I wrote a few blog posts after my Dad died in January (intro, first, second, third). I’ve just looked back at them, and the last was written just eight days after he passed away. Though I now know that time gets very, very twisted during such an emotionally traumatic time, it still strikes me as a sligtly odd thing to have done so soon after he died. Completely cathartic though. And I’m glad I did. But it might have been a bit indulgent. This post probably is, too.

It’s been a few months since Dad passed away, and I’ll admit that, at times, it’s been far from easy. But – and it’s an extraordinary thing to say when you’ve lost a parent – I feel today as though I’ve come through things in a more positive place. I’m (hopefully) a better person for the things I’ve learned. And that only makes me feel more love for Dad because in his death (and, let’s face it, we’re all going to get there) he helped that to happen. That’s an amazing parting gift.

The photo below (excuse the quality) was from last month, a family gathering in London. It wasn’t until I was looking at the picture later that day that I noticed the gap, right next to my daughter, where Dad might have been. That’s not a sad thing, by the way (though it did make me cry at the time); he’d have been delighted that we were geting together and having fun. That’s the first positive: we’ve made more effort to get together as a family in the past few months, and it’s a lovely thing. In fact my Mum and my daughter are currently away on a fantastic trip together. And again, that’s something that probably wouldn’t have happened had Dad still been with us.

Here are a few things I’ve either learned (or been reminded of) since Dad died:

1. Family and friends. Blood might be thicker, but water keeps us alive.

Of course, since Dad died, the support I’ve received from (and hopefully give to) family members has been critical. But Mum and Dad had friends who had known them for decades – many more than 50 years – who they spent more time with than family and with whom they created amazing memories. It’s easy to focus all the attention on immediate family when someone dies, but close friends need support as well, because they feel the loss as keenly as any of us. And helping them, helps you too.

I’ve always felt blessed to have some very good friends. Over the past months I’ve discovered how incredible many of them are. And not just those I’ve had for years. Some of the most supportive, helpful friends have been those I’ve met more recently, often through work, and often because of their own similar experience. It would be too long a list of people to write here, but I hope they know who they are. All I do know is that, when they need me, I’ll be there for them too.

But I won’t wait for them to ask, because…

2. “Is there anything I can do?” is a bloody useless question.

It’s entirely well-meaning, of course, and bless people for it, but when you’re in the midst of grieving for a parent, you have absolutely no idea what anyone else might be able to do to help. But I get it, and I’m sure I’d have asked the same thing, because most people have no idea what they might possibly be able to do to help, either. So it’s a bit of a Catch-22.

A couple of people didn’t ask, though. They just arranged things and asked me if I might fancy joining them. I did, and it helped. Enormously. The key thing, though, is not to make it a group activity. This isn’t about cheering you up with a bunch of mates, it’s about an opportunity to spend time with someone who cares, and who will happily spend an evening listening to you talk about your Dad, and to let you cry without awkwardness or judgement, or simply to help you escape for a few hours.

I’ve got a feeling it’s something maybe women had worked out a while ago, but it’s less natural for us fellas. And not all your male friends will feel comfortable doing it (though most probably will to be fair). But it’s invaluable, as we’re (thankfully) talking more and more openly about in relation to mental health, depression and suicide.

3. Perspective

Excuse my language but, fuck me, I’ve gained some perspective on what’s important to me. In short:

• Spend as much time as possible with people who enrich your life (inside and outside work) and doing things which fulfil you. Time is the most precious commodity we’ve got. Try not to waste it.
• Look for the positive. Don’t be a moaner. Search out solutions. Take responsibility for your own happiness. Be prepared to make changes.
• If given the chance, help someone else out. You’ll derive as much benefit as they do. Probably more. That can be as small a thing as giving someone directions in the street (I love giving people directions in the street).
• Invest in experiences, not stuff. We need less than we think. But when you do buy stuff, buy things you’ll want to keep forever.
• Exercise. And do so outside whenever possible.
• Drink less, but of better quality.
• Get more sleep.
• When given a choice, do the right thing.
• You always have a choice.

To everyone who’s helped me over the past few months, thank you.

Mark xx

 

An old friend told me a lovely story about my Dad a few months ago. I’d completely forgotten about it – indeed, at the time it probably didn’t even register with me – but to my friend is was a small gesture that he appreciated enormously, and held as a mark of what made Dad so special.

I would have been in my early-20s – my friend the same – and I was selling my cherished Fiat Strada 105 TC. Now, the Fiat Strada wasn’t a particularly well-loved car, but the 105 TC was a different story. Or at least its engine was: a fantastic 1.6 litre, double overhead camshaft, 4-cylinder gem. The body, obviously, being a 1980s Fiat, would eventually rust into dust, but that motor…

Anyway, eventually I decided to sell the car, and my friend said he’d be keen to buy it. No problem, he knew the car, knew me, easy deal. For whatever reason, when he came to pick it up I wasn’t there to hand over the keys, but Dad was.

The point of this story is that, when my Dad realised that the car’s fuel tank was only a quarter full, he insisted on going to the local petrol station to fill it up for the new owner.

I mean, who does that?! It was a small gesture of goodwill that has stuck with my friend for more than 25 years.

Little things make a big difference.

It was only doing things for other people though. Dad was born in 1940, and grew up during and after the Second World War in ‘Austerity Britain’. He comes from a generation that looks after things, that makes things last, that fixes rather than replaces (and more on that in a future post).

Dad knew that small bits of regular maintenance would pay dividends in the future. He’d always clean the lawnmower and garden tools immediately after using them, not leaving mud and grass to dry and solidify which would make the job 10 times harder the next time he wanted to use them, and extend their life. He’d also regularly check the levels and pressures on the family’s cars, which he was also diligent about cleaning, and gently point out that I might have been less than attentive myself (“I put a touch of air in your cars tyres…seemed a little soft to me”).

It doesn’t take much effort to make a small gesture that has a big impact. That’s been so evident to me in the days following his recent death. Numerous text messages, emails, calls, and social media comments offering condolence, support, help. A few seconds to write and send, but they’ve meant so much.

I read something recently somewhere on social media which I think fits. A post which highlighted that many works of fiction are based on the premise that people travel back in time and make a tiny change that has a big impact in the future (think Back to the Future I, II, and III…), but few people believe that doing something tiny today will have a huge effect down the line.

Seems worth a try though.

 

 (This is the part of a series of lessons I’ve learnt from my Dad. Find the backstory here, and other lessons can be found here.)

I’m not going to claim that Dad had a permanent grin on his face, or was a bundle of laughs all day every day. He could be incredibly serious, a bit stern, sometimes grumpy and had even been known to get a bit angry (though not very frequently). But a smile was never far away and, either consciously or subconsciously, he knew the power of a smile in easing social interaction, whether in business or elsewhere.

I guess it’s to do with putting people at ease. Walk into a room of strangers with a smile on your face, and people will immediately warm to you, and gravitate towards you. Friendliness, openness and appearing approachable are incredibly useful in forming relationships and building networks. A smile costs nothing, and the return can be huge. If nothing else, smiling will make you feel better in yourself (as will, in my view, whistling and skipping, though the latter is difficult to pull off in public).

This is scientific fact: the act of smiling makes you feel happier. How’s that for a life hack?

It’s difficult to find a photo of Dad where he’s not smiling. That may sound a silly thing to say – after all, it’s traditional to smile in a photo – but with Dad, he had an approach to being photographed which always resulted in him having a big, cheerful grin on his face. If he knew he was being photographed, just before the shutter was pressed, he’d give a little laugh. Nobody had told a joke and there may not have been anything specific to be laughing about, but he knew that in doing so he’d be photographed with a sunny smile.

The photo above is a great example. It was taken Mum and Dad’s Golden Wedding celebration at the Jockey Club in Newmarket. And though he may have used his little chuckle technique, given he’s chatting to his great friend Gwyneth and his two grandchildren (my daughter and son), I can guarantee he was as happy as he looks.

There was definitely a touch of vanity about it (in all aspects of life, Dad was concerned about appearances) but it did the job, and never felt false to me. In fact, in the article linked to above, I’ve just found this bit:

“…if you really want to get the biggest facial feedback benefit, find something to laugh about. That will likely generate a true smile. This is also a great tip for becoming more photogenic…”

He was a canny bloke.

Give it a go. Whatever you’re up to today, hand out a few smiles. Good stuff will happen, I promise.

 

 (This is the part of a series of lessons I’ve learnt from my Dad. Find the backstory here, and more lessons can be found here.)

This is my Dad, John. That’s me on his lap, my Mum and my brother.

Dad died, unexpectedly and very suddenly, last Wednesday, the 10^th January. We’re not sure exactly why, as yet, but will have the coroner’s report soon so I’ll keep you updated. (We now know that it was a pulmonary embolism and deep vein thrombosis, causing a sudden and severe cardiac arrest. He wouldn’t have known much about it.)

He was a lovely man. I described him the other day as an extraordinary man in the most ordinary ways. He lived by the most basic human values in every aspect of his life: consideration for others, kindness, compassion, respect, good humour. These aren’t always the qualities that are most celebrated, but to me they’re the most important. And judging by the genuinely overwhelming number of messages we’ve received over the past few days, clearly many other people – family, friends, and colleagues – valued those qualities too.

As one good friend put in a message, “I’ve never heard anyone say a bad word about your dad”. And it’s true, neither have I (well, apart from the immediate family of course, including myself, but that’s allowed).

I think Dad and I had a fairly typical father/son relationship. Neither of us doubted we loved each other, though we were very British in not expressing that too often, and for my part I was always completely confident that, should I need it in any form, his support (and mum’s) would be immediate and unconditional. He never put me or my brother under any pressure to achieve, he just supported us in whatever choices we made. Advice and guidance was always delivered softly, and with compassion. That’s about as good as it gets.

He taught me so much, but almost everything I’ve learnt from him was delivered by example, not by instruction. I want to write some of those lessons down. It’ll be a lovely way to remember him and to recall, share and store some stories. It’s a bit self-indulgent, but I hope others take something away from them too. The first one is up here, and it might be the most important one of the lot. It certainly feels like it right now. The rest will be gathered under the category, Lessons from Dad.

Take care of yourselves, and stay close to those you love.

Mark x