Sunflowers near Jussy, Switzerland, 28 June 2015

WRITTEN ON 28 JUNE 2015

My Dad would have been 67 tomorrow, having eased into his retirement a bit more, with what (given the longevity of his father and grandfather) might have been another two decades of life ahead — two relaxing, fulfilling decades without the demands of work, which my Dad had dreamed of after working very hard (often seven days a week in the middle of summer) from before he was 20 until after he was 60.

After always making a conscious effort to stay physically fit and eat healthily my Dad might have been celebrating, on his birthday, the possibility of another year of: Going on nice walks and cycle rides, thanks to his new metal hip (expertly put in by a surgeon in March 2012); sailing in his beautiful boat; exploring more of Europe; pursuing his photography and gardening projects; entertaining hundreds of people in the course of a year through playing the drums in rock, blues and jazz bands; making his grandchildren laugh; taking his grandchildren, great-nephews and great-nieces out in his wooden punt; being a caring uncle, devoted brother and kind, respectful son; thinking of new recipes for my Mum (a talented and ambitious cook) to try out; enjoying (and sometimes performing in!) theatre productions; ordering beautiful wine, informing his family about its origin, and sharing it with people he loved (and, as a true Christian, with people he didn’t love!); stopping to pass the time of day with a huge variety of local people, from infants to elderly ladies; reading to children in primary schools; representing the islands he loved on their local council without egotism; being a fantastic father; being my Mum’s best friend, dream companion and the love of her life.

Instead of celebrating another birthday and enjoying his retirement, my Dad has now been dead for over 10 months. His body was destroyed by cancer — an evil disease which breaks hearts, shatters dreams and ravages thousands of people’s lives every day. My Dad’s metal hip was burnt, along with him and with all that he aspired to, turned into ashes and shaken into the sea.

I still don’t think that I can put my grief for my Dad into words, or perhaps I can but am afraid to do so (hence my not having yet acknowledged the many messages that kind friends and family members sent last summer/autumn, all of which were much appreciated).

A few airy, dismissive comments that people have made recently give the impression that, +10 months on from my Dad’s death, I am supposed to be OK now. OK?! Don’t be fooled by my being cheerful, jovial or enthusiastic in social situations — I am still grieving. Sometimes I feel as if the journey of grief has barely even begun. Grief is invisible and insidious.

My Dad spent his 66th birthday in bed, barely aware of the day. It was this time last year that my Dad started losing his ability to speak and walk. On Good Friday last year my Dad and I raced each other, on our bikes, along Telegraph Road and up Rosehill on the island of St Mary’s. Two and a half months later my Mum and I pushed my Dad down Rosehill in a wheelchair. My Dad’s sudden diagnosis, dramatic deterioration and death are an absolutely massive thing to try and come to terms with. I hope it is true that time heals, that there are “only” five stages of grief, and that things will get easier. I sometimes wish that I could rush the grief process forward and reach the ‘things being easier’ stage. However, that would mean that even more time had passed without my Dad being here.

Today I turned down an invitation to go hiking near Martigny with a friend, and an invitation to go swimming at Genève–Plage with two other friends (all friends whose company I love), because I wanted to be on my own. In fact, I desperately needed to be on my own.  I wanted time and space in which to be able to think about my Dad.

My Dad always said that, no matter what was happening in your life, however terrible, things would always feel a bit better after a walk. I certainly put his theory to the test today! I woke up feeling miserable and fatigued, dragged myself out of bed, pulled myself out of my slump on the sofa, and took a bus to a village not too far from Geneva to go on a ‘birthday walk’ for my Dad.

On the walk I enjoyed wonderful scenery, the sound of a breeze blowing through the trees, the sight of black, orange and blue butterflies flitting about, the tweeting of birds in a forest, and the scent of vines. I wonder if my Dad’s soul was with me on the walk. At the end of the walk I went into a café/restaurant and asked if they had any cake — the ‘gâteau maison’ of the day was apricot tart, which my Dad absolutely loved!

Norman Cousins said ‘Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live’. My Dad fully expected his family to carry on living if the “worst” happened (which it did). I vowed not to let grief for my Dad destroy me. I feel deeply sorry for people who do not manage to pull themselves out of bed or off the sofa, although I am sad to say that I do understand it. I have great admiration and respect for people who, despite having experienced an agonising loss, live happy lives (even though, as I now realise, there will always be someone and something missing). I am grateful to my cousins Tom, Henry, Steve, Sarah, Paula and Rowenna, to my brother-in-law, Nick, and to several friends who have been a real example of how to carry on living despite bereavement.

Today I was grieving, but I was still living. My Dad was right — everything does feel a bit better after a walk. I haven’t even begun to get my head around the enormity of losing him, but will continue to try and do things which make me feel close to him. I’m still not sure if I have grasped the reality of what has happened, or that it is permanent and unchangeable.

‘If you wish to know the Divine, feel the wind on your face and the warm sun on your hand’. Buddha.