One more day

Thirteen years ago, on 21 March 2003, I lost my wonderful dad to cancer. He was 57.

Over the years, I’ve processed feelings I didn’t know I was capable of, a thousand times over. I still get angry at the unfairness of it, I feel intense sadness for my darling mum who lost the love of her life and her soulmate, I still have days when I want to punch people who don’t how lucky they are to have all their family members alive and thriving. Then there are the times I feel so lucky, even guilty, to have had such a wonderful dad in my life for 23 years, when others lose their parents so much younger. Or they lose a child. Or a spouse. Then I remind myself that grieving isn’t a competition.

I don’t miss him on the anniversary of his death more than I do any other day. Obviously. But I can’t avoid the poignancy of it, just like his birthday, Christmas, Father’s Day and so on – the occasions that back you into a corner and force you to think about what you’ve lost just that little bit more. It’s just the way it is. I just search the memory banks a little more deeply for happy thoughts to get me through it.

Over the last few days I’ve thought a lot about the things I’d say to him and the stuff we’d do together if he was still here now. Even for just one day.

Aside from the obvious big thing which would be to spend it with his grandchildren, who he never got to meet, it’s more about the little things – the everyday stuff I’d no doubt take for granted if he was here still.

So – Dad, if you could be here for one more day, it would go something like this:

  • First of all, we’d have to get up early (he was a morning person, I’m not, but I’d make a special effort) and take our Jack Russell for a walk on Exmouth beach to watch the sunrise at Orcombe Point (one of his absolute favourite places and where we scattered his ashes). We always had a dog growing up and he used to love getting out for a walk whatever the weather.
  • He loved his food and always used to bang on to me that breakfast was the most important meal of the day so next I’d take him for a fry-up at our favourite cafe.
  • We’d then take the little people swimming. Dad was a brilliant swimmer, he taught me to swim and spent hours on the side of a pool cheering me on when I swam competitively as a kid. E would show him how she can swim 25 metres and I’d dunk V underwater like we do at his baby swimming classes. I know he’d be so proud of them both.
  • As an ex-RAF engineer he was bloody brilliant at fixing stuff so next up I’d put him to work to sort out some annoying jobs at home. There’s a dodgy light switch that needs replacing and our bathroom door hasn’t shut properly for about three years. Oh and a spot of painting. He was always happiest tinkering with stuff so I know he would enjoy getting stuck in.
  • At some point, he’d probably get into a long discussion with the other half about music, which is something they could both talk for hours about. I’d leave them to it and go and find that drying paint to watch for a bit.
  • If I could shut him up about music I’d sit down and spend a good couple of hours picking his brains about when he was younger. He led a pretty interesting life, his family moved to Devon from their hometown of Sheffield when he was seven, he joined the RAF as a boy entrant at 15 and was posted to some far-flung places like Canada and the Middle East. I’ve got photos but I want to know all of the stories behind them.
  • I’d show him the photos of when Jim and I got married.
  • We’d round off the day by going for a pub dinner with the whole family. He would have a steak washed down with a pint. Or two.
  • Finally, I’d get him to read his grandchildren their bedtime story. He was the best bedtime story-teller ever and would always get into character and do silly voices. He’d read one of his favourites, which would be something by Roald Dahl like Revolting Rhymes or The BFG.

In my head, I can hear him reading it now.

That will get me through today.

893254_233621960116834_2037406972_o  882107_233621843450179_987288547_o

904183_233621893450174_1960994184_o

576172_233621783450185_1485553625_n

Pink Pear Bear
Run Jump Scrap!
A Bit Of Everything

Brilliant blog posts on HonestMum.com

A Cornish Mum

Advertisements

31 thoughts on “One more day

  1. This Mum's Life says:

    I am so sorry for the loss of your dad from your life, and how this must affect you every day. This is a beautiful, and raw post, which did have me shedding tears. I’m lucky enough to still have my loved ones around me, and struggle with the finality of death and the concept of grief changing lives for ever. Your vision of one more day with your dad sounds just perfect. I’ll be squeezing my own parents a little harder when I see them at the weekend.
    Thanks so much for sharing with #bigpinklink.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Sarah - To Maternity and Beyond says:

      Thank you this comment means a lot 🙂 It did change me, as a person, and my outlook on life, which was hard to deal with for a long time. Time hasn’t healed but these days I am able to reflect a lot more positively – I know that’s what he would have wanted. It’s so important to me to keep his memory alive. x

      Like

  2. Sarah Howe says:

    This is such a lovely post. So sorry you lost your wonderful Dad. He sounds very similar to mine who I lost when I was pregnant with my daughter. Early rises, food and music plus he loved walking too! I hope your dad is keeping an eye on you all and sure he thinks you are doing a brill job. Thanks for sharing with #bestsndworst xx

    Liked by 1 person

  3. mummiesguideto says:

    Beautiful piece, I lost my dad to cancer 8 days after my baby was born last September. It is always hard to think of all the things we are missing out on with him not around. I would give anything for one more day, your day sounds just perfect. I am thinking about what ours would be now, thank you so much xx

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Rhyming with Wine says:

    Aw lovely, I had tears in my eyes reading this, especially at the bed time story part. Such a moving and genuine post. I’d like to think that he’s reading it somewhere for you and if so he would be very proud I’m sure.

    Hugs xx
    #bestandworst

    Liked by 1 person

  5. ShoeboxofM says:

    This a beautiful post. I love the idea of ‘one more day’ and thinking of it as a time to share time and get to meet and know his grandchildren and taking pleasure in the little memories not just the big ones.

    Thank you for sharing.

    #abitofeverything

    Liked by 1 person

  6. Siena Says says:

    Loved reading this, sounds like your dad was a lovely guy.
    Makes me think about how we need to make the most of our loved ones whilst they are with us, we never know what is around the corner.

    I’m sure he’d be really proud of you x
    #bigpinklink

    Liked by 1 person

  7. agentspitback says:

    This is such a beautiful post and your day with your Dad just shows how close a relationship you both shared and how keenly you miss him. I am sure he is with you each and every day. Thank you for sharing with #abitofeverything

    Liked by 1 person

  8. Becky, Cuddle Fairy says:

    I’m so sorry for your loss! Your dad was such a young man. You have a lovely day planned out for the two of you – full of life’s simple pleasures. It’s nice to think of that one more day. Lovely photos too! #picknmix x

    Liked by 1 person

  9. mummy and monkeys says:

    This is such a lovely post, it made me cry. I’m very lucky to have my Mum and Dad still but my partner has lost his Dad and I know how much he struggles with it sometimes. Sounds like a perfect day. Thanks for linking to #PickNMix

    Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s