Father's Day - a memory of my dad.

Its Father's Day over here in the UK. On Facebook people have been changing their profile photos to photos of their dads. I changed mine too - to one of daddy and me on my wedding day. I have posted it below so you can see.

I had some lovely comments about the photo and I realised, again, what an influence he had on many lives, not just mine or my family's. He was a doctor and I will always remember that on my wedding day there were little clusters of his patients who came to stand outside the church to see his daughter get married.

Those same people came to his funeral too.

I always remember that for the first time ever we held hands on my wedding day. I suppose when I was a little girl we must have held hands, but as I got older he was very reluctant to do things like hold hands or link arms. It became a bit of a joke between us - trying to hold his hand without him realising ...

But on my wedding day I slipped my hand into his and he held it tight - his eldest girl getting married. You can see in this photo that we are holding hands and that meant the world to me.

My brother said to me today that he thought Father's Day was another day of commercialism, but it doesn't have to be that way does it? You don't have to buy into all the commercial tat. I think its lovely to see all the photos of dads on Facebook. I am getting to the age now, as are my friends, when many of us have lost our fathers, and it is rather lovely to be able to post a photo and say "Look everyone - this was my dad and I loved him"

A view on euthanasia and a memory of my dad.

I wasn't sure whether I should write this post. My last post was on the wrong side of miserable and I don't want to get a reputation for misery. But this post is something about which I have strong opinions. You probably have strong opinions too as this topic is emotive to say the least. Let me explain...

Just over eleven years ago my dad was a fit and active 63 year old.He had retired early and was indulging a life of wind surfing, travelling and generally having a good time.He had always lived life to the full - a keen sportsman, artist, you name it he would try it.At the age of 62 he had joined us skiing for the first time and he loved it.

He started to get joint pains and arthritis was diagnosed. The pains came and went and some days were worse than others, but he didn't let the pain stop him from living his life.And then he developed a dry cough.It was especially noticeable when he was on the phone and before long it became hard for him to hold a conversation.He started to get breathless and investigations diagnosed lung disease.Not any old lung disease either - he had some weird arthritis related thing that destroys your lungs and leaves them scarred. Gradually his lung capacity got smaller and smaller.

He was a doctor and he knew exactly what was happening to him.The simple things became unbelievably difficult - shaving,showering,talking.I never heard him complain, ever. The house was set up with piped oxygen and he was confined to a wheelchair.This all happened very quickly - within a year.He was always a man who took great pride in his appearance, loved clothes, was aware of his looks. Now he was ravaged by the disease and the steroids used to treat him.

He used to sit on the front verandah in the sunshine, enjoying the warmth and even continued to go down to the rugby club to watch the game from his chair.You could see that people were a bit embarrassed that Doc was in this condition, but his real friends still saw that underneath the gasps and the pain he was still there, still fighting.The week that he was due to see the consultant about a lung transplant my dad contracted a chest infection and in 4 days he was dead.

The thing that got me though, and the thing I am really writing about tonight is how he suffered in those last few hours and how we, he, could do nothing to help.We knew that he was going to die. There was nothing left of his lungs and the chances of him lasting long enough for a transplant were nil.But those last few days and especially the last night, that Saturday night,his suffering was terrible to see.

I sat with him, my turn, in the early hours of the Sunday morning and I was so angry.To see my dad having to suffer, to slowly suffocate, turning blue, was something I would not wish on my worst enemy.In those early hours he wanted to die. It was too much for him.He could not speak, but with a last massive effort he pulled off his oxygen mask.I will never forget his eyes as he looked at me, imploring.He knew that with the mask off he would die.I asked him if that was what he wanted and he nodded.

My mum, a nurse, came in and saw what was happening. She put the mask back on.

When she went again I was very close to putting a pillow over his face and ending it for him - but I didn't. I didn't have the guts and I didn't want to let down the rest of my family.

But if he had been a dog, or a horse or a cat we would have been prosecuted for allowing him to suffer like that. Because he was a human being he had to be made to cling on to life to the very end - the ghastly, painful end.There would not have been a miracle recovery, ever.Why could he not have been allowed to go to sleep peacefully, with dignity? Our laws force people to live even when they know that death is on their shoulder.We grant dignity to animals, but not to our fellow human beings.

I know that this is not a simple issue. There are twists and turns, questions, morals, fears and dangers. But that night there was only my dad and that night he had earned the right to die without pain.Maybe he would only have lived a few hours less, but those few hours would have been hours that he did not have to suffer.

As I said, people have strong views on this, but until you have looked into the eyes of someone begging you to let them die, please don't tell me that humans cannot play God.I did not want to play God that night, I wanted to show my humanity.

Memories of my Father.

For some reason, last night, as I lay in the Summer warmth, unable to sleep, I began thinking of my Dad.He died ten years ago this September - four days after my youngest's first birthday. As I lay there in the darkness little memories slipped to the front of my mind....

The way his middle finger was crooked from breaking it sledging when he was a boy... the veins on the back of his hands... the softness of the hair on his forearms... the scar on his shoulder from having dislocated it so many times playing rugby. I remembered his final days and the tears began to fall...

I lay in the darkness silently dripping tears onto my pillow as I remembered his last night... how he suffered.... how brave he was throughout his illness, but especially those last hours.

I remembered him teaching me to dive when I was 12 ... spending hours by the poolside, patiently telling me I was doing well.

I remember my anger at his funeral where I shed not one tear.

I remember my sister and sister-in-law searching frantically through drawers as he lay dead, removing letters to his mistress that we did not want our mother to find. I remember that he never once told me that he loved me. And I remember someone telling me that when he saw Sophie's Choice he said that if he had to choose between any of his children he would rather go with all of them to die himself than lose one...

I remember when we spread his ashes I wanted to lie there in the leaves with him and never be parted. And I remember that I have never been back to that place in ten long years...maybe its time.