It’s an interesting quirk of religious custom and western society that we gather together on mass, a person’s family and closest of friends, for three major events in that person’s life, but the recipient will generally only remember one of these three, and even that is largely dependent on how much wine is drank at the wedding reception. As a result, one rarely gets to see the number of lives they have touched and thus the volume of affection people have for them.
I do know however that Dad, a generally humble man would have been truly overwhelmed by the turnout here today, as are Mum, Cat and myself. I also know that as we gather here today, beyond these church walls candles are being lit and kind words spoken in memory of Dad in far flung destinations: America, Italy, Australia, Southern France, India and Sheffield to name but a few, by those who were unable to make it to be here in person today. A fine legacy for a man who next to family would have placed travel as his greatest passion.
I had hoped that the next time I stood up in front of so many wonderful family and friends that it would be one of the happy occasions in life but unfortunately that was not to be.
After 9 months of pain but with seemingly explainable ailments, when improvement was not found, the finger of blame was pointed at Dad’s pancreas. Even to the non-medical, a quick google search told you everything you needed to know and our worst fears were confirmed a few weeks later when a scan confirmed inoperable pancreatic cancer. Within three months of this diagnosis, Dad was taken from us when after a week of sharp decline, he passed away at home in his own bed with his family around him.
As you would expect, he remained dignified until the end. This was summed up on one of his last days, more or less bed bound and having lost most of his mobility, we had a house call from his GP. We left him in bed for a few moments to go and meet the doctor and update him on the changes. Upon returning to the bedroom, we found Dad had dressed himself and was sat on the edge of the bed, hand outstretched for a handshake. We were amazed that he had managed it, but the doctor was coming to visit and standards had to be maintained.
Dad was a proud and proficient pragmatist, the quote on the front of the service sheet; ‘It is what it is’, was one of his best used phrases. It is a true mark of the man that despite a year in constant pain, and a terminal cancer diagnosis, he never once complained, there was never a ‘why me’, there were no ‘if only’s, just a resolute, rational acceptance of what was happening. A raised eye brow perhaps, a reassuring smile and some gallows humour to put us at ease, despite the fact that our world was crashing down around us.
Dad was born in Sheffield in 1950 and stayed there for his early years. He was the first-born son to Tom and Dorothy, and eldest brother to Richard and Gillian who along with their families are here with us today. Dad qualified as a chartered accountant and was working locally in Sheffield when he stumbled across an advert in a newspaper for a Ship’s Accountant for the P&O steam navigation company and made the decision to run away to sea. It was a decision that would change the course of his life completely. After a number of years establishing the new role on board he applied and was accepted for a job in the office. He did not leave sea empty handed though. On the good ship Canberra, he met Susan, our beautiful mother and soon after they married in Derbyshire, 33 years ago and started their next chapter together in the Village of Easton. In the scorching summer of 1989 their peaceful existence was shattered by the arrival of their first-born son, and 18 months later a daughter.
Dad was a man of extraordinary knowledge and intelligence and read extensively on many different subjects. He was actually a runner up on the radio show ‘Brain of Britain’ in his early 20s. On our cruise holidays, we would often compete as a family in the infamous syndicate quiz. This is a highly competitive event for teams of 6 and it was a shock to all when we, a family of 4, Cat and I still young children, won on more than a few occasions. They would come over and say ‘Where is the rest of your team?’ and we would say ‘This is us!’. Despite this outstanding intelligence, and with the exception of the odd quiz win, Dad never sought glory; only truth, honour and to further his own knowledge. This could be frustrating at times. You knew he had the answer, but you did not necessarily know the right question to ask him to get it.
Despite his intelligence, his humility and dignity made him always approachable, he was wise council and living with him gave you confidence. He empowered us to make our own decisions in life, providing the options and explaining the pros and cons but always being caution to ensure that the decisions we made were our own.
As I went out in the world I felt safe in the knowledge that Dad was on the end of the phone ready to offer assistance and advice. When the sink started to leak, the mortgage needed to be renewed, the tyre was flat and all of life’s other challenges to those new at adulting. I think it is this reassurance and guiding hand that I will miss the most.
Dad was scrupulous in his honesty and integrity, I always knew he was but going through his papers and accounts I have been reminded of this frequently. One letter in particular sticks in my mind where he had written to the gas company to inform them that the estimated consumption figure used to close the account was less that the actual, as dad put it they ‘had done themselves a disservice in using an estimated reading and as a result had overestimated what they owed him by about 70 pounds and should therefore reduce the rebate accordingly’.
As I mentioned, next to his family, and possibly Sheffield United, Dad’s greatest passion in life was travel. When he was not traveling he would be meticulously, perhaps almost obsessively, planning his next adventure. He would spend hours memorising timetables, even going as far as walking the routes we would take on google street view so that when we arrived at our destination his local knowledge was infallible. Upon retirement, Dad had four big trips in mind; South America, Southern Africa, Asia and Australia. I am pleased to say that despite being in the early onset of the illness, he was able to complete the last of the four, a trip to Australia, at the start of the year, even visiting the spot where he proposed to Mum some 34 years ago.
I mentioned in a speech I made for Dad’s 60thbirthday the following quote; ‘The greatest gift a father can give his children is to love their mother’. This Dad excelled at. His love for mum was boundless and evident in all he did. Mum and Dad have been soulmates and amiable companions for 35 years. With this in mind, I must mention my incredible mother. To watch the person you love fade away before your eyes must be the hardest thing anyone has to go through, especially when they still had so much love to give and life to live. She has gone through this terrible ordeal with incredible compassion, commitment, strength and bravery.
Throughout this time, we have all been overwhelmed by the support and outpouring of love from near and far, whatever you did, be it a kind word in the street, sending one of the many cards and letters or even those that delivered food to the door, created these beautiful flowers in church and helped get this service together as well as refreshments for after in the village hall, on behalf of Mum, Cat and I, thank you.
Thank you also to those who have donated to the Winchester hospice in Andrew’s name. Fortunately, we did not need direct hospice care for Dad, but if we had have done this would have been in Southampton, which would have put additional strain on him and the family. We felt that supporting the building of a hospice in Winchester would be such a huge benefit to local people who find themselves in a similar place to us in the future. Even if you do not wish to donate please do visit Dad’s page on the ‘Much Loved’ website as it has pictures and a place to leave thoughts and memories and thank you to those that already have.
Whilst the pain is overwhelming now, and the sense of loss feels endless we can take solace in the fact that Dad does lives on. He lives on in all he has built for us, all the memories he created with us and perhaps most importantly all of the lessons he has taught us. For Cat and I, he, along with our wonderful mother, made us who we are today, and I speak for both of us when I say that we will continue trying to make him proud of the people we are and will become, so that in us his legacy lives on.
If happiness is measured as a function of the time we have to enjoy it, it would be easy to feel short changed by Dad’s passing. But if happiness is measured as a volume, as a total of the amount that you enjoyed together, we must have had more than our fair share. Our family of four have had just the best time together. We have supported each other, we have shared victories, we have laughed, we have travelled, we have eaten and drank, we have been the best of friends. Under Dad’s leadership we have been the tightest of units and it’s the knowledge of this and the memories we have shared together that let me know that in time, we will be okay.
Finally, I would like to leave you with this thought. As you would expect we have a wine-rack in the house. As you would also expect this was very well organised with the cheaper quaffing wine on the top few shelves and then the further down you go the older and more expensive they became, until you got to the bottom shelf - to the dust encrusted wines from the past, being saved for a special occasion. The speed of the onset of Dad’s illness meant that by the time he discovered it was life limiting, he had no taste for wine and as a result of this, never got to drink these revered bottles.
So your homework, after all I am the son of a teacher, and you can look at this as either metaphorical or literal; I suggest both. Next time you are reaching for a bottle, go for the bottom shelf, blow off the dust and drink a toast to Andrew.
Life is precious and unpredictable, you never know what’s around the corner, so savour each drop.