Missing memories

I’ve just seen a truly amazing blog called Days with my father, about the relationship between a son and his 98 year-old father following the death of his mother. It’s beautifully written and candidly photographed, and shows a genuine and deep-running love and affection which you don’t often see in this cynical age. And for some reason this morning, it has really struck a chord with me.

In many ways I have been incredibly lucky with my family. But the biggest regret of my life is that I didn’t spend more time with my granddad after he went into a home some 11 years or so ago. As a toddler, a small child, a schoolboy and a teenager, we spent an enormous amount of our days together. He taught me how to play cribbage, whist and gin rummy. He taught me about birds (the ones with wings), stamps, and the love of a decent wedge of mature cheddar. In short, he was the kindest, chivalrous and most gentlemanly person I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. I was also his only grandchild, so he doted on me, and I on him.

Sadly, he went into a home at about the same time that I went away to Uni. It’s no excuse, but I guess I just got too wrapped up in the new life I was just starting to notice the old life that was slowly ending. My Mum sheltered me from a lot of stuff, and took the heavy burden of looking after someone with advanced dementia entirely on her own shoulders. She went through all the heartbreak, whilst I only saw it once or twice. So whilst my memories of him are almost entirely unsullied by his later years, there’s also a large part missing.

He died when I was 21. I was in the car on the way back to Uni after my Dad’s wedding when my phone rang. We were one junction away from the exit to my Mum’s house, and I was heartbroken for the first time in my life.

I still think about him from time to time, and no matter what, he always manages to bring a smile to my face. I just wish I could have told him that.