What do I remember?

Sometimes I talk about my Dad, and more often than that I talk about his death. It’s 40 years this year of talking about his death. And a pretty common question, when they realise I was a small child when he died, the thing they pretty often ask me, is if I remember him - if I have my own memories. And I answer them. And I’ll tell you about that, if you want to know, if you fancy reading any more of these…. if I write any more of these. I intend to write a series to commemorate his bizarre and badly-timed exit from the mortal coil. I wanted to do something and though I don’t expect to be read, I did want to say a few things.

What was I saying? Oh yes, I have been wondering why they ask me if I remember him. It was a while before I started wondering - decades - before I started wondering why they ask me that. I feel I can’t ask them why they ask me that just after they ask me their question, as it seems a pretty harsh rebuttal, even if I couch it in terms of, “don’t take this the wrong way…”.

Don’t take this the wrong way…

No offence, but…

Hear me out…

Etc.

So I answer their question, while wondering why they ask. I have some theories about why they ask and here they come:

1. How ghastly was it/is it?

I presume they are thinking of themselves/their kids/their grandchildren at that age, they are experiencing the drop of their bowels into their insteps at the thought of a child of six enduring the death of their parent. There is a pause. They hold their breath. They allow the deep seep of the idea into their feelings. That is what they are doing. They are reading the novel of my experience and allowing it to permeate their souls, staring agog at the movie of My Real Life just as they did with Jaws and Silence of the Lambs. I am a fictionalisation of one of the most terrifying ideas in Western culture made flesh and I’m standing right here in front of them, willing to spill.

And then they step away.

2. What did it do to me?

Maybe they are wondering what it has done to me. The answer to that is what hasn’t it done to me? And the answer to that is that it hasn’t made me well-adjusted, easy to be with, happy-go-lucky, full of the joy of spring, well-balanced, able to cope, successful, contented, wantable, etc. I have considerable anecdotal evidence that in the foothills of acquaintance people encounter me as a fun, focused, person who understands quite a bit about life and people and who doesn’t indiscriminately like your dog as much as you do. I have been told over and over again that I’m somehow ‘better’ than they’d expect given this bereavement and I think that’s just like my tits, really. They look all sit-up-and-beg but they are heaved and then fixed into place using expensively designed bras. They look as if they are there in the upper reaches of my chest, but they aren’t really. It’s not quite an optical illusion but it’s surely a feat of engineering. And I too am a feat of social engineering. I learnt early on what to present and that was anything but the chaotic devastation my father’s death made of me. So I act. And sometimes I do it for money, but I’m always doing it for dear life. And I’m good. Maybe one of the best of my generation. Maybe. Come and see me smile at someone on their wedding day and then you can decide how good you think I really am.

3. Can I remember anything at all about my father from when I was six, or slightly younger?

I imagine they are thinking of their own parents/children/grandchildren. If it happened to someone close to them tomorrow, who would remember what? What would they remember? Do we really exist now if we won’t be remembered? How will it be if no one remembers them? Is it going to be terrible not to be remembered, will it be painful or sad? How does a child do that kind of thing, remember someone yet lose them, keep going nonetheless? Will someone not pass the gin, crack a joke and just stop being bereaved in my face?

This is not an exhaustive list, but this next for me is the doozy, the mother of all roots of the thing, I suspect. I mean, what do I know? But still:

4. Do I feel anything if I don’t remember?

The hope here is loud and clear: please tell me you don’t really remember him because if you don’t really remember him then there was never any trauma in the first place. That you have virtually no memories surely indicates that you have got over your father’s death. And of course, were they to actually ask this question in this way then I’d be supertempted to lie. I love a lie. It’s not a hobby of mine, in fact, lying, but sometimes its so delicious it is irresistible. And this is a lie I want to tell: “Yes, I remember little and yes, you’re quite right, that is a clear indicator that for me now my father’s death is neither here nor there. I was barely changed by his death, I am well, I am resilient, I am basically untouched, JUST AS YOU WOULD BE IF IT WERE TO HAPPEN TO YOU OR YOUR CHILDREN OR YOUR GRANDCHILDREN. YOU’D BE FINE. THEY’D BE FINE. IT’S ACTUALLY FINE."

And yet, here I am writing something to commemorate the anniversary of his death. 40 painful and flailing years where I have proved that though disaster sometimes happens fast, it can also happen so slowly that it fools you into thinking it’s not disaster. You can think you’re working through things, GETTING THERE in that rather recent addition to the matrix of phatic answers to empty questions:

“How are you?”

“Oh, getting there.”

What the many actual fucks? What does that mean? In fact, what does that even mean? It pains me to hear it, as much as “to be fair” when just making a statement rather than, you know, attempting to balance out a situation. To be fair has come screaming out of the football ground and into common parlance and I’m happy for those who like it and use it but it makes me want to weep, nearly as much as Getting There. Crying for my father is a pointless, emptying-out activity, but allowing the fury to fill me from top to toe with pointless bile when someone states they are “getting there” is of a whole other order. It’s not like the desperate, empty tears for Dad, but then again it’s nice to have something else to rage about, I guess. Other tears. Raging about empty phrases does count as light relief. After 40 years a change is a good as a rest. Nearly.