HEART BEAT: In memory of the good times, the real people and the happiness of times past
THE NATIONAL goose is being cooked and there is precious little any of us lesser mortals can do about it. Unfortunately the cook doesn’t seem to have much of a clue and God only knows what kind of an unpalatable mess is going to land on our table. Right now I intend to ignore all the problems of the present and retreat into the past. It seems safer there.
My father died on Christmas Day, 30 years ago at four o’clock in the afternoon. Given that we all have to depart some time, he chose to go in an unforgettable manner. My parents had a flat with us in Blackrock and on that morning we had all gone to my sister’s house for drinks.
He was in fine form, his three children and all his grandchildren were there. He had his few drinks and smoked a few cigarettes and was in the best of form. I might add that he had smoked 40 a day since going to sea in the merchant marine as a young man. He never had the slightest inclination to stop.
He was a fit man for his years (84) and was still driving competently. He also liked a drink with friends, the odd game of cards and he loved to go fishing. He didn’t seem the kind of person who would die and certainly I, as his only son, never thought about a time when he might not be around. He was just there, an immovable fixture, deeply loved by us all. As is often the case of course we did not tell him that; it would have made him deeply uncomfortable and he might have wondered had we some ulterior motive, babysitting duties perhaps.
Christmas dinner was scheduled for four o'clock that afternoon and all was in readiness. About half an hour before the start my mother rang from the granny flat to say that he wasn't well and seemed to have severe abdominal pain. I went up to him and found him in extremis. To this day I am not sure if he knew I was there. He tried to slip away quietly but we wouldn't let him. The HA and I tried to resuscitate him and phoned for an ambulance. We knew in our hearts he had left us, but we had to try. God might have made a mistake.
In the midst of our efforts our two elder sons appeared to announce that their electronic Christmas present wasn’t working. What are you doing to Grandad? Not enough, what could we do, we were helpless.
The paramedics arrived and took my dad away to St Vincent’s. They were great guys, strong and sympathetic; indeed this has been my overriding impression of ambulance personnel over the years. I returned from the hospital after the formalities and we had our Christmas dinner. It was surreal, paper hats, crackers, trying to explain to my mother and to our children what had happened when in truth we couldn’t grasp it ourselves. Then a blur of family, of memories, of tears and regrets; we should have told this gentle nice man how much he had meant to us all and suddenly he was gone and it was too late.
Our Sara was just a little one when her grandfather died and he had been very fond of her. She left just as suddenly and it is our hope that they are together. These are sad memories at Christmas, but you just can’t have the happy reflections and ignore the rest of life. What we can do is remember the good times and the real people and the happiness of times past.
I think of my father of course particularly at this time of year and of the good times we had. His reluctance to leave the river bank while there was the remotest chance that another trout might be caught was legendary. I remember his unchristian satisfaction at the death of a doctor who some 20 years before had told him that he only had a year to live. This story was worn out by repetition to medical friends and family.
You were a lifestyle nightmare Dad. You were overweight, had high blood pressure and ate all the wrong things. You worried more than anybody I ever knew about any matter, however trivial. Yet you made it to 84 without serious illness. I hope I carry your genes and I hope I am half the man you were.