My Dad, My Dad,My Dad

I  never imagined I would be writing this Blog post; the grief is raw, the haze is thick. I’m writing this now, as every Blog post I write; for Freddie. I need Freddie to know what a wonderful Grandfather he had; how much we loved him, and how much he adored his only Grandson. I need him to know how devastated I am that on January 10th 2017, the year he had professed would be “a really good year” just days earlier – he left this world; and left me bereft and inconsolable. I need to write every detail before it fades from my memory. I cannot be the same person today as I was yesterday. Cathartic?

Yesterday afternoon I was meeting my Dad at the allotment; he was helping me [okay, he was pretty much doing] the roof on my shed. It was a bright, mild day; he had phoned earlier and asked if I needed any shopping [milk and bread please Dad]; we agreed to meet at the allotment, and I looked forward to seeing him. I arrived, changed into my muddy work boots, and made my way down the path. I got halfway before I realised something was wrong. It was too quiet, something didn’t feel right. On the decking was something grey; it was my Dad’s anorak, and my Dad was wearing it; slumped there on his back. I think I screamed “Dad”, I pulled out my phone and dialled 999. I screamed that I needed an ambulance. This wasn’t good, I knew it wasn’t good. Was he breathing? I cried that I didn’t know, that I thought they were too late. Could I see his chest moving up and down. No. No. No. I remember the operator telling me to take a deep breath. “It’s my Dad” I screamed, knowing in my heart that he was already gone. His face, his expression – it wasn’t him anymore [yet now that’s all I can see; somebody tell me how to unsee it?]. Somehow, I tried to follow instructions; the zip was stuck on his coat, I couldn’t move it to reach his chest;my hands were shaking. I needed to be brave. I remember pulling his coat and jumper up and  thinking this was wrong. This was my Dad. I sobbed, thinking I’d be sick. And then I saw a figure  a couple of plots away; a man I’ve talked to on occasion about planting things and chickens. I screamed for him to help me.Next thing, he’s following the operators CPR instructions whilst I’m running to the local school for their defibrilator, repeating the code I’ve been given all the time. I’m wearing these big clumpy boots and I can hardly breathe for panic. I’m trying to run but I can’t seem to move fast enough;I’m cumbersome and flailing. I remember the dryness in my throat as I periodically yelled “help me,someone help me” until a teacher from the school came to meet me and fetched the defibrilator once I’d correctly remembered the code. The run back was longer, I contemplated ditching the boots and running in my socks. I’m back on the decking, with my Dad splayed there, his chest being pounded by dear Andrew, whose brow is drenched  with sweat. He tells me not to watch, to go and wait for the ambulance.

I run back to the gateway, yelling at the ambulance which has gone the wrong way. I’m really sobbing now, telling them they’re too late. “It’s my Dad” I keep saying, interspersed with “Oh my God”, “he was on his own” and “No,No,No”. I’m sitting in the mud rocking, willing it to all be a nightmare. A policewoman is there, tapping my shoulder, asking if I want to sit in her car. “He’s gone” I tell her, remembering what I saw. The paramedics  are working on him, Andrew returns my phone and says they are giving it 25 minutes. It can’t be real. This is my Dad; my beloved, kind, generous Dad. We were meant to be laughing and talking, and making plans for raised beds.

We have the blue lights flashing in the police car as we follow the ambulance. I feel sick. It’s mostly silent, other than a call to my aunt to check she’s with my mother; telling her the bare essentials; that I found my Dad collapsed at the allotment and we are on our way to hospital. I’m ushered into one of those family rooms with crocheted prayer squares and multiple boxes of tissues. I don’t know how long we were there for, but it seemed an eternity. When the doctor arrived, he didn’t need to tell me the outcome. I’m handed a book on bereavement, and I ask for my Dads things; his watch, his stuff, his £7.48 change in his pockets, his wedding ring, his keys. Did I want his shoes? I don’t know. Do I? I don’t think I want his shoes. I give this question too much thought,unable to quite take it in.

We don’t have the blue lights on on the way back. I’m trying to work out how to tell my Mum, who is home packing a hospital bag for my Dad, who she presumed had tripped on something and injured himself. The kind policelady comes in with me. I hide the booklet on bereavement and the envelope inside my jacket. “I’m so sorry” I said, “there was nothing they could do.”

I try to close my eyes and I’m  there, walking innocently down the pathway to the allotment. In my mind everything was perfect until I see the anorak, his outline;lying there. My Dad,my Dad,my Dad. I can’t yet cry; can’t yet think -it’s just the location; the vacuum of my discovery.

I find  a bag in the back of my Dad’s car with my milk and bread,and some juice for Freddie. He was always dropping things in for us; and it struck me as I carried the bag up the stairs to my flat, that this would be the last Daddy care package I would ever receive. Never again would I see my Dad, hear his voice, enjoy his company. I find myself looking at innocuous object thinking “the last time I used that my Dad was here, things were normal.” – and things will never be the same again.

This journey of grief is in its infancy. I don’t know how I will get through it; but my little boy – the apple of his Grandad’s eye, is my reason for plodding on in the fog. My Dad was such a good man; he helped me so much; to his last breath he was helping me. I couldn’t have asked for more,and whatever the future holds it will be lacking something incredibly special.

 

 

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2016 – mixed, but survived …

For this first Blog of 2017 I’m sitting in bed with a mug of hot Ribena, whilst my teething snotty little boy naps in his cot – his faithful kitten curled up beside him. It’s quite nice, being snug in bed listening to the rain pitter patter against the windows. I was meant to go to Cheltenham racing today, but it hasn’t happened, and I’m not overly disappointed. My bets are placed though, and I may catch some ITV racing action later. I saw in 2017 around a log burner with good conversation and company whilst Fredders successfully slept in a travel cot upstairs [the kid is getting good].

We survived Christmas relatively unscathed but the lounge is now even more like a Smyths Toys outlet.

2016 seemed to rattle past at an alarming speed. This time last year I still had a baby, and now I have a bustling soon to be two year old – who never fails to make me smile. My heart could burst at the fun, the cheekiness, the giggle, of this little boy. This little boy whose feet grew a whole size in a month and is now sporting a very grown up size 7.

2016 saw the acquisition of an allotment, 3 [now 2] chickens, Percy Pickle the cat, a new car, a week in Woolacombe, a week in Pembrokeshire, days at Badminton Horse Trials, In the Night Garden Live, ThomasLand, the Safari Park. It saw Freddie starting a new wonderful nursery [Mayfield House, I love you], Freddie’s first Cambridge Formal Hall, his first proper pony rides [and a donkey on the beach at Weston!], winning “best dressed bear” for Bear Grylls at the NCT teddy bears picnic, and finally learning to SLEEP for more than 2 hours in a row. On the downside, we had a long, difficult summer with my father incarcerated in the QE awaiting a new heart. The long car journeys and the anxieties watching someone you love so poorly, was quite stressful – and I’m very glad to have Dad home again. Mum was diagnosed with Parkinsons which has also taken its toll.

It’s not always easy, this single parenthood malarkey; but it’s definitely worth it. I can hardly remember what it was like not to have Freddie in my world …

Hello 2017 … lets do this.