Dad’s hero was Del Boy, who was of course, fictional, but he bought him to life. I can’t bring myself to watch Only Fools and Horses anymore, despite it being my favourite. It brings back painful and joyous memories, neither of which I’ve been willing to remember, until now.
“One day, we’ll be millionaires”, Dad would happily quote, while watching telly, or sorting intimidating papers from the council or banks in the living room. The central heating would be turned off and our curtains closed, part in fear of bailiffs and part in caution of our weird neighbour, who had been arrested for benefit fraud, and used to refer to my Dad as “James.”
Unfortunately, a jackpot lottery win, luck in the betting shop, or better times were never to materialise.
A year on from his death, I often spend time obsessing over the details of his personal views, his past jobs, his CD collection, his childhood home and his financial history; while ignoring the fact that he isn’t alive anymore. I confront the truths of his life, in scathing detail, like a private investigator noting the precise move of a robber or murderer, but I hardly recount his passing.
The moments though, that always stand out the most to me, are his post-diagnosis ones. Our relationship before he developed Multiple Myeloma, was one of little words, now, we were more abound with conversation than ever, helping this a considerable amount on my part, was that he miraculously seemed a changed man.
No longer was he quiet — without contemplating; but social, interested in people, dating, he even joined an art-therapy club which was run by a local Baroness in partnership with his local Hospice. Post-diagnosis dad seemed less cynical, distrusting or bitter that life hadn’t gone to plan — and more happy with what he had.
I practically had to beg him to do a council swap after the Bedroom Tax was rolled out and I realised that the exposed concrete floor would be detrimental to his weakening bones should he fall over or collapse — he was either too content in his new, happier routine of therapy, hospital appointments or dating life to care, or used to living in the conditions dictated to him.
Two years after his diagnosis, Dad was finally moved into a Sheltered Accommodation block (his own flat) with a shared garden — yards down the road from our terrace house opposite the co-op. He had not long turned 59.
The new living room also didn’t have a carpet. After bringing this up to the Housing Association lady, she simply stared at me blankly and said “We’ve gifted you the carpets in the bedroom and hallway”.
Some of the most blissful moments we shared together when I came to visit was watching our collection of Only Fools and Horses DVD’s — the best gift I have ever given someone. Over a ready-meal, a bacon sandwich or a cup of tea.
Only Fools was one of the few things we both enjoyed equal amounts, I think because it mirrored so much of my Dad’s life experience. I don’t know whether Dad genuinely believed we’d somehow secure a million pounds, like Del did, or whether he just associated it with good comedy, and good memories. I like to think both.
The new home was just one of our little triumphs on the journey to make my Dad’s last known years and months the best they could be. Next, a holiday was well on the cards.
Dad hadn’t had a passport since 1993, (even that had been a temporary one), and had planned to take part on a local Travel Agents pre-arranged trip for the elderly to Jersey. He was to go with his girlfriend and other cancer patients.
Sadly, his partner passed away a few months before they were due to take the ferry. He was still determined to go. In retrospect, I think he knew it would probably be his last chance.
After his return, in September last year, it seemed as if his health had taken a serious turn for the worse. His best friend, had been pushing for him to finally get a carpet laid on the concrete floor in the new accommodation, so that his feet, which had started to swell and split, could be kept warm throughout the winter without cramping.
After putting it off for months (due to terms spent in and out of hospital) he died a week before the man was due to come.
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When someone dies, you often have to confront the realities of their life all over again. Not only that but confront yourself too. Life on the ‘dole’ can be a confusing, demotivating and disenfranchising experience.
Throughout Dad’s final years, long after I had moved away to London, we’d often send each other money back and forth, when he needed it and when I did. Neither of us ever questioned what it was for, a life full of that for ten years makes you never want to question how someone is spending money again.
As I was going through paperwork in his room, a few days after he had died, I noticed a letter from a charity that provides grants to people living in poverty to pay for their heating. Few things have left me feeling more baffled, confused or guilt ridden.
In the final months I spent with Dad, the heating was almost always on, and there was more than enough money from his two-weekly sickness benefits to pay the reasonable fuel bill in his account. Why would he have been applying for this grant? I will indeed never know the answer, much like I will never know the answer to many of the questions surrounding my allusive Dad.
A year on, I find the harsh realities he often found himself in hard to think about. I feel a lot of guilt, loss and emptiness over his death. But I am grateful for the last years of his life — one filled with new friends, a lovely holiday and a comfortable home. Having cancer was one of the best and worst things that happened to Des — and I’m glad he can finally rest.