I'll never not be amazed by the ability of a song to capture an emotion, a feeling so impeccably. In that respect, I think I'm like my Dad. I remember his passion for music vividly. The tortured warbling of Eric Clapton soothed his soul on many a journey in his green Mazda 636 or the silver Audi that preceded it. I mention the cars because I remember them. And my memories of my Dad, be it the songs he loved or the cars he drove dwindle with each day that passes since he left, so I hold each one dear.
One such song that captures an emotion so completely for me is "Unfamiliar Ceilings" by Fightstar. Those first 45 seconds. Click & listen, please, just for less than a minute: that gloomy guitar hook, the hollow monotone sound, that sense bleak resignation. My Dad is gone and this is what the void he left behind feels like:
Hold on to the ones you love. There won't be time to show enough"
What do you do to mark the 15th anniversary of the day one of the 2 human beings who created and molded you left this planet? It is just a day. June 29th will come and go for everyone who reads this and will probably be a day just like the 28th and the 30th. And it will be the same for me. But that isn't good enough. On this day of all days, he must be remembered, right?
There is a famous quote that says 'living well is the best revenge' and I would like to steal it and paraphrase here - living well is the best tribute I could ever give him. As a parent myself, I can't think of much that would make me prouder. But my Dad had a huge ego too, which has been passed down a generation and somehow I think he would want everyone thinking of him and talking about him today so if nothing else, I will make sure that happens!
I was 17 years and 39 days old when Dessie's heart gave way to a massive heart attack. I'm 32 years and 39 days now. I know I have thought about him at least 5479 times since because that's how many days that have passed and there is not one on which I haven't thought about him many times. We are fast approaching the point that I will have been here longer without him than with him. Grief is like a well that fills up again as soon as you empty it so I don't believe I will ever be 'over' it but I believe that I've come to terms with the reality of his life and death now. It's funny, I think my relationship with him developed more in the ten years after his death than the ten before. As with anyone who dies young, for the first few years after he went, I deified him. Loss and sorrow and longing for a person puts rose tints on your memories, and I was very young in June of 2001. As the next four or five years passed and I was drinking heavier and heavier, he just became a story for me to tell, something to enable my habit. I was comfortable with the misery. It was my story. When I came out of that part of my life, sobered up and cleared my head, a huge shift happened. I became angry. Furious. If you knew my Dad, you'll know that alcohol played a huge part in his death. I had drank every day for 5 years when I went into AA and entering recovery so young was a terrifying prospect, which took great bravery and courage. It stung me to realize that my Dad had twice as much time as I'd had to take ownership of his life and curb his habit but hadn't done so. I blamed him. "If I could do it for myself, why couldn't you do it for me, Niall and Tracey?" I thought. As time went on the anger subsided and eventually I came to a peace with things. Sure, my Dad had a drinking problem and he never addressed it. But his parents were traditionalists and as such his mind was closed to concepts like recovery & AA. I am pretty sure that he went to his grave not believing he had a major issue. I was lucky. My mom brought great awareness into my life around recovery and facing yourself rather than running from yourself. My mind was still malleable to those thoughts in my teens and early twenties. By the time he got to 40, he was set in his ways. And so I came to the place we are now. My Dad was a complicated and flawed human being, like me. Like you, in all probability. He did the best that he could with the skill set he had. That took him to aged 45 and no further. I am not angry. I am just sad. Some days - like today - really sad.
My grief has, for a number of years, focused not on missing who he was, but longing for and wondering who he would be now. MT's father once confided in her that having a grandkid was like an extra reward for the years you put into being a parent - like parenting with all the fun but none of the hassles. I can think of no one better to fill that role than Des Murphy. My Dad loved to have fun and he would have relished every moment with his granddaughters. I have saccharine memories of summer nights when Dad would come home from work and we would kick a ball around outside the house. Dad was always running somewhere but when you could get him still and present with you in the moment just for long enough, he was magic, just the best. He was my Dad. I miss him so much. Tears run down my cheeks at the thought.
I still have never been able to accept the hand that fate had in everything, all the above said. I don't wonder who he would be had he not had his heart attack in 2001. I wonder who he would be had he never fallen down the stairs in 1998 and fractured his skull and ended up in a coma, waking up 12 weeks later and wishing me a "Happy christmas 1978!", not even knowing who I was when he told me. There are a lot of things, bad choices, that were his responsibility and he has to bear that. But fate was cruel to him and all of us that day. That year was the worst of them all. In spite of the fact he had shown no improvement whatsoever in 6+ months, for whatever reason, I never allowed myself to consciously ponder the possibility that he wasn't going to make a miraculous full recovery. That this was just my Dad now wasn't something I could fathom. Mum took Niall and I into town to buy us presents that October. I had no idea why. When we were getting out of the car just off Abbey St, she casually presented us with the news that the doctor thought there was a good chance he "may never get better". You could've knocked me over with a feather. I just had never considered it. And it shattered me.
If he had never fallen down those stairs, I believe he would still be here now. The accident accelerated his drinking and smoking because he could no longer work and his friends, for the most part, abandoned him. His entire identity had been his job and his marriage and being stripped of both in such humiliating circumstances sent him spiraling. The final 3 years of his life were horrifying and I make no bones about saying that. I would arrive at his house to see him sitting in the same spot, his kitchen chair by the radio, can of dutch gold in one hand, cigarette in the other. This once proud, powerful, witty, handsome man reduced to a sad, obese, unkempt, mentally challenged figure. I'm not being mean here. That's who he was.
If he hadn't fallen down those stairs, would he be a proud grandparent to three beautiful girls today? Would Niall, Tracey and myself all work in Hales Freight, the family business? Would this fractured family unit be close in any way, shape or form? Would he still be in Hales or would he be retired? Would he have remarried? What would he look like? How would he and I get on? Would he be proud of me?
Like the song says - Hold on to the ones you love. There won't be time to show enough.
Dad, I don't know how I commemorate you today. I don't know if I can do you justice. If I can, I don't know exactly how. For now, living well is the best that I have to offer. If you were here now, I would say thank you. Every time I look in the mirror, I see your face. When I'm the most passionate guy in the room and people love me for it, I know that's your genes. When Liverpool have one of those rare Anfield nights where everything goes right and the crowd is bellowing You'll Never Walk Alone at full time, and I'm drinking in every second, I know that's you in me. And when I look at my beautiful daughters face, I see your smile, your joy, and your sense of fun.
You are gone, but you are not forgotten, and I will see to it that you never, ever will be.
YNWA
One such song that captures an emotion so completely for me is "Unfamiliar Ceilings" by Fightstar. Those first 45 seconds. Click & listen, please, just for less than a minute: that gloomy guitar hook, the hollow monotone sound, that sense bleak resignation. My Dad is gone and this is what the void he left behind feels like:
"Some of us will learn
What none of us should know...
Smoke will fill this room
There'll be nothing left to show.
Hold on to the ones you love. There won't be time to show enough"
There is a famous quote that says 'living well is the best revenge' and I would like to steal it and paraphrase here - living well is the best tribute I could ever give him. As a parent myself, I can't think of much that would make me prouder. But my Dad had a huge ego too, which has been passed down a generation and somehow I think he would want everyone thinking of him and talking about him today so if nothing else, I will make sure that happens!
I was 17 years and 39 days old when Dessie's heart gave way to a massive heart attack. I'm 32 years and 39 days now. I know I have thought about him at least 5479 times since because that's how many days that have passed and there is not one on which I haven't thought about him many times. We are fast approaching the point that I will have been here longer without him than with him. Grief is like a well that fills up again as soon as you empty it so I don't believe I will ever be 'over' it but I believe that I've come to terms with the reality of his life and death now. It's funny, I think my relationship with him developed more in the ten years after his death than the ten before. As with anyone who dies young, for the first few years after he went, I deified him. Loss and sorrow and longing for a person puts rose tints on your memories, and I was very young in June of 2001. As the next four or five years passed and I was drinking heavier and heavier, he just became a story for me to tell, something to enable my habit. I was comfortable with the misery. It was my story. When I came out of that part of my life, sobered up and cleared my head, a huge shift happened. I became angry. Furious. If you knew my Dad, you'll know that alcohol played a huge part in his death. I had drank every day for 5 years when I went into AA and entering recovery so young was a terrifying prospect, which took great bravery and courage. It stung me to realize that my Dad had twice as much time as I'd had to take ownership of his life and curb his habit but hadn't done so. I blamed him. "If I could do it for myself, why couldn't you do it for me, Niall and Tracey?" I thought. As time went on the anger subsided and eventually I came to a peace with things. Sure, my Dad had a drinking problem and he never addressed it. But his parents were traditionalists and as such his mind was closed to concepts like recovery & AA. I am pretty sure that he went to his grave not believing he had a major issue. I was lucky. My mom brought great awareness into my life around recovery and facing yourself rather than running from yourself. My mind was still malleable to those thoughts in my teens and early twenties. By the time he got to 40, he was set in his ways. And so I came to the place we are now. My Dad was a complicated and flawed human being, like me. Like you, in all probability. He did the best that he could with the skill set he had. That took him to aged 45 and no further. I am not angry. I am just sad. Some days - like today - really sad.
My grief has, for a number of years, focused not on missing who he was, but longing for and wondering who he would be now. MT's father once confided in her that having a grandkid was like an extra reward for the years you put into being a parent - like parenting with all the fun but none of the hassles. I can think of no one better to fill that role than Des Murphy. My Dad loved to have fun and he would have relished every moment with his granddaughters. I have saccharine memories of summer nights when Dad would come home from work and we would kick a ball around outside the house. Dad was always running somewhere but when you could get him still and present with you in the moment just for long enough, he was magic, just the best. He was my Dad. I miss him so much. Tears run down my cheeks at the thought.
I still have never been able to accept the hand that fate had in everything, all the above said. I don't wonder who he would be had he not had his heart attack in 2001. I wonder who he would be had he never fallen down the stairs in 1998 and fractured his skull and ended up in a coma, waking up 12 weeks later and wishing me a "Happy christmas 1978!", not even knowing who I was when he told me. There are a lot of things, bad choices, that were his responsibility and he has to bear that. But fate was cruel to him and all of us that day. That year was the worst of them all. In spite of the fact he had shown no improvement whatsoever in 6+ months, for whatever reason, I never allowed myself to consciously ponder the possibility that he wasn't going to make a miraculous full recovery. That this was just my Dad now wasn't something I could fathom. Mum took Niall and I into town to buy us presents that October. I had no idea why. When we were getting out of the car just off Abbey St, she casually presented us with the news that the doctor thought there was a good chance he "may never get better". You could've knocked me over with a feather. I just had never considered it. And it shattered me.
If he had never fallen down those stairs, I believe he would still be here now. The accident accelerated his drinking and smoking because he could no longer work and his friends, for the most part, abandoned him. His entire identity had been his job and his marriage and being stripped of both in such humiliating circumstances sent him spiraling. The final 3 years of his life were horrifying and I make no bones about saying that. I would arrive at his house to see him sitting in the same spot, his kitchen chair by the radio, can of dutch gold in one hand, cigarette in the other. This once proud, powerful, witty, handsome man reduced to a sad, obese, unkempt, mentally challenged figure. I'm not being mean here. That's who he was.
If he hadn't fallen down those stairs, would he be a proud grandparent to three beautiful girls today? Would Niall, Tracey and myself all work in Hales Freight, the family business? Would this fractured family unit be close in any way, shape or form? Would he still be in Hales or would he be retired? Would he have remarried? What would he look like? How would he and I get on? Would he be proud of me?
Like the song says - Hold on to the ones you love. There won't be time to show enough.
Dad, I don't know how I commemorate you today. I don't know if I can do you justice. If I can, I don't know exactly how. For now, living well is the best that I have to offer. If you were here now, I would say thank you. Every time I look in the mirror, I see your face. When I'm the most passionate guy in the room and people love me for it, I know that's your genes. When Liverpool have one of those rare Anfield nights where everything goes right and the crowd is bellowing You'll Never Walk Alone at full time, and I'm drinking in every second, I know that's you in me. And when I look at my beautiful daughters face, I see your smile, your joy, and your sense of fun.
You are gone, but you are not forgotten, and I will see to it that you never, ever will be.
YNWA
