Firstly, I’d like to thank all of you who came here today. Some of you have known my dad a short while; some have known him for more than three decades. I’d like to spend a few moments telling you a little about my father because he was a modest man and there’s perhaps a lot about him that he would not have thought to say about himself.
Let’s start at the beginning. Dad was born in a mining village called Hunwick in County Durham in 1929. To say he was born in abject poverty is putting it midly. Dad’s childhood could have been written by Catherine Cookson or D H Lawrence. He was the youngest of twelve children, seven of whom survived to adulthood, and of the five who died in childhood, three of them were too young to even be given names.
Grim.
Dad was 15 when the war ended and he had a choice: spend the rest of his life down the mines like his dad – or find a way out. Dad was smart enough to choose the latter. With some creative interpretation of the paperwork and a local Alderman who was prepared to replicate his father’s signature, my father signed up for the RAF. What’s not to like? He got a uniform, three square meals a day, a good pay, education and the chance to see the world! And as I understand it some very attractive young ladies were very keen to express their ‘gratitude’ for the efforts of the uniformed lads!
[Pause for laughter]
Of course, his dodgy paperwork was soon rumbled but being post-war this was overlooked and Dad was shipped to Malaya where he trained to be a physiotherapist. In those days you had little say in what career you had in the armed services but it was obvious even then that Dad was not in it for the fighting. He was not a killer but a healer.
Dad was in the RAF for nearly 20 years. When he completed his training as a physio, he was given the minimum rank that the profession allowed – sergeant and for a short while Dad was the youngest sergeant in the RAF – less than 19 years old; imagine that! He spent most of his career in the Far East and was fluent in four languages: five if you count Geordie!
[Pause for laughter]
One thing Dad probably never told you was that he was a keen backgammon player. One of his old comrades once told me that Dad earned more as a backgammon player in Kuala Lumpa than he did on his military pay. It was, of course my Dad who taught me to play. And there are a number of rule concepts that transpose to poker and gave me the head start that allowed me to gain some small advantage in that sport.
Thank you Dad, I owe you one.
Of course, there comes a time when a man wants to settle down. Dad left the RAF as a Warrant officer and went to civvie street. His first job was as a relief pub manager. This was where he met my mum and then along came me. Now this worked well for a while, the money was good but having a little baby living above a pub is not ideal. The shouting, bad language, farting and constant demands for attention…
It seems I was putting the regulars off their beer.
[Pause for laughter]
So it was time for a change. Dad went to night school and retrained as an engineer. He got a good job as an optical profile grinder [Google it] and we moved into 25 Shaftesbury Road. And things went well for a number of years.
Now these days we live in “enlightened” times. We know how to check ourselves and each other for lumps and bumps. In the 70s things were different. By the time Mum discovered she had a lump in her breast, and she had plucked up the courage to see the quack, it was too late. She had a mastectomy but the cancer had metastasized to her pancreas and brain. She died a painful death at home over more than a year. Dad, of course, quit his job to look after her until she died and then devoted his life to looking after me.
We had no money. Times were hard.
Dad coped with his grief by turning to God. He became a Christian and spent the next two decades working tirelessly for the Church and its hall. He served first as a sidesman and then as a Churchwarden.
Dad’s Christianity was very important to him and he took it very seriously. Now, as far as I know he never gave a talk in Church but nevertheless, those who did, those who regularly gave powerful theological discourses would continually knock on Dad’s door and he would give them a cup of tea and a quiet little word and they would go away just that little bit wiser. He was a powerful counsellor
For those of you who are visiting the Martyrs today, we have been lucky to have been treated to a series of talks and presentations over recent weeks on the theme of the Beatitudes, found in Matthew [5].
Matthew [5:5] tells us that:
Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.
Meekness isn’t a word that we use everyday, but a few weeks ago Shayne Ardron and John Fryer helped us understand that meekness is not weakness; it is power under control. And I think that sums up my Dad very neatly. He had a tough life – he could have imploded, exploded or just collapsed and blamed everything on his shitty luck. But he didn’t. He reined his energy in and targeted it where it was most needed. He focussed his energy on the Church - and on his son.
So, what kind of Dad was he?
Well, I couldn’t have hoped for a better one. He taught me a lot.
He inspired my interest in mathematics. His own night school courses in maths he passed on to me so that I was proficient in trigonometry, geometry, logarithms and all kinds of other stuff. He taught me anatomy, physiology. He taught me all about levers, pulleys and first-aid.
But he also taught me philosophy.
By that I don’t mean he sat me down and explained the difference between empiricism and logical deduction. Dad taught philosophy by example.
Dad had a hard life but he didn’t whine about it or make excuses, he just got on with things. He taught me the difference between “blame” and “responsibility”. You can sit around excusing your behaviour for all the crap that’s been tipped on your head over the years or you can take responsibility for your own life and get on with it – put it right. There are of course exceptions, people through no fault of their own become ill and need special help, but where you can, if you can, you owe it to yourself and those who would help you, to be responsible for your own life.
Speaking personally now, those who know me, know that I have a certain “chemical weakness”. Fuck it! Let’s call it what it is – I’m an alcoholic! It’s my responsibility to sort that out. I may need help, and I know there are people very close to me – sitting very close to me – who will help me with that.
But it is you Dad who taught me that, and I thank you for it.
God Bless you, Dad.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Lost Weekend
As many of you will be aware, my father’s Memorial Service took place on Saturday 13 September 2008. This service had been planned for several months and many people were both surprised and concerned that I failed to attend , particularly as I was planning to deliver my father’s eulogy. I would like to take this opportunity to explain the circumstances of that weekend, insofar as I can recall them given my emotional and physical state.
2008 has been a tough year for me. In the early months I was working extremely long hours (70-80 hours per week) as a financial controller in a rapidly expanding company. I was also trying to spend as much time as I could with my terminally ill father. It should also be noted, as many of you will be aware, I have been addicted to alcohol for a number of years and during this stressful time I foolishly decided that the best way to cope with this stress to drink even more.
The body can only take so much and inevitably in March I suffered a mini-breakdown which left me in hospital for a short period. My employer decided that the best way to handle the situation was to dismiss me without notice and without complying with any of the legislation designed to cover such matters. This triggered a lengthy and very ugly unfair dismissal case which has only recently been resolved (in my favour).
Whether or not this contributed to my father’s decline is uncertain but it is certainly true that when he discovered that I was no longer working, and that the job market in my sector was so diminished (credit crunch, etc.), it seemed that the decline in my father’s health accelerated to the point where he was soon hospitalised and died on 28 May 2008.
There then followed a sequence of stressful events including trying to sell my house in the increasingly difficult market and most notably, the death of my two year old godson: the son of my best friend who was born exactly forty years to the hour after me.
With plenty of awful things on my mind, no spiritual faith to comfort me and plenty of idle time to dwell on things my alcohol consumption hit an all time high. By the end of July I was typically drinking a litre of vodka per day: that roughly equates to about 250 units per week. I was still able to function (more or less). I was capable of rational thought but was subject to frequent blackouts and memory loss.
Now, I was not happy with this level of consumption: it gave me no pleasure, but quitting the booze is very tricky. In fact it is very dangerous. Alcohol replaces the natural neuro-inhibitor in the body (gamma amino butyric acid) and going cold turkey can prove fatal. Even being asleep for eight hours brings on symptoms of delirium tremens (DTs) and I would wake up feeling anxious and paranoid with numbness in my fingers and toes and a mild case of ‘the shakes’. It would take the equivalent of at least two double vodkas before I could even begin to function.
However, in the days leading up to Dad’s memorial I had managed to reduce my alcohol intake substantially. You will understand that I didn’t want to meet and greet all his friends and loved ones, and then deliver his eulogy as pissed as a fart. Things were going well; I’d sketched out what I had planned to say and everything was going to plan.
On Friday, the day before the service I started to feel chest pains and a tingling in the fingers. I didn’t pay much attention to this: they were typical symptoms of impending trepidation; I’d experienced it before on many occasions – usually in anticipation of an important event or performance. However, when I awoke on Saturday morning the symptoms were not only still there but had become worse. I was light-headed, dizzy, unfocussed and my hands were not only tingling but were shaking quite badly. Inevitably, I slugged down a huge dose of ‘medicine’ – probably a quarter of a bottle of vodka (perhaps more; I don’t know) and decided to try and sleep some more. I wouldn’t need more than an hour to prepare for the service so if I was awake by noon I’d be fine.
Unfortunately, things didn’t go to plan. I was on the bed physically shaking and whether I eventually fell asleep, fell unconscious or simply blacked out I don’t know. All I know is that when I finally came to, it was around 2:30 pm and I’d missed my own father’s service. Naturally, I was devastated and in my drunken state everything seemed ten times worse. How could I ever face the Martyrs again?
Luckily, the good folk at the Martyrs aren’t the judgmental type and they realised something must be seriously wrong. The service went ahead and at the point where I was supposed to speak Reverend Fred Connell led a prayer on my behalf. After the service a number of concerned people came to see me and were able to get into the house. Now, those of you who were there saw the state I was in, those who weren’t can take a reasonable guess. I was absolutely distraught: drunk, shaking, and totally out of my mind.
Alas, the story doesn’t end there. Somewhere in all this madness, it seems the front door had been left open and my dog, Barney, had ventured out and couldn’t be found. If things had been grim up to this point, it now seemed like the end of the world: twelve months ago I was a confident finance professional: highly salaried, making bold, intelligent decisions, living in a nice house. I had a pretty young girlfriend and friends who were honoured to have a doctor of mathematics in their company. On 13 September 2008 I was an alcoholic who’d lost his job, his income, his girlfriend, his house, his dad and now even the bloody dog had run off!
Fortunately, the Martyrs crew are nothing if not practical. They managed to calm me down and get me to rest. A search party was despatched and although Barney wasn’t found, contact details were issued to the relevant authorities.
By some miracle (literal or metaphorical – take your pick) Barney turned up safe and well at the RSPCA and we were reunited on Sunday. Sadly, I still had enough alcohol in my system to comatose an obese hippopotamus and it was felt best that Barney be taken somewhere safe and the remaining alcohol in my house be removed (or maybe I’d drank it all: I don’t know) until I sobered up.
The next bit is something of a blur (surprise!) but it seems I was wandering down Luther Street when I felt seriously dizzy and fell to the ground. I was quickly spotted and an ambulance was called. The paramedics were understandably unimpressed: here was another dishevelled wasted man, stinking of booze lying on the street after a Saturday night on the piss. However, when they took some readings in the ambulance they were alarmed to discover that my heart rate was seriously arrhythmic, ranging from as low as 40 bpm to nearly 200! Something was definitely wrong!
I was rushed into Resus and an emergency ECG was taken. The duty Registrar concluded that I had suffered a heart attack in the last 48 hours. I was administered Digoxin and a whole cocktail of other medications and then whisked up “God’s elevator” (a special elevator that goes from Resus to the Acute Medical Unit (AMU) at LRI. Further tests were taken which confirmed that I had indeed had a heart attack sometime between Friday night and Saturday morning. Luckily it was a minor one and as long as the medication stabilised the arrhythmia then I could be out the next day.
So far in this rambling account, I have not mentioned the names of anyone who came to my aid. This is for two reasons. Firstly, those who generously came to my aid did so out of Christian kindness and not for personal glory: they would perhaps be embarrassed at being named here; secondly, I was so out of it I would probably forget to give credit to all those who merit it. But during my stay in hospital special credit goes to Gwyneth and Pat and Josie who between them took care of Barney (who I think has now forgiven me) during my episode. Anyway, back to the story.
No one likes being in hospital but one thing that makes it easier is when Gwyneth and Pat come and see you without being asked. The AMU was very busy on Monday and it took a long time to be seen by a doctor competent enough to decide whether I should be allowed home.
Unfortunately, in order to get an informed decision as to whether a patient is fit to be discharged at least two ECGs have to be taken. The NHS being what it is, the results of the second test were lost and a third had to be taken. However, the positioning of the sticky probes of the third were inconsistent with the positions of the first and so a fourth ECG had to be taken. Now, bear in mind that I have a very hairy chest (calm down ladies!) tearing off these strips later was not a fun process, but eventually it seemed that my spell in AMU was successful and I could be discharged.
I would especially like to thank Gwyneth and Pat for their dedication on Monday night. It was at least partly due to the fact that the consultant recognised the support that they provide that I was allowed to leave. {I would especially like to thank Gwyneth for that special piece of advice she provided were I to make a particularly bad decision}.
I am now back at home, reunited with Barney, with the full support of the Martyrs. I feel very humbled and it has made me look at life in a new way. I know I have problems, not least of all chronic alcoholism but it is a privilege to be surrounded by so many people who are so caring and non-judgmental. I owe it to myself and to the Martyrs to keep moving forward. I have been taking my medication and will continue the fight against my alcoholism.
Thank you all for your kindness and God bless.
2008 has been a tough year for me. In the early months I was working extremely long hours (70-80 hours per week) as a financial controller in a rapidly expanding company. I was also trying to spend as much time as I could with my terminally ill father. It should also be noted, as many of you will be aware, I have been addicted to alcohol for a number of years and during this stressful time I foolishly decided that the best way to cope with this stress to drink even more.
The body can only take so much and inevitably in March I suffered a mini-breakdown which left me in hospital for a short period. My employer decided that the best way to handle the situation was to dismiss me without notice and without complying with any of the legislation designed to cover such matters. This triggered a lengthy and very ugly unfair dismissal case which has only recently been resolved (in my favour).
Whether or not this contributed to my father’s decline is uncertain but it is certainly true that when he discovered that I was no longer working, and that the job market in my sector was so diminished (credit crunch, etc.), it seemed that the decline in my father’s health accelerated to the point where he was soon hospitalised and died on 28 May 2008.
There then followed a sequence of stressful events including trying to sell my house in the increasingly difficult market and most notably, the death of my two year old godson: the son of my best friend who was born exactly forty years to the hour after me.
With plenty of awful things on my mind, no spiritual faith to comfort me and plenty of idle time to dwell on things my alcohol consumption hit an all time high. By the end of July I was typically drinking a litre of vodka per day: that roughly equates to about 250 units per week. I was still able to function (more or less). I was capable of rational thought but was subject to frequent blackouts and memory loss.
Now, I was not happy with this level of consumption: it gave me no pleasure, but quitting the booze is very tricky. In fact it is very dangerous. Alcohol replaces the natural neuro-inhibitor in the body (gamma amino butyric acid) and going cold turkey can prove fatal. Even being asleep for eight hours brings on symptoms of delirium tremens (DTs) and I would wake up feeling anxious and paranoid with numbness in my fingers and toes and a mild case of ‘the shakes’. It would take the equivalent of at least two double vodkas before I could even begin to function.
However, in the days leading up to Dad’s memorial I had managed to reduce my alcohol intake substantially. You will understand that I didn’t want to meet and greet all his friends and loved ones, and then deliver his eulogy as pissed as a fart. Things were going well; I’d sketched out what I had planned to say and everything was going to plan.
On Friday, the day before the service I started to feel chest pains and a tingling in the fingers. I didn’t pay much attention to this: they were typical symptoms of impending trepidation; I’d experienced it before on many occasions – usually in anticipation of an important event or performance. However, when I awoke on Saturday morning the symptoms were not only still there but had become worse. I was light-headed, dizzy, unfocussed and my hands were not only tingling but were shaking quite badly. Inevitably, I slugged down a huge dose of ‘medicine’ – probably a quarter of a bottle of vodka (perhaps more; I don’t know) and decided to try and sleep some more. I wouldn’t need more than an hour to prepare for the service so if I was awake by noon I’d be fine.
Unfortunately, things didn’t go to plan. I was on the bed physically shaking and whether I eventually fell asleep, fell unconscious or simply blacked out I don’t know. All I know is that when I finally came to, it was around 2:30 pm and I’d missed my own father’s service. Naturally, I was devastated and in my drunken state everything seemed ten times worse. How could I ever face the Martyrs again?
Luckily, the good folk at the Martyrs aren’t the judgmental type and they realised something must be seriously wrong. The service went ahead and at the point where I was supposed to speak Reverend Fred Connell led a prayer on my behalf. After the service a number of concerned people came to see me and were able to get into the house. Now, those of you who were there saw the state I was in, those who weren’t can take a reasonable guess. I was absolutely distraught: drunk, shaking, and totally out of my mind.
Alas, the story doesn’t end there. Somewhere in all this madness, it seems the front door had been left open and my dog, Barney, had ventured out and couldn’t be found. If things had been grim up to this point, it now seemed like the end of the world: twelve months ago I was a confident finance professional: highly salaried, making bold, intelligent decisions, living in a nice house. I had a pretty young girlfriend and friends who were honoured to have a doctor of mathematics in their company. On 13 September 2008 I was an alcoholic who’d lost his job, his income, his girlfriend, his house, his dad and now even the bloody dog had run off!
Fortunately, the Martyrs crew are nothing if not practical. They managed to calm me down and get me to rest. A search party was despatched and although Barney wasn’t found, contact details were issued to the relevant authorities.
By some miracle (literal or metaphorical – take your pick) Barney turned up safe and well at the RSPCA and we were reunited on Sunday. Sadly, I still had enough alcohol in my system to comatose an obese hippopotamus and it was felt best that Barney be taken somewhere safe and the remaining alcohol in my house be removed (or maybe I’d drank it all: I don’t know) until I sobered up.
The next bit is something of a blur (surprise!) but it seems I was wandering down Luther Street when I felt seriously dizzy and fell to the ground. I was quickly spotted and an ambulance was called. The paramedics were understandably unimpressed: here was another dishevelled wasted man, stinking of booze lying on the street after a Saturday night on the piss. However, when they took some readings in the ambulance they were alarmed to discover that my heart rate was seriously arrhythmic, ranging from as low as 40 bpm to nearly 200! Something was definitely wrong!
I was rushed into Resus and an emergency ECG was taken. The duty Registrar concluded that I had suffered a heart attack in the last 48 hours. I was administered Digoxin and a whole cocktail of other medications and then whisked up “God’s elevator” (a special elevator that goes from Resus to the Acute Medical Unit (AMU) at LRI. Further tests were taken which confirmed that I had indeed had a heart attack sometime between Friday night and Saturday morning. Luckily it was a minor one and as long as the medication stabilised the arrhythmia then I could be out the next day.
So far in this rambling account, I have not mentioned the names of anyone who came to my aid. This is for two reasons. Firstly, those who generously came to my aid did so out of Christian kindness and not for personal glory: they would perhaps be embarrassed at being named here; secondly, I was so out of it I would probably forget to give credit to all those who merit it. But during my stay in hospital special credit goes to Gwyneth and Pat and Josie who between them took care of Barney (who I think has now forgiven me) during my episode. Anyway, back to the story.
No one likes being in hospital but one thing that makes it easier is when Gwyneth and Pat come and see you without being asked. The AMU was very busy on Monday and it took a long time to be seen by a doctor competent enough to decide whether I should be allowed home.
Unfortunately, in order to get an informed decision as to whether a patient is fit to be discharged at least two ECGs have to be taken. The NHS being what it is, the results of the second test were lost and a third had to be taken. However, the positioning of the sticky probes of the third were inconsistent with the positions of the first and so a fourth ECG had to be taken. Now, bear in mind that I have a very hairy chest (calm down ladies!) tearing off these strips later was not a fun process, but eventually it seemed that my spell in AMU was successful and I could be discharged.
I would especially like to thank Gwyneth and Pat for their dedication on Monday night. It was at least partly due to the fact that the consultant recognised the support that they provide that I was allowed to leave. {I would especially like to thank Gwyneth for that special piece of advice she provided were I to make a particularly bad decision}.
I am now back at home, reunited with Barney, with the full support of the Martyrs. I feel very humbled and it has made me look at life in a new way. I know I have problems, not least of all chronic alcoholism but it is a privilege to be surrounded by so many people who are so caring and non-judgmental. I owe it to myself and to the Martyrs to keep moving forward. I have been taking my medication and will continue the fight against my alcoholism.
Thank you all for your kindness and God bless.
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