Dad died six years today. We are still learning to live in this world without him, still learning how to be a family without him. I took him for granted, even though I loved him so very much. I didn’t realise - despite knowing that he was home, that he was safety - when he died not only would our lives change, but our family, too. It seems naïve not to have expected it; the loss of our family as we knew it. He was always there. I don’t remember ever being away from him. And more than a father, a husband, he was a dear friend to each of us. When he left us, the family dynamic that had always been, was no more. Six years on and we are still learning, still trying, still tender from the blow.
I am so grateful for the life I have. I have been saved time and time again. I am so grateful for my mother, my home, my brother, my friends, the children I love, my cats and all of the blessings God has seen fit to give me. But life without my dad, in the flesh, can sometimes feel less. It isn’t ingratitude, just the way it is. A life without dad could only be less. He brought so much to my life; such joy, such wisdom, such laughter and kindness. He wasn’t perfect, and he made so many mistakes. But his goodness far outweighed the bad. And if I could have him back I would go through it all again with him.
But after six years without him, for the first time, I am also grateful that he died and didn’t have to suffer anymore. When people say, just after you have lost someone to a terrible, devastating illness, that you should take comfort in the fact that they are no longer suffering, it provokes pain and anger; you don’t want to hear philosophy. The words feel empty and meaningless, even if they are not. You are drowning in your grief, your pain, your heartbreak at ever having to watch them suffer and die. The fact that they are finally dead and the suffering has stopped brings you no comfort. The fact remains that they did suffer, they did die, and you were powerless to stop it. Your injury is deep and cuts you to your soul. You cannot bring them back, and you cannot undo what they went through. Such words never help and produce nothing but frustration and resentment towards the well-intended, ignorant speaker, even if they are someone you love and even if what they are saying is true.
As it turns out, it is a truth that you have to come to understand and believe in your own time. I didn’t think I would ever find comfort in it. But now, six years since he died, as I think of all that he went through, on his life, and in those cruel nine months, I am finally comforted that it ended, that his suffering stopped, and that his spirit became free from his poor, sick body.
‘They are just suits that we wear’ he always told me. And he was right. When I found him, his body without his spirit, despite the pain and heartbreak, I could see with my own eyes, that what he had told me was true. He is free now, and one day we will know that same freedom. But until then we carry on, learning to live without his suit, and reminding ourselves that his spirit, his love, is still surrounding us, day and night. It’s not the same, never could be, never would be, but just as we carry on, we carry his love and our love, and have faith that whatever might happen tomorrow, that love will carry us through the good times and the bad.
I love you my daddy. Forever. Forever.
Wednesday, 5 December 2018
Wednesday, 14 March 2018
A Brief History of Our Time
Many moons ago, when my big brother and I were a couple of semi-malnourished, feral kids in school, we were pulled into some sort of obligatory, tedious assembly/'workshop' along with our equally malnourished and feral peers.
After the usual re-hash of a video and speech about heroes, and what a hero is, all of the students were asked to name who their hero was and why.
Now, my brother and I were what you might consider to be 'odd' children; we were mentally and emotionally precocious after seeing and living through things that most children do not, as well as having very intelligent, loving, but equally mad parents who never talked down to us, or made their language/environment 'baby-friendly' (I recall with great clarity having 'The Crying Game' as one of my most favourtie films at the age of seven).
As such, neither of us were very popular, much less understood by other children, or our teachers for that matter. We didn't talk like most children. We didn't behave like most children. We didn't live like most children.
But we were children, which is why the following makes me feel even more proud.
So, back to the event in question.
One child at a time, the heroes of our generations were thrown into the air, along with that smell only schools carry.
David Beckham. Baby Spice. Baby Spice. Mr Blobby. Princess Diana. David Beckham. David Beckham. Baby Spice. Britney Spears. David Beckham. Robbie Williams. Leonardo DiCaprio. David Beckham.
I recall, to my nine year-old shame, being too embarrassed to tell the hall and everyone in it who my hero was, for fear of the inevitable name-calling and certain public humiliation. So I opted for the safe option and told everyone that my hero was Baby Spice, who I couldn't have given less of a shit about. She was my least favourite Spice Girl.
In fact, my dad always referred to her as 'Poison Spice' because we both agreed that she had a deeply malicious-looking, spiteful face common with pretty blondes who behave in an infantalised way, but who are, most-likely, evil.
The saddest thing was that I didn't even have the courage to say the name of a different Spice Girl that I might have liked more (Ginger Obvs) for fear of adding yet another factor that made me different to the other children who I was so desperate to make like me, or at the very least, dislike me a little less.
Instead, I remember disliking my own self a lot more and feeling ashamed and pretty pathetic upon hearing my squeaky, brummie voice mumble 'Baby Spice', and then, being unable to think of any legitimate reason why that could be, mumbled an enormous lie that she was 'a good singer'.
The reason for my shame was also related to the fact that while I stuttered and lied, my brothers lovely, green watchful eyes were staring at me as I chatted absolute shit. Rory knew. He KNEW.
My brother had an annoying tendency to always read my mind, and, for the most part, know me better than I often knew myself. I felt a wave of disappointment on his behalf.
My brother was always smarter than me, wittier than me, more truthful than me, kinder than me, braver than me, and had far more integrity than me.
I was a chronic liar and a massive thief as a child.
And Rory had spent the majority of our early childhood having to keep me alive.
Red-faced and remorseful, I sank into my chair and waited for the repetition of Baby and Beckham to stop so that I could go back to my lesson and pretend to learn in peace.
Rory's turn arrived.
I knew who he was going to say.
In fact anyone who knew him would have, but precocious, odd children rarely have many friends while they inevitably have to wait for other children to catch up.
So, as I had anticipated, my brother's response was met with shocked, but clearly elated and bewildered smiles from the teachers in the room, and a ripple of murmurs, laughs, mean words and 'who's that?'s from the other children.
Rory had loved Stephen Hawking as soon as he was able read and write.And I believe that, despite being a child, was at that point trying to read his book, 'A Brief History of Time'.
I was sickened as I heard the words 'retard', 'cripple', 'mong' and 'spaz' falling from innocent lips that were already being raised to hate and echo across the hall.
Some of them told him to shut up and said he was stupid - how can someone that ugly, who can't even walk be a hero?
You see, some of the children knew what Stephen Hawking looked like - if they knew him at all - but none of them knew who he was or what he had done.
The teacher's were all able to utilize their rudimentary skill of selective hearing, but nevertheless, they were keen. And impressed. They probed and listened, their heads cocked to one side, with thoughtful, relieved smiles playing on their coffee-saturated lips.
I remember the enormous pride that I felt; my big brother was always right, and always knew what was right, and always tried to do the right thing. I wished and internally yearned to have my own opportunity for public disclosure to be undone, so that I might have been braver and stronger and clever enough to think of a genuine hero, like my brother had.
Rory's hero changed the narrative, and for the remainder of the assembly, Beckham and Baby were put to one side; Anne Frank, Martin Luther-King and Nelson Mandella all made an appearance (although ultimately Beckham came out on top).
But I was stuck with Baby Spice. And it made no difference to my status - I was still as much of an outcast as my brother.
The difference was, regardless of what other people thought about him, Rory always remained genuine and true to who he was. It would take me a long time before I was ever able to say the same for myself.
Rory Conroy - Maverick in the making since 1985.
#RIPStephenHawking
#ABriefHistoryofTime
#ABriefHistoryofourtime
#Myhero
After the usual re-hash of a video and speech about heroes, and what a hero is, all of the students were asked to name who their hero was and why.
Now, my brother and I were what you might consider to be 'odd' children; we were mentally and emotionally precocious after seeing and living through things that most children do not, as well as having very intelligent, loving, but equally mad parents who never talked down to us, or made their language/environment 'baby-friendly' (I recall with great clarity having 'The Crying Game' as one of my most favourtie films at the age of seven).
As such, neither of us were very popular, much less understood by other children, or our teachers for that matter. We didn't talk like most children. We didn't behave like most children. We didn't live like most children.
But we were children, which is why the following makes me feel even more proud.
So, back to the event in question.
One child at a time, the heroes of our generations were thrown into the air, along with that smell only schools carry.
David Beckham. Baby Spice. Baby Spice. Mr Blobby. Princess Diana. David Beckham. David Beckham. Baby Spice. Britney Spears. David Beckham. Robbie Williams. Leonardo DiCaprio. David Beckham.
I recall, to my nine year-old shame, being too embarrassed to tell the hall and everyone in it who my hero was, for fear of the inevitable name-calling and certain public humiliation. So I opted for the safe option and told everyone that my hero was Baby Spice, who I couldn't have given less of a shit about. She was my least favourite Spice Girl.
In fact, my dad always referred to her as 'Poison Spice' because we both agreed that she had a deeply malicious-looking, spiteful face common with pretty blondes who behave in an infantalised way, but who are, most-likely, evil.
The saddest thing was that I didn't even have the courage to say the name of a different Spice Girl that I might have liked more (Ginger Obvs) for fear of adding yet another factor that made me different to the other children who I was so desperate to make like me, or at the very least, dislike me a little less.
Instead, I remember disliking my own self a lot more and feeling ashamed and pretty pathetic upon hearing my squeaky, brummie voice mumble 'Baby Spice', and then, being unable to think of any legitimate reason why that could be, mumbled an enormous lie that she was 'a good singer'.
The reason for my shame was also related to the fact that while I stuttered and lied, my brothers lovely, green watchful eyes were staring at me as I chatted absolute shit. Rory knew. He KNEW.
My brother had an annoying tendency to always read my mind, and, for the most part, know me better than I often knew myself. I felt a wave of disappointment on his behalf.
My brother was always smarter than me, wittier than me, more truthful than me, kinder than me, braver than me, and had far more integrity than me.
I was a chronic liar and a massive thief as a child.
And Rory had spent the majority of our early childhood having to keep me alive.
Red-faced and remorseful, I sank into my chair and waited for the repetition of Baby and Beckham to stop so that I could go back to my lesson and pretend to learn in peace.
Rory's turn arrived.
I knew who he was going to say.
In fact anyone who knew him would have, but precocious, odd children rarely have many friends while they inevitably have to wait for other children to catch up.
So, as I had anticipated, my brother's response was met with shocked, but clearly elated and bewildered smiles from the teachers in the room, and a ripple of murmurs, laughs, mean words and 'who's that?'s from the other children.
Rory had loved Stephen Hawking as soon as he was able read and write.And I believe that, despite being a child, was at that point trying to read his book, 'A Brief History of Time'.
I was sickened as I heard the words 'retard', 'cripple', 'mong' and 'spaz' falling from innocent lips that were already being raised to hate and echo across the hall.
Some of them told him to shut up and said he was stupid - how can someone that ugly, who can't even walk be a hero?
You see, some of the children knew what Stephen Hawking looked like - if they knew him at all - but none of them knew who he was or what he had done.
The teacher's were all able to utilize their rudimentary skill of selective hearing, but nevertheless, they were keen. And impressed. They probed and listened, their heads cocked to one side, with thoughtful, relieved smiles playing on their coffee-saturated lips.
I remember the enormous pride that I felt; my big brother was always right, and always knew what was right, and always tried to do the right thing. I wished and internally yearned to have my own opportunity for public disclosure to be undone, so that I might have been braver and stronger and clever enough to think of a genuine hero, like my brother had.
Rory's hero changed the narrative, and for the remainder of the assembly, Beckham and Baby were put to one side; Anne Frank, Martin Luther-King and Nelson Mandella all made an appearance (although ultimately Beckham came out on top).
But I was stuck with Baby Spice. And it made no difference to my status - I was still as much of an outcast as my brother.
The difference was, regardless of what other people thought about him, Rory always remained genuine and true to who he was. It would take me a long time before I was ever able to say the same for myself.
Rory Conroy - Maverick in the making since 1985.
#RIPStephenHawking
#ABriefHistoryofTime
#ABriefHistoryofourtime
#Myhero
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