The thing about grief is that just when you think you are over the worst of it, it rears its head in the most unexpected of places to remind you that you'll never quite be free.
This Father's Day, as families up and down the country dish out the funny cards and funky soap sets, grief will be a callous guest at our family table, reminding us once again of all we lost 15 years ago. The empty mantelpiece in my family home will be a reminder that it should all be so very different.
Life changed forever when my father, on his way home, told some teenagers off who were causing a bit of a disturbance. He was struck in the face and fell. The blow to his head from the fall was fatal. He was 59 years old.
I don't think I will ever come to terms with the sudden circumstances of his death, but I am very proud of the quiet dignity my family has shown since that awful night.
Parents alas are not immortal. We go through life with the vague notion that they will depart one day in old age, hopefully peacefully surrounded by family. You never in your worst nightmares expect them to die alone on the cold hard road a mere five minutes from their front door.
Despite the nature of my father’s death, the biggest repercussion has always been about the void for me. My dad was great. Not perfect, but great. We loved him because of and despite his flaws. There was no one I wanted to impress as much as I wanted to impress him.
The gap he left behind was vast. The big days are bittersweet - like my wedding day, the birth of my children, Christmas mornings, birthdays, Father's Days. Yet, I am more vulnerable and feel the pain of loss more acutely when the void catches me unaware. Like when I watch a film I know he would have liked, or when Liverpool Football Club has a lucky win, or when I am walking alone and the sun dips behind a cloud and the sadness hits me anew for no apparent reason.
I don't like to think about how he died very often. I put it all in a box early on and placed it high up in my brain. I only let myself bring it back down every now and again to examine the contents. Maybe one day I will need to tip it all out and have a cathartic clear out. I should assimilate how it felt to receive the news and to visit the morgue and kiss a hard, cold face. I should acknowledge how hard it sometimes is to pass the spot where he died. And I should admit just how much I didn't want to climb into his place in bed beside my mum those first nights as she was too scared to sleep alone, but how I did it anyway.
Perhaps as a family we should rip back the 15-year-old plasters that cover the wounds that cannot fully dry and heal unless we let them have some sun. But not yet. Many people might think that 15 years is a lifetime, but it isn’t really. We are still not ready.
Maybe I should start by letting go of some of the 'ifs' and 'buts': how I wish that he wasn't alone, that he didn't go out that day; that he had got a taxi; that he'd fallen on his hip, not his head. How I wish that he was here now and that on Sunday I could skip across to him, hug him and tell him that I love him.
Instead, we’ll raise a toast to that wonderful man - one of my favourite people ever – and I'll tell him that I am still working hard to make him proud. I don't always get it right, but I will keep trying to be happy and at peace and to live my life to the full in his name. Because that is the only gift I have left to give him.
SAMM (Support after Murder and Manslaughter) is a registered charity offering support to those bereaved by the murder or manslaughter (homicide) of a family member or close friend.
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Guest post: "This Father's Day, grief will remind our family of all we lost"
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MumsnetGuestPosts · 16/06/2016 16:15
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MrsDeVere ·
17/06/2016 15:34
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