelve Angry Men, the 4 horse accumulator, the wonders of Skye, Basil Fawlty, Mario Lanza and, God help me, Aker Bilk.  Unfortunately I didn’t inherit the green nurturing fingers of a gardener or light fingers that produce tasty scones and clootie dumpling.  He would laugh at my limited repertoire; the banana loaf.  I also missed out on the ability to solve tricky crossword puzzles and never had the patience for jigsaws like he did but I did get the ear to listen and hope that tomorrow would bring something better.

Oh, long before
You and I were born
Others beat these benches with their empty cups
To the night and its start
To the here, and now, and who we are

He wasn’t gregarious or extrovert.  He was quiet and smart and strong.

I’m here because he was here first.

I’m glad I got to know him.

Happy Harry 1929 ~ 2014

 

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