One last letter...

Written by Gerard on Tuesday 14 July 2009

I don't think I've called you 'father' in years. I adopted the monkier of 'Chib' for you after years of cleaning chimneys together. It got shortened and distorted from 'chimney sweep', didn't it? But it stuck. My nicknames always stick.

The point is, you're gone now, and everything you are or were has been added up: father, friend, protector, provider, verbal sparring partner, simultaneously my biggest supporter and critic, grandfather to my children and so much more. And all that you were is suddenly taken away. For such an unassuming guy, the void you left behind is incredible.

I thought the worst of it was watching you in pain. Suffering, declining. Your legs and arms getting thinner until the skin wrinkled around your joints. Your hacking cough that would overtake speech and leave us unable to talk. And those dreadful, painful sores that covered your tongue because of the oxygen. One of your sisters put it brilliantly in the obituary column: "a short tragic death, suffered with dignity" or words to that effect.

And for a brief while after you died, we were consumed with arrangements: wakes, funerals and paperwork. Still are. I felt strangely disconnected from your body in the coffin. You looked overdressed in that suit. I could see discolouration starting to creep in. I often wonder that people find comfort in visiting graves when the person they loved is decaying beneath their feet. What strange customs we have. All of it reminded me that you were gone.

As we settle back into our daily routines for the first time since Lourdes, there's a claustrophobic shroud of sadness wrapped around me. Is this grief? Well, it pulsates from a numbness, a staring into the distance to a silent scream that seems to rise from deep within me. At its worst, it feels like every part of me, man and boy is ridden with anguish at the loss of a father. Memories replay themselves in my head - childhood memories, recollections of the hospital, times we laughed together, times when we frustrated each other. Life. Yours and mine.

And it's not just the memories that bring sadness. It's the cruelty of being denied any type of future with you. You'll never phone again on a Sunday night for a chat. When we call at Ballycastle, there won't be any sparring over whose turn it is to buy some beers. The children won't remember much about the grandfather who used to chase them around the house. I'll never received another of those awkward emails that ends with "That is all for now." And so your legacy diminishes. Like your mother before you, who will remember you when my generation vanishes?

You were such a funny man to know. Your life was never complicated or ambitious, yet I always felt you regretted coming out of work to care for my mother. Ironically, the more you did for her, the more hopeless she became. It surprised us all when she raised her game to be at your bedside throughout your illness. I know how much you enjoyed your work, you helped so many people. While most of the world these days is seeking fame and fortune, you were making a difference to people close to you.

We got a short time in the hospital. Two months to say our goodbyes, although we expected more. Perhaps a few more months. I hope that I managed to show you how much you matter to me. As a family, we were never great about sharing our feelings, but cancer is a game changer. Back when you were well, I'd bear-hug you, just to make you uncomfortable.

But all of that's over now. All of us, we have to get used to you being part of our past. It's like we were all travelling along nicely together and you stopped abruptly.  We've continued on, and the only way we can see you is in looking back. I'll miss our conversations, and I'll miss making fun of you and all of that history we had together. I'll miss showing you how to do things on computer and fixing the printer that you managed to break at least once a week.

Most of all though...I'll miss you.