My kind and gentle Daddy ‘died’ so many times I thought he’d live forever

Mick or Michael? You were many things to many people but to me you were just Daddy.

A kind and gentle father, you were in the background of my happy childhood years. I wish I remembered more. Maybe I’ve a touch of that dementia myself?

In secondary school you were my cook. Dinners, dinners and more dinners, so very important to a growing boy. In third level you were my banker, a soft touch, constant bailouts with no strings attached, except, “you know your mother doesn’t approve of this”.

I emigrated to a far distant land with no phones (London) and you wrote and wrote. Why didn’t I keep those letters? A piece of history gone. The foolishness of youth. Maybe I thought you’d live forever, I did you know.

In Scotland you visited me when Mammy didn’t and then when she couldn’t. No questions asked, the path of least resistance. When she died I felt like somebody had hit me with a sledgehammer. How must it have been for you?

Mid-life crisis

You stepped out of the shadows. You and me, two adults at last. We travelled together from the Highlands of Scotland to the lowlands of Leitrim.

When I had a mid-life crisis, you had words of wisdom for me. When I called to tell you of my engagement you told me you had a sore big toe, but I knew what you meant.

As I prepared to walk down the aisle, you had heart failure, the start of a gradual decline. Yet our best times were still to come: Donegal, Drumshanbo, Blessington, London, Carlingford and Cavan (the hotels, not the hospital). What a time we had.

Along the way you became Grandad. We’ll go to Monaghan to visit “Granny” I’d say, “and Grandad” Dónal would add, right to the very end.

Conn felt the loss of the 90-year-old version of you and mourned with me at your moving on. Grandad to them, a gentleman to Nuala, but to me you were always Daddy.

You “died” so many times that I thought you’d live forever. Sometimes I thought I might be there before you.

But in the end you knew it was time to go. No sledgehammer this time, just the emptiness of my hero gone. No sledgehammer this time, but the peace of mind of knowing that you know, that I loved you unconditionally.