Jo is one of our London meet up Hosts and has written this amazing blog about losing her dad. It’s a beautifully written blog that busts the myth that grief has a time frame. If you’d like to join one of our meet up groups, find out more here.
A half-marathon with no training
I’m running a half marathon in October for the British Heart Foundation and as the event draws closer I think “f*** I haven’t done enough training”. And then I hear my dad’s voice in my head say “Oh it’s all part of growing up and being British”, his response to any sort of moaning or grumble.
As I near the event I think about him a lot. I’m doing the run for him, because despite the fact that he had a heart attack and died suddenly (and understanding heart disease or research into heart problems probably wouldn’t have helped him), I still feel this affinity to doing something relevant to my dad; to remember him, feel closer to him, or whatever.
Sadness in front of the salmon
I’ve never written about losing him although I have tried countless times, which has left me bawling my eyes out in front of the salmon in Sainsbury’s after my commute home. So here goes…
This is for those who have lost someone, who will never be alone; for those who have seen me through it all, who I can never thank enough. This is for those who simply didn’t know the details because we aren’t close friends, but I’m sure were always curious (it’s human nature don’t worry), and for those who don’t know anything about me but like to read sad blogs. Oh and this is for future me. I hope you’re feeling more settled and stable. Therapy was a good shout.
Here’s the story of the death of my father when I was 18, still figuring myself out, still finding out what I wanted my life to be like. At 18, I was on the cusp of having an adult relationship with my parents, understanding them and their choices better. I was asking questions to help me understand my future as a person and a parent, one day, I hope… I wish I asked more questions.
“Very odd for him to miss a meal”
It was a normal morning in Spain at Nana and Terry’s, and we were prepping for the arrival of my sister Fran and the Wilson clan the next day. Dad had gone to do the walk around Ruta de los Acantilados, driving down Carretera a la Cala. We all went about our day, but dad didn’t come back for lunch. Very odd for him to miss a meal. We ate regardless and a couple more hours passed. An air of concern settled around the villa.
I stay, potentially already knowing something wasn’t right
Mum, my sister Lou and Sam, my now brother in law, decided to do the walk, but the opposite way round hoping to bump into him. I stay, potentially already knowing something wasn’t right. They returned having found nothing. Mum takes Lou and I to the point at which you can see into the valley and there’s a search party and police in amongst the trees looking for my dad.
Mum and I are sitting on the pavement and a feeling overwhelms me and I begin to sob. I think I knew. A blacked out grey van drives down the hill. The police tell mum to send Lou and I home. Sam stays. I’m sitting dangling my feet in the pool and I hear Queen playing from the kitchen; ‘Is this the real life, or is this just fantasy…’ I see a helicopter fly above with a stretcher dangling below. I would later find out that it contained my dad’s body.
Howling like animals in the night
It’s 9pm on 20th July 2012 and Lou, Nana and I are in the kitchen washing up. Mum comes around the corner followed slowly by Sam. We meet on the veranda and mum tells us that dad is dead. I throw up. We all howl into the night likes animals unable to do anything apart from give into what our bodies are telling us to do. Gut reaction, literally.
Mum makes phone calls. I methodically unpack dads rucksack and organise everything into rows. I don’t sleep at night anymore. I can only sleep in the day when people are around me and the light keeps me safe.
Three days later I see you in a box. The light plays tricks and I think I see you breathing. You come home in a pot. How your whole essence and being can be reduced into one pot I will never understand.
He was there, I knew him
It’s taken me seven years to deal with my grief. To process it. Seven years of asking why, until I finally understand and truly believe that there is no why, there just is. How can an 18 year old begin to understand those feelings. It’s only now when I feel like I know who I am that I can truly process the magnitude of loss.
I think of him every day and I never want that to go away. I like talking about him, I just sometimes don’t know how. I wish with all my heart that he could see my future, but I shall be content knowing that I have his eyes, he was there, I knew him, he was my dad.
Got a story to share? Talking about loss is a powerful, brave thing and helps us all feel less alone in our grief. If you want to tell your story, email us at firstname.lastname@example.org.