Recently, I have been
thinking of the times I felt truly empowered and confident – where I felt I
am where I need to be to live in that moment.
One of those moments,
unfortunately, was when I was speaking at my Dad’s funeral.
I can’t explain the
feeling, but for a couple of minutes I felt as though I was doing the right
thing. In those months leading up and the months that followed that moment, it
was something I felt genuinely good about, it offered a slight amount of
relief.
It was formal, so I
didn’t have to worry about a single person's reaction, but it was personal to
the very core. I had one intention - to enable the people there an insight into
the human he was. I knew I could do it perfectly.
Arrogant - no. Confident
- yes.
Time stopped when I was
speaking - it felt like it was giving me a break. It wasn't moving at a pace I
felt I couldn’t keep up with, it just froze. It felt almost effortless to the
point where for the first time in years, my mind and body felt relaxed. I could
breathe without hurting and I could talk about someone I love.
What people wouldn’t
know, was that I had been reflecting upon my Dad from the moment I could. The
day my Dad was diagnosed was the day my over reflective mind went into
overdrive. I felt change coming months before the day it happened. Memories and
moments, personality traits, habits – were swirling through my brain. It took
time for me to compartmentalise - for a while it was a blur that turned me
numb. My relationship with the meaning of time became something negative; it’s
still something I am working through today.
For the three years of
caring for my Dad until he passed, I became thankful of every minute I could
know him further. I was able to acknowledge how he worked, interacted, and the
effect he had on strangers. It’s amazing what you can learn by just observing.
I knowingly made an effort to take everything in; from watching how he prepared
dinner, to observing his positive outlook towards life. I watched how he
reacted to his body not being able to keep up with things his mind wanted to
do.
He became so frustrated
that he couldn’t teach me things because he was physically incapable at times –
but my Dad was teaching me without even an effort on his part. He taught me how
to just be. He showed me how to be assertive, directional and motivated (among
other things, of course). Yet, these traits have been ingrained in me since I
was born.
My Dad was unbelievably
strong yet so incredibly vulnerable to the world around him. He took control
with the knowledge of knowing that nothing could be controlled. “Going big” was
never going to be a struggle, only if you wanted it to be. Sometimes we are
driven on it needing to be a struggle - because we think it means we care.
People ask me how I could
possibly be prepared for a moment like that - giving a public speech on the
person you love most. How could I best create a visualisation in which people
could live through what I was saying?
Every day I left my Dad,
any moments I had alone, when I was telling people about him - I reflected on
him. What he stood for, how he was living even though I could see it was
hard for him, and the effect he had on me as a person.
“Life is bloody
brilliant,” he would say as we sat in the park. The sun was out and the trees
were green and this is what simply convinced him that everything is bloody
brilliant. Physical pain or not - he always acknowledged the natural beauty
within the world. This carried on with how he viewed people. Everyone was
brilliant in their own way - unless they weren't. Move on.
If you have ever seen
someone slowly lose the things they love most about themselves - you will know,
that as much as you want to do everything in your power to help them, you will
never be enough. And that's okay. Do what you can - but don’t convince yourself
you aren't worthy or incapable of great things. Because unless you can cure
cancer - you need to acknowledge the things you can do for that person
and do it.
I knew what was happening
would make me feel as though something will be forever missing. Sometimes, when
I walk, I will have to pause and breath for a moment just to understand that
something is lost and I will never get it back. It is an overwhelming feeling
that will make you feel as though you will never escape it. You will question
yourself - when will this experience be over - how can I still feel the
same yet minutes, months, years have passed?
I can’t tell you how to
get through this - but I will do what my Dad did. Find something beautiful,
observe it and listen. Look at the way the sun will hit areas of space and how
light can make people look. Ask strangers how they are - and mean it. Get out
of your own head and look at what is happening around you. Tell yourself that
life is bloody brilliant.
So for my Dad’s birthday,
I have written this.
'My Dad would tell me – Give, not take. Dream Big. Don’t put off what you can do today for tomorrow. Seize the day and above all – be happy, because there is a lot to be happy about.'
- Myself, 04 / 03 / 2016
