Twelve years ago today, I sat by a hospital bed, holding my mum’s hand, as my dad passed away. I use the term ‘passed away’ because that’s exactly what he did. He had been unconscious for three days and with his family watching and waiting, he took his last breath and left us.
Dad hadn’t been well for some months, like many men of his age (82) he had problems with his ‘plumbing’ (quite ironic after the week I’ve just had).
For the last few years or so, every six months dad went into hospital for an overnight stay to have his pipes unblocked. He was waiting for his usual hospital appointment to come through. The doctors kept fobbing him off and telling him to be patient.
The appointment he had been waiting for never came.
Mum phoned me on the Saturday to say dad had finally been taken into hospital. For the last few weeks, she had been trying to get him to create a fuss with the doctors to bring his appointment forward, as it was now well overdue. But that wasn’t his style he would ‘sit it out’ and wait. I asked mum if she wanted me to come home. She said there was no need, now he’s in hospital they’ll do what they need to do and he’ll be back home in plenty of time for Christmas.
Sunday night the call came to say it was too late. The doctors couldn’t do anything more, if he had gone in sooner they could have fixed it. Basically, the waste he hadn’t been able to get rid of had slowly poisoned him.
I caught the next train up to Manchester and went straight to the hospital to be with mum. Yes it was my dad who was dying but it was mum who I wanted to be there for.
Dad was 49 when I came along, an unexpected fifth child. Not the menopause after all!
He was a strict Roman Catholic who went to church every Sunday, with his family tagging along. We had no choice. Eventually, in my late teens, I plucked up the courage to say that I wasn’t going to spend another Sunday sitting in a cold building listening to rubbish. I waited for lightning to strike. It never came.
Dad’s parents were strict Catholics and so religion had always been an important part of his life. Often more important than his family. I can’t remember a time when he didn’t go to church. When he retired, aged 65, he went every day. I think this was to give him some kind of routine and structure to his day. But we joked it was an insurance policy to ensure he got the ‘best seat in the house’, when the time came.
Everyday, as long as I can remember, dad wore a shirt and tie, even at weekends and holidays. I can recall a family day out to Blackpool with him sat on the beach, shirt and tie tightly fastened and a flat cap to stop him burning his head.
In his youth, he was tall and slim and I’m told a bit of a ‘looker’. He met mum when they were both in the army, serving King and country. They married in December 1945 and were together for 53 years.
Dad smoked since being a teenager. His fingers were stained the colour of English mustard. He would easily smoke his way through 60 Senior Service a day.
To me, dad was this person who sat in the other room reading the Daily Express or Manchester Evening News, puffing away, while the rest of the family, well, were being a family.
Every night his dinner was ready for him as he walked in the door, even though my mum also worked. I suspect this was how life had been for his father too.
He taught both my brother and I to swim and had us reciting our times tables every night before going to bed. He would get so frustrated with the fact that we both didn’t ‘get’ maths. But most Friday’s he would present us with a bag of sweets from the newsagents where he bought his daily paper. We always looked forward to Fridays. When I smell the scent of parma violets, or chew on a drumstick lolly, I’m 10 again.
Dad never raised his hands to me, or any of us as far as I’m aware. But he also never wrapped them around me. I never heard him swear and he very rarely raised his voice. Although he went out for a drink most nights, I never saw him drunk. I also never saw him let his hair down or have fun. He was from the old school of fatherhood – he provided for us. He wasn’t a coldhearted man, he just found it incredibly difficult to express his feelings. But I know he loved us in his own way.
The last time I saw him was the October before he died. We were visiting in the half term holidays because my mum’s birthday is in November and so it was an early birthday/Christmas visit. I noticed he was quieter and less cantankerous than usual.
By now, dad had given up smoking. After years of living in a pea soup fog, at the ripe old age of 70, he finally gave up the fags. One day he was sucking in 60 a day, the next none. An unopened packet sat on the windowsill for months. This couldn’t have been easy for him. Years after I remember him saying he could still ‘murder for a cigarette’.
For the next 12 years, with more money now spare, my parents enjoyed many holidays in the UK and overseas. They always returned like two lovebirds. However, it was short lived, dad was a jealous man and didn’t like to share mum, even with his children. The childish bickering would soon resume.
Although quite a chunk of money was now spent on holidays, dad also replaced his high tar addiction with sweets, chocolate and cakes. His particular favourite being Turkish Delight, something we bought him every Christmas. And soon his waistline resembled Colonel Mustard!
Too late to worry about his teeth decaying, for every day of the 21 years I lived at home dad’s pearly whites glared at me, from a glass in the bathroom. In fact dad’s teeth played a cameo role on my wedding day.
December 1985, it was once again his turn to ‘give’ a daughter away. Obviously a role he thought he’d never be required to do again. Years later he was called upon again and he saved his best performance to for the last. Just when you thought you knew him, he threw up a surprise or two.
My niece married a few years after her beloved dad tragically died, aged 49, of cancer. Her rather rotund granddad, now known by some as Big Frank, stepped into Kevin’s shoes to proudly walk ‘Ragga’ (Helen) down the aisle to the handsome young marine nervously waiting at the front.
The speech he gave at their wedding breakfast was entertaining and yet incredibly moving. One minute the guests in the room were howling with laughter, the next there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. Some mean feat when you consider the majority of the guests were Royal Marines. Dad certainly did his family and Kevin proud.
The speech dad gave at my wedding was entertaining too. But for quite different reasons. As it was a special occasion he decided to wear his ‘best’ dentures. We soon realised why they hadn’t been seen, or heard, before. They were a little too tight and whistled when he spoke. So fortunately for all the speech was short and squeak!
I’m never really sure whether dad was upset or annoyed that I chose to abandon the Catholic Church and take my vows in the opposition’s. He never commented. And that was the problem with dad, I never really knew what he was thinking.
And so, Wednesday 16 December 1998, when the time came, I held my mum’s hand as the man she had spent the last 52 years with took his last breath and left us.
The funeral was held 22 December so in a way Big Frank would indeed be home for Christmas.
This post was written for the Writing Workshop – Remembering over at Sleep is for the Weak. It doesn’t really fit any of the prompts but to read some that do click here.
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Great article Debs. So good to look back fondly knowing now what you didn’t know then – experience never comes soon enough.
Lovely post, honest and evocative.
Pictures are rather fabulous as well,
Jane
x
Funny how people in a family remember different things. Dad had a strong Faith Aspects of which appeared contradictory but I respected this and I find it sad that my sister felt it was/is rubbish. He followed the same pattern as his father going to the pub to meet friends three maximum four nights a week. We never suffered from his going to Church although I think we suffered more from passive smoking from his 60-80 a day.
As I remember his taste in sweets at Christmas ran to Bassets Licquorice Allsorts.
As he got older I could see the struggle inside him. He was never demonstrative to his children or grandchildren but would be bluff and sometimes not very tactful. He had very definite ideas of a womans place which was not behind a wheel or in a bar. But having said that he shed many a surruptious tear when he could not express his emotions physically.
I did not understand him, was frustrated by his prejudices but knew without doubt he loved me, would back me whatever I decided to do. I get my strong faith from him (although moderated) and I loved him. I would have liked a Dad who was less selfish and more demonstrative but we are all human and there are much worse folk in the world.
He was disappointed in life in so far as he was in the PGA before the war and would have liked to get back to golf but the war and then the needs of a family put paid to his dreams.
Kevin was 49 when he died.
Oh older, wiser sister, I guess you being the eldest (by 21 years) will have seen a different and younger dad. I knew he played golf but didn’t realise to that level.
My comment about religion being rubbish was from a 17 year olds viewpoint. Years of having to sit in a very large, cold building on hard uncomfortable chairs. And after the experience of a cruel evil headteacher and hypocrital priest, I guess my views were different to yours. I know your Faith brings you a lot of comfort and I fully respect that.
I hope my post didn’t give the impression to anyone that dad wasn’t a good person or that I didn’t love him. I did, but yet I felt I didn’t know the real him. Helen’s wedding was one time where I felt I saw what others saw. I know that he loved us all, but like you say he found it difficult to demonstrate his feelings. But I know he adored mum.
The last time I saw dad alive, he hugged me goodbye. As I got in the car, I glanced back to see him hugging Ben. I think he knew then it would be for the last time.
I know for sure he would have been very proud to be carried into church by the ‘boys’ in his family. He was a man’s man.
Looking forward to seeing you at Christmas, oh wise one xxx
Oh how sad, yet beautiful. Memories turuy bring them alive. My grandad passed unexpectantly aged 82 in hospital three years ago after going into hospital for a routine stay for a water infection.
I miss him terribly, but the memories bring him that little bit closer
((((hugs))))
Thank you for reading and commenting on this post. Oh strange that your grandad also died unexpectedly at 82 from a bladder related issue.
As you can see by the comments on my post (Ann Yates & Anonymous are my sisters)memories are what keep people alive. (((hugs back at ya)) x
What a beautiful tribute. You have painted such a clear picture of him and what was important to him. I admire the way you have presented your differences with such sensitivity too. So much attention to detail. A really moving piece, but not overly sentimental either, love the wedding tales. Great pictures too.
Thanks for sharing that 🙂 And thanks for welcoming me, lovely to see a familiar face.
This has really and truly moved me, such a well presented and thoughtful tribute…..I think your dad would be proud. Thanks for sharing this touching piece. xx
Thanks Debbie for your comments about Dad. We all have different memories of him. As a little girl I used to love it when he came home from work ad he would pick me up and give me an apple pie rub. Thats a rub on his growing stubble! At night we used to wave his Mount Carmel scarf at the moon to say goodnight to Mr Moon! I also didn t have his faith and left the church when I left home. I know Dad like his parents had a strong faith and I think they all found it part of their beings. I remember when I used to come home with Stephen and Emma for Christmas when they were little I used to go in the dining room with Dad (before the extension) and open his Christmas presents and show him what he had got and who from. He would have tears in his eyes but didn,t like anyoe to see him. I would leave him on his own for a while. He would then return to the rest of the family dry eyed. He was a compex man and sometimes itwas difficult to remember ow he could be. He was very like Grandad but I loved Grandad as did all the grandchildren. Everyone leaves diffrent impressions on people and all our memories will be different but he didn,t do bad by hs family!
What a lovely memory of dad waving his scarf at the moon. I just can’t imagine the dad I knew doing this! What is a Mount Carmel scarf?
Hope you’ve finally managed to get warm after returning home from your holiday. xx
Thanks for sharing. My dad was considerably younger than your dad when he died. He didn’t always show his feelings – it is a bloke thing, I swear – but he did love his girls and we did get hugs as children.
Your writing is beautiful.
This was beautiful, and brought tears to my eyes. Thank you for sharing.
Tears here too. A beautiful tribute Debbie. Gentle and honest and full of love x
That was lovely reading about my uncle frank, It is many years since I saw him and I was in fancy dress, dressd in dickension clothing.. It was in an a pub in Sale and we had a little chat I hadnt seen him in many years and I recognised straight away. I Hope your mum is ok, send her my love x
Thank you Linda for reading & commenting. It’s nice to hear old memories of dad, especially from relatives who knew him in his younger days. Mum is doing great for her 88 years. Hope you and your family have a lovely Christmas. Remind me are you Harry’s (dad’s younger brother) daughter?
What a lovely blog about my Grandad. But its weird because i knew him rather differently. He died just as I had turned 18 so my memories are that of a child’s perspective, although no less vivid or real.
Grandad was not overly affectionate nor demonstrative, but liked to show his emotion in subtle ways. He always brought me Esso ‘blobmen’ keyrings to play with and we sat for hours going through the Tea cards together on the kitchen table.
Every Tuesday after school I had to go to Nana’s as Mum was out. For some reason which I can’t remember Nana was never back until later, so Grandad and I had an hour together. He would sit and talk about my day at school and always made me a cucumber sandwich – the nicest anyone had ever made, but weirdly I’ve been allergic to cucumber since he died. We’d chat about anything and everything, he was very ‘matter of fact’ and that was just right for a hormonal, irrational, hot-headed teenage girl! He was very calm and nothing ever fazed him.
However the minute Nana, or anyone else, came home he’d speedily retreat to his chair in the corner of the kitchen and not another word be spoken. I loved that hour – it was very special.
He would always make me buy him a stick of rock from wherever we went on holiday. I never saw him eat a single bit of it though and he’d offer me or my sister a piece of rock when we were good.
Grandad could melt into the background at any event, he would sit in the corner and watch things going on around him, but I always felt he was proud of his family – Nana especially. He’d always be the smartest dressed person collecting me at the school gates whenever he came to meet me – shirt, tie and jacket. What a good example he was – nowadays, my son is lucky if I’ve managed to put any make up on!! I think if he were looking down on us all now, he’d be mega pleased with how everyone has turned out – I think he’d love all the little people in the family and they’d be the ones now who would see that ‘hidden’ side which I saw.
Even now, when I pop round to Nana’s, I half expect Grandad to be sat in his chair – aptly the cornerstone of the house – and still to this day, it seems odd that he’s not there.
I was very fortunate to be close to Grandad, more so than many grandchildren are to their grandparents due to my family circumstances, and I know that from reading everyone else’s comments he was clearly a very complex man, but above all – he was my Grandad. x
A very moving post, and wonderfully written.
A beautifully written piece Debbie, the content of which, along with the content of the family members replies, will undoubtedly have made that gentleman very proud.
It can be difficult as a Dad, balancing ones ‘old fashioned’ views with the modern values that life throws at your children but taking into account all that can be read in this blog he doesn’t seem to have done a bad job.
Yup, plenty to be proud of there.
Regards
Phil.
Big Frank a mans man, always a top gent to me. Very well written once again Debbie, thanks for sharing
Debbie Greene sponsored by Kleenex – allegedly
Just found your blog via Twitter (I am @criticalsteph) . My dad died just over a year ago – your post resonates so much with me – thanks for sharing. x
finding it hard to see the keys to type….tears falling at the beauty and honesty of this piece,…it really brings home the enormity of the task of being a parent… yikes xx
Wow what a great comment, sorry I’ve only just seen it and not replied sooner. Thanks for reading my post. Do I know you?