my dad died

It’s 8:35am, July 28th, 2022. I had just woken up in my north London flat. My cat was making biscuits on my belly and my boyfriend was asleep next to me.

“Good morning, Sweetie” - a message from my mum.

It’s not uncommon for my mum to message me in the morning. She’s in Gibraltar, where I was born and where all my family still live. I’m in London, an hour behind and a lifetime away.

I sensed it. I really, truly in my gut knew something was wrong. Her message was the same as hundreds that came before it, but I knew.

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It is that moment, the one we all dread to even think about. We’ve seen it in movies and tv shows and on social media and read about it in books. That call, that message, the one that changes everything.

My legs buckled under me and my boyfriend, who I had only known for 3 months at that time, came and held me. I don’t remember the exact sequence of events but I know I video called my dad from my living room. My mum held up the phone because he was barely hanging on.

I said my goodbyes through a little rectangular screen. I told him I was proud of him and loved him and forgave him and would see him soon and he would just need to hold on a little longer. I pled with him to wait for me. To forgive me for being angry with him a few weeks before. I said everything I could possibly say in an 8 minute 23 second long video call with doctors in the room listening to my every word.

I bought the first flight out and rushed to the airport only for my flight to get delayed three times.

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I was too late.

My dad passed away while I was on the plane. I never got a real goodbye. Some people say that that’s a kindness, a good thing. I didn’t have to see him during his worst moments. I know people mean well when they say this to me. I know it comes from a need to comfort me. But they’re wrong. I will never forgive the circumstances that robbed me of my final moments with my dad. I don’t know who to blame for this, I don’t know where to place this feeling but I was robbed and I will spend forever trying to make peace with it.

I saw his body. Kitted with his Manchester United football top. His black curls perfectly tousled. His skin yellowing from liver failure. He looked peaceful. I will spare you the description of how I pleaded with death to return him for a quick moment. I won’t go into details about my wails and screams. I won’t elaborate on the surreal experience of sitting next to your dead dad’s body.

He was gone and no amount of pleading and begging would bring him back but I tried it anyway.

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When I was little, my cousin and I would pretend we were witches. We would craft potions and salves out of leaves and branches and water and earth and pretend we could conjure up anything we wanted. My mind went back to being 9 years old. Knees scuffed from falling over, a clumsiness I inherited from my dad. I wanted more than anything to find dirt and flowers and leaves and water and earth and make a potion to bring him back to me. But around me were stale white walls, stale tile floors and machines I wished were still beeping.

The hospital staff, with tears in their eyes, told me I had to start leaving. They told me his body needed to be taken to the morgue because at the end of the day, what I was sitting next to and hugging, was a dead body.

So I looked at him, for the last time ever. I was not in denial. I was totally, heartbreakingly, painfully aware that I would never, ever see my dad again.

Leaving that room was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.

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A lot happened in the following weeks. Some people showed up, some didn’t. The crematorium broke so his funeral was delayed and delayed again. I flew back to London then flew to Gibraltar, then back to London. I got a teddy bear with his voice embedded in it. I cut my hair into a bob. I got tattoos of his handwriting. I got a necklace with his ashes in it.

I spoke at his funeral. I spoke about how he loved the rain and the smell of it hitting the pavement after a hot day. I spoke about his love of books and how he could lose himself in the pages. I spoke about him being the funniest person anyone could ever meet. I spoke about his beautiful singing voice.

The church was full. In every pew, sat faces I knew and didn’t. People stood in the entrance, sniffling, looking down, crying, laughing, smiling.

I spoke about what he meant to me and my brother. My brother who lost his dad at 21. I spoke about the importance of getting help for addiction. My dad was an alcoholic and died because of it in an awfully painful, undignified way.

I sent him a message as I boarded the flight to leave Gibraltar back to London, knowing I'd never see a double tick again.

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My dad was a flawed man. Flawed like we all are. Humans are messy. We can be selfish and impulsive and mean and insensitive. We can also be funny and kind and caring and supportive and encouraging and warm and loving. My dad was pretty much everything a person could be but as I sit here writing this, I only remember the good.

I remember singing in our living room to London Bridge by Fergie. I remember him taking me to the beach and cleaning a raw graze on my knee. I remember him making me laugh until my sides hurt. I remember sitting in a park and talking for hours, neither of us able to afford to treat the other to a nice lunch, but finding a can of Fanta and some crisps each working just as well. I remember my last birthday spent with him, eating dinner at our favourite square in Gibraltar and a hug that lasted longer than usual. As if he knew.

I miss him. I miss him a lot.

Today, on the (almost) 4 year anniversary of his passing, I take time to write about him. About the loss of him, about the presence of him and about the memory of him.

Please ask me about him, I don’t get asked about him anymore. Mentioning him is akin to Harry mentioning Voldemort. I don’t want it to be that way today. I want to speak about him.

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Anyway, to my dad, Martin, a lover of books and beer and curries and rain and walking and piazzas and art and plants and planets and conspiracy theories and singing and cooking and the ocean. I love you. I miss you.