Hello Fabulous Fancies,
Those of you who keep an eagle eye on Miss F’s blog and social media may have noticed that there has been a remarkably protracted radio silence emanating from Fancy HQ for quite some time. You may have even noticed that I’ve made the odd mention of the lengthy gap between blog posts, with a ‘more on that later…’ type comment.
The truth is, I’ve been unable to write for quite some time, because my father died. Sixty-nine years old, too young, too soon, and after a very difficult illness.
Those of you who know me will also be aware that I wouldn’t generally be keen to step out of Miss F’s shoes, so to speak, and into my own, but frankly, my Dad is worth doing that for.
I could tell you my father’s life story, that he was born in 1948, in North Melbourne, and largely raised by his mother and aunt. I could tell you that he was not an affectionate man, either physically or verbally. I could say that he was a barrister, with a keen, incisive mind. I might mention that he was a funny man, with a deeply nuanced, dry sense of humour.
I could say all of those things, but they are not necessarily what’s important.
What is important, is that because he was raised by strong women, he married a strong woman, and raised his daughter that way, too. That even though he hated being hugged, and was not keen on ‘I love you’s’, he showed us his love by being there when we needed him, which weighs far more in the end, I think. And that he knew that winning was less important than acting honourably. And that losing him felt, for quite some time, as if so much of the sunshine in my life had been washed away. To be very candid, often it still does.
My very first memory is of Dad. I was about two, I guess and we were at a picnic with family friends. I’d been careening down a grassy slope in that headlong way that toddlers do, and tumbled over. Before I’d even had a chance to decide to start wailing, Dad scooped my up and chuckled. I thought of that often while he was dying – how he’d taught us to not to take ourselves too seriously.
In fact, I work in a job that involves supporting people who are dying, or who have loved ones that are coming to the end of their lives. The staff at the hospital where Dad was a patient knew that, and at one point, a nurse asked to speak with me privately. She told me that she hoped I understood that I didn’t have to care for my family, and that I ought not to feel pressured to keep everyone’s spirits up. I must have looked confused, because she explained that every time she passed my father’s room, she heard laughter, and she’d taken it as proof that I’d been trying to keep jollying everyone along. The truth though, was that as long as my father had breath, there was never going to be a lack of laughter coming from any room he was in. And that laughter wasn’t forced, grim laughter. It was just wonderful, rich, real laughter. Laughing with us was Dad’s way of showing that he loved us, and I wouldn’t swap that for all the ‘I love you’s’ in the world,
In the last days of Dad’s life, he began to tell his story, sharing things we had not known. My brother and I had a precious, perfect afternoon with him, a few days before he died, just the three of us. He was very unwell, it’s true, but clearly glad to have us both there. The night before he died, he told us that he loved us. It was the only time in my adult life that I’d heard those words from him, but I was keenly aware of the fact that you can wish to hear something you’re whole life, but when you actually do, can wish just as hard that you hadn’t.
Dad imparted to us his sense of humour, and his belief in the important of ethics. I remember him saying many years ago, that he tried always, when making management decisions, to remember that the human element is very important. Once, when I was about sixteen, he told me to always remember that any marriage has to be big enough to fit two fully grown, separate individuals, and to never marry a man who didn’t take my dreams and aspirations as seriously as his own. He once declined a promotion, on the grounds that he had enough money, but there would never be enough time to spend with his family, and accepting the job offer would eat into that still further.
Nearly two and a half years on from my father’s passing, I am aware every day of how bereft I am… and how lucky I was.
Miss Fancy Says 