My Dad died

My Dad died.

It took me a pretty long time to be able to say that.

I grew up in the most typical of families you could probably think of. My Dad a well know Builder in our village, and my Mum a teacher at the local Nursery. I have a Brother 2 years younger than me who played football on a Saturday whilst Mum and I went and rode horses. We would all visit Grandparents religiously on a Sunday morning, and have a 2 week holiday to Greece every summer. We are an extremely close family. I went to Uni and came home almost every weekend (I won’t lie, it was to ride and compete, but I also loved seeing my family too!), and when I graduated I listened to my friends struggling living back with their parents, but I loved it.

I was 22, and I had just returned from a week in New York. My Mum phoned me and asked who was with me. I’m sure everyone has had that sort of phone call – someone rings you during the day when they wouldn’t normally, or the person on the other end of the phone says “are you sitting down”. I hate the thought of someone else going through what I had to go through when my Mum rang me that evening. She told me that my Dad had died whilst out on a motorbike ride with my Uncle that morning. I would have been on the plane over the Atlantic at that time – my flight was delayed.

We drove back home. The level of disbelief was something I had never experienced before. I was sad, but it wasn’t on the level of sadness I expected – I didn’t know how to react, we were all in complete shock. Moments happened within the next 2 weeks which I would never wish upon anyone. I picked songs to play at his funeral. I sat in the kitchen going through his iTunes playlist listening to all the songs we would hear playing loud from his computer or in his van – how do I decide what song should be played when we enter the chapel? I slept in my Mum's bed for days and went through stages of being OK to not being OK. We saw him, and I hope to God I never have to see another dead body in my life. Nothing can prepare you for that. The funeral director walked on foot down our lane, and through the village, whilst we sat in the back of the hearse. Everyone in the village stopped. My Brother, Uncle and close friends of my Dad carried him through the crematorium on their shoulders – I cannot begin to imagine how my brother felt doing that. People were spilling out of the doors, there were hundreds there. I watched as the rugby club sang at the top of their voices the songs I used to hear them sing when I was little, and we placed flowers in the middle of the pitch.

I can count on my left hand how many people I know who, at my age, have lost a parent. I couldn’t relate to anyone, and also found I couldn’t sympathise with anyone anymore, because I felt that I had gone through something much worse – which I know isn’t the case, but it’s how I felt. Similarly, I didn’t want sympathy. There’s also the feeling of blame. I couldn’t blame Cancer, I couldn’t blame another driver, I couldn’t blame a natural disaster or old age. The speed on my Dad's hat cam which was recovered by the police was over 100mph. I went through a big stage of blaming him, thinking ‘how selfish could he be’, ‘how stupid to be driving so fast’ but then who else has ever broken the law? Who else has just gone that little bit too far when doing something you love? I certainly have.

I want to raise the physical pain of losing someone, not just the emotional which everyone thinks about. But I am not sure if I can describe it. The first is holding back from crying – the pain in the back of my throat is unbearable, its like the pressure is building and only letting myself cry can release it. It feels like my tongue is swelling up, I take a few really deep breaths in and out. The second is the dull ache in my chest/body when I think about it, like the feeling when you have done something wrong at work and you haven’t told anyone yet. I suppose it’s a form of anxiety? I didn’t know what grief or bereavement was before my Dad died. My family are very much a ‘put on a brave face’, ‘live life to the full’ type. It works for us. I found people telling me how I should be feeling, and I felt guilty for smiling. People would say, “you haven’t grieved, you need to let yourself be sad, it’s good for you”. How anyone thinks that they know what is good for another person is beyond me, but I have learnt over the years that grief is very complex and is so very different for each and every one of us.

For about 3 or 4 years I put a lid on my Dad. I didn’t say his name, I didn’t speak about him. I thought about him every day (I still do), but my way of coping was to carry on as if this just a bump in the road. For me, my grief came later, and around about the time I had some big changes going on in my life – my mum had met a new partner, and I was buying my first home. In my head, my mums new partner was pushing my Dad away, I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to him yet and I wasn’t ready to think about it either. My thoughts made my Mums life (and my families life) pretty tough, as it made us have to face what we had been hiding head on. I had 10 sessions of bereavement counselling. Nothing can make you ‘feel better’ in these situations – I am carrying this weight for life – but learning about how to talk about my Dad, and understanding that what I was feeling was completely normal, was such a relief. The first sessions were traumatic, but I eventually managed to get more confident in talking about my Dad. Because I had so much time not thinking about him, I thought I had forgotten what he looked like, what he sounded like, what he smelt like. I didn’t spend my whole 22 years of life with him savouring every moment – because why would you? With the help of my counseller, we put together a scrap book of pictures and cards, which made me look through old picture albums with my family – something we had never done before then. I look at it every now and then, and I cry at the cards, and laugh at the pictures. I can (sometimes) play the songs we played at his funeral loud in my car and sing the lyrics at the top of my voice. (Coldplay – Clocks, and Temper Trap – Sweet Disposition)

I would be lying if I said I was OK about it all. I probably still hide it more than I should. Unless you knew me when my Dad died, you’d have to guess that, because I only talk about “my mums house” or “I’m going on holiday with my mum and brother”, My Dad is no longer here. As I have progressed through my life and the years pass by, I have again found it harder to tell people. I admire those who can just drop something like that into conversation without sounding awkward, and I know straight away where I stand. I understand I might make it difficult for people when I don’t mention him at all – they can only assume. I vividly remember a colleague’s reaction once when they asked about my Dad. She asked a question about him as if he was alive, and then carried on the conversation. It was SO refreshing.

When I go through a trauma or a difficult time, animals and routine are the first thing I turn to. They are a place of comfort for me. I have said before that Pepsi has got me through some of my hardest times in my life, and I don’t mean it lightly. When I have had a bad day or just need to space on my own, I go up to the yard and watch him in his stable eating his haynet. That sound is so peaceful. We go out for long hacks in the sunshine and I tell him all my secrets and all my worries and he listens, and I feel lighter. If I could give any ‘advice’ about going through a difficult time (or simply everyday life), having a routine is definitely up there, along with something to look forward to. Anyone who knows me well, knows I pack so much into my days, and weekends – I prefer to be busy. I live for a competition or event at the weekend, and pack in a lesson on a weekday evening, or a practice in the arena before the sun rises. Having the drive to get up and go, and putting pressure on myself to do well, helps me when I have a lot on my mind. I am so proud of what I have achieved with Pepsi over the years, particularly during the most difficult times.

As a family, we have been through a lot in these 6 years without my Dad;

My Mum's 50th birthday

My Brother's 21st birthday

Getting my dream job

Losing Sam, our family dog, after 14 years

Our house flooded

Both his parents turning 80

Buying my first home

Passing my trailer test

Qualifying for multiple championships with Pepsi

A&E trips from “those bloody horses”

Buying a new car

My Brother getting a girlfriend (and moving out)

My Grandma had breast cancer and recovered

Numerous trips to hospital with grandparents

Losing my Nan – his mum

Getting promotions

My boyfriend qualifying as an accountant

I ran a half marathon

I got 2 kittens, my brother got a dog

Yes he has physically missed all of these life events, all of these ups and downs, all of these things a father should be involved with in their child’s life. But he was with me for all of it, in my mind, every second of every day. He was there when I did my first bit of DIY on my new house – because he probably would have wanted to build me one himself. He was there when I had to do a 3 point turn with the horse trailer on a country lane by myself (a lovely lady actually shouted to me “why don’t you call your Dad?” Oh if only she knew). He was there when I got my job I wanted, and he is there when we still holiday to Greece every year.

The 30th November is a date which will never leave my mind. The day itself is never too bad. The day before is worse. The day after I feel relief.

This quote always finds me this time of year. My difficulty with talking about my Dad is described here, in all its glory. I read this, take a deep breath and can proudly say – DAD

“Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was. I am I, and you are you, and the old life we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. Call me by the old familiar name. Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference in your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that is always was. Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of shadow upon it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is absolute and unbroken continuity. What is death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just around the corner. All is well

All is well.”