rest at last

My father had an unhappy life from middle age onwards. Perhaps even before that, the seeds of his disappointment were sown. The man I knew as a young boy was often absent (at work, and 'seeing a man about a horse'), though I have fond memories of beach days at Nielsen Park and family holidays at Broadbeach on the Gold Coast. The man I knew as an adolescent was an alcoholic and a manic depressive who spiralled into breakdown. He had several attempts at suicide and drifted between menial jobs. It's hard to explain the affect this had on his five boys, but it was profound and has lasted to this day.

When I saw him (after many years) lying in the nursing home bed, dulled by morphine and unable to speak, then any lingering anger dissipated and I was immediately prayerful. I felt a little like a priest giving last rites, my monologue wandering through versions of the journey to come, though I also wanted to highlight the real achievements he had made in his life. Those achievements were genuine and quite impressive - fathering five boys, building a house, holding down an important job in a transport company - all growing out of quite humble origins in Newcastle. Whether I was up to the task I set out to do, I don't know. I tried my best to make his way out of this world as peaceful as possible.

Rest in peace Dad. At last.