Happy Birthday Dad!

I think I need to cry. I miss my Dad. It's his birthday today. I miss him so much. He's my rock, the person I can talk to about anything and not be judged for it or be scared that I'll offend him or that he'll jump down my throat. It's just not him. He listens, my Dad, in a way that makes you feel so calm and loved.

When I left for the first time to come to Malaysia, I thought my mum would cry. She didn't, but he did. It takes a lot to make him cry. I could feel his pain, how he wanted me to stay. Even though it hurt him, he still supported me. He knows what I have to do, even though it's not what we want. I love him more for that, that he could do the hardest thing and let me go. I can see, now that I've broken through all the bullshit in my mind, that my strength to stay here and do the best I can, comes from him.

It's funny, but I don't remember much about my Dad when I was growing up. But I can remember him sitting next to mum, handing me $20 because I got a good report card and after that I was allowed to stay up til 9.30 - what a great day that was. He did the usual thing - went to work, came home, ate dinner and then we'd sit around and watch tv together - the Paul Hogan show, Hey, Hey it's Saturday, Bert Newton. He and mum would stay up with me to watch John McEnroe play Wimbledon on late night tv. And the skiing - he'd stay up with me to watch the skiing championships and I'd always fall asleep - everytime. And he didn't get mad or scold me and I loved him for it. There's a certain sense of wonderful, warm security that comes with falling asleep on the couch with your Dad nearby. To this day, I still love to fall asleep on the couch while I'm watching tv. Love it, and now I know why.

I remember when he was younger and fitter, we used to race him in the local swimming pool - back in the days when there was no such thing as solar heated pools and the water was ice cold (those were great swimming days). We were good swimmers, all of us and our goal was to beat him over 25 metres. I remember the day I did, just by a fraction, his face happy and surprised all at once. I think he still had hair then. Hmmm, good memories.

I remember him telling me stories about his childhood. Dad was born during the war in Holland (1944) and as a kid, he and his brothers used to find and play with what the war had left behind - can you imagine doing that now? His stories used to enthrall me and he painted pictures in my mind of a carefree childhood, running around with this and that, no supervision required. How times have changed. My favourite stories were where he and his brothers (he comes from a family of 15) set a smoke screen made from gun powder, in front of a neighbors cherry tree so they could raid it and not get caught. They did get caught and his father did give him a belting for it. There's also the one about how one of his friends or brothers rigged up an air tank from a used 44 gallon drum so they could 'dive' in the river looking for more discarded junk from the war - no depleted uranium then! There were many more fascinating stories but I've forgotten them. I hope he hasn't, because I'd like to write them down one day.

More than the stories, I remember feeling (and still feel) connected to my Dad - we have like minds. We take ages to make decisions (though I'm a lot faster now) and we can talk for ages about life and all its challenges. We like the same tv shows, those with a quirky sense of humour. We are gentle, kind and non-confrontational (regardless of what you've read previously in this blog, the very core of me despises confrontation). We are happy when we are together, even when we're doing nothing.

I've never been so scared in my life as I was when he got sick. He has an inherited heart problem and a few blocked arteries. The doctors saved him, thank god. At first, I didn't know how serious it was, but then in the ICU, I saw all the tubes and machines and my heart broke - seeing such a strong, robust man lying there, helpless. I thought I would die right there along with him. Then later, I was driving mum back home from visiting him in the hospital and she'd mentioned "when the doctor's brought him back". "What? they had to ...". I hadn't realised and I stopped driving, right there in the middle of the street, before we got to the traffic lights, because I couldn't see. The tears, they just kept on coming. Oh my god, what if... I just can't imagine it.

When I see him in my mind, I see his oh-so-blue eyes first, then his lovely smile - and then that big Dutch nose - LOL. I can see the photo of where he is holding me as a two year old and looking at me, happy and smiling. He was so young then, only 24 or so, and handsome, a bit like James Dean. They'd taken a trip to Portsea to do some diving. Years later, I moved my own family to within 5 minutes drive of that very spot - and yes, we took the photo again, this time with some of my mum and my daughter in it.

Even though I'm not there now and I don't see him often, I think about him everyday and ring him every 3 weeks or so. He doesn't like talking on the phone much, but I'm happy to hear his voice and I'm sure the feeling is mutual. He is still my rock, my sounding board for my thoughts when I'm unsure. If I had to tell him anything today, I would say that I couldn't have done this without you, I love you more than I could ever show and I hope I have made you proud. If my daughter has a relationship with her father that is like what we have, I will be happy and grateful, knowing that she always has a 'soft spot to fall' in times of crises.

I'm going to write this out now, in my own handwriting, so you can read it and know how much I love you. Happy Birthday Dad.




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