Dedicated to my Dad…ten years on.
Ten years ago yesterday it was my friend, Lynn’s, birthday. I took her present down early-ish in the morning. I forget exactly what time. As she opened it I had a phone call to say my Dad had been involved in a car accident but was, ‘OK’, and had been taken to the local hospital.
I said to Lynn, ‘I’ll finish my coffee as Tom (my OH) says Dad is ok and my sisters are also going to A & E’.
Two day’s later Dad died of his injuries. The airbag had pushed his ribs inwards, pressing on his heart and lungs. Because Dad was a ridiculously brave and proud man he didn’t tell the hospital staff how much pain he was in. In true ‘Jack Clucas style’, he gritted his teeth until, ten years ago tomorrow, he passed away during the night.
His dying was a massive shock. I didn’t get to say goodbye.
Ten years on I can smile at the fact that I stayed at Lynn’s to finish my coffee – not knowing Dad only had a very short time left on this earth. Dad would have smiled too – he had a wicked sense of humour.
I don’t punish myself for not dashing to hospital; my sisters were there when I got there. The three of us even had Dad laughing and joking with us. I did as much as I could do when Dad was alive, visiting, going out with him, annoying him, laughing with him and loving him deeply as only a daughter can love her Dad – her first love!
Yesterday it was my friend, Lynn’s birthday again. I took her present down early morning (around 8.45am as I was seeing another good friend for a walk at 10am). I didn’t go in for a coffee as little Martha (my Parson Russell Terrier) was with me – my shadow since she lost her mum, Rosie, back in February. I’m not great at dates but I remember the date of Dad’s accident simply because of Lynn!!
Tomorrow, my thoughts will be with my Dad although I will be working as I am away in Germany at a conference.
It’s ten years since I lost him, yet if my Dad walked into a room right now I wouldn’t be surprised. His physical presence was so strong; I often feel him with me and I know tomorrow, when I dress up in a frock and heels (I have to look the part, after all) I’ll whisper into the mirror, ‘Do I look OK?’, and Dad will reply, ‘Very Pinook’.
Love you dad,