My Dad - much missed

It is thirteen years now since my dad died. This afternoon I was driving back home and Canon in D by Pachelbel came on the radio. Within seconds of hearing it, I had to pull over as my eyes were full of tears. That was the music we had at my dad's funeral  - it was music that he loved, hence why we chose it. My tears this afternoon surprised me. Maybe they shouldn't have done. As I have heard people say so many times, you never get over it but you do learn to live with it.

My dad never once told me that he loved me. For a long time I didn't think he did love me. When I was  a small child, he was absent most of the time. He was working - working hard. Long hours were how it was for a proud working class man, with a wife and two small children to feed. Not only did he work hard, he also spent the time he did have at home making furniture. There was no sitting and playing with the children, no quality time, no story reading. Your children were fine if they were fed,  clean and had a roof over their head. No helicopter parenting in those days.

We fought, my father and I, argued viciously, during my teenage years. He railed at me for not spending every waking minute doing homework. He told me I was wasting my place at grammar school by wanting to go out with friends and by listening to 'that bloody pop music' with my brother. Then there were boyfriends who he loathed. He couldn't use their names - it was always 'laddo' or 'that bloody rogue' despite the fact that most of these teen romances were with really decent boys.

Despite his objection to my friendships with the 'laddos' he never realised quite the amount of anxiety and sorrow he caused by his affair with a woman who lived about a half mile away. My mum and brother never broached the topic - but I did. I called him a hypocrite, a liar and worst of all an absolute bastard for upsetting my beloved mother.

At eighteen, I went to university. I worried about my mum. She told me she was fine. What struck me though was that if I hadn't been home for the weekend for a while, my dad would ring me up. 'Now then,' he would begin. 'Time to get yourself home and to see your mother.' The phone would go down. That was it. Message delivered.

When I started working, things between my father and I began to change - for the better. I had begun teaching and was finding it hard-going. I mentioned this to him and he said, with utter conviction, words I will never forget. 'It might be hard, but I can think of no one better placed to do that job than you. So get stuck in and prove that you can.' So rare were my dad's words of praise, that these words were enough to equip me to keep going. I am so glad I did.

The relationship between my dad and me improved enormously when I had my first child. Then my second and finally my third.  He was a doting granddad and with my children; he would play, read and entertain them by dropping his false teeth down over his top lip. They loved this and would demand he did it again and again. For each birth he gave me ten pounds. He regarded labour as hard work, which it undeniably is. He gave me wages for hard work.

Towards the end of his life, i lived in fear of him dying. By now we had reached the point where we were very close. I could talk to him about most things. His wisdom, his suffering as a Prisoner of War for three and a half years, the family in general, my mum and brother in particular, his mum, his sister and all manner of politics and current affairs.

The end was approaching. My dad was in hospital, annoyed with himself for not getting any better. The fact was that with a sixty a day habit, which admittedly he had kicked several years ago, there was always going to be some serious damage to his respiratory system. His heart too was struggling and despite powerful steroids, my dad was getting worse; savage asthma attacks were  becoming more frequent.

The call came from the hospital. My mum, brother and I headed off. He died that night. The memory of his laboured breathing as he departed this life, is seared into my brain. I told him I loved him and though he never said it, I know he loved me.

I miss you dad.