You see, the thing is.

Dear Dadadadad

Wow. Four years, hey? Beans on toast. I didn’t think I’d get this far. And, weirdly, this is the year I felt the most okay, and the most not okay.

If I could name for you the myriad of times where I’ve wanted you to just appear and say “hey, duckie, just tell me about it”, and I could splurge and write and draw things on serviettes, and you would understand, I would. I would pick out the days on the calendar and say:

“this one. right here. you should’ve been there”.

That sounds angry. It’s not. It’s just me still missing you when life kicks me in the ass.

If I could name for you the myriad of times this past year that you would be so proud of. The days and times when I could stomp your toe and phone you, too excited to speak and bubbling forth with ideas and plans and undeniable joy, I would.

I’d pick out that same calendar, and ring those days in green and say,

“Dad, these are the days you would have lit cigars for me”.

But, I’m making it. I’m making it because, for the first time, I think I have an idea of how to.

Most of all, there are days where I just want to pick up that proverbial dog ‘n bone and tell you a funny story, read you something that made me laugh all the way through. How I really think you’d be a total Twitter/Facebook/YouTube/LinkedIn addict.

Does that make any sense?

I don’t just miss you when I’m sad, Dad. I miss you when I’m shining brightly too.

I want to sit you down, with a cup of painter’s sweet tea and tell you about how Cameron can count to twenty and how I’m convinced NBJ is just like me when I was little, and how KJ is so inquisitive and curious it drives her parents mad sometimes.  I want to tell you about their school, their lives and how they are so, so, so full of love for every moment.

You have three girl grandchildren, Dad. Three. Yes, I know, we’ve bulk ordered cannons and we have alerted the world to watch out for this lot. I truly believe they’re going to change the world. You should know, you’re their Grandpa. You know how your dynasty, quite frankly, rolls.

I want to tell you about the Ugly Sister and how she’s flourishing. Doing really well, but at the same time working so freaking hard. She loves it, every moment of the insanity. Just like me.

I want to tell you about the Dickie Darling and how he’s a Dad, just like you. Ever-present and never afraid to make a complete tit out of himself, just to hear the tinkle of his children’s sweet laughter. How he listens. The way he  listens, Dad, it’s like you’re listening.

I want to tell you about how much I lean on my other sister. How much we talk, how much I know that I am so glad she is, literally, my Ali/Ally (and there she thought it was just a nickname!) in this parenting parade. And just how much she loves your son. She would do anything in the world for him, and she loves him like people should love. Without fear. Without limit. And because of that, how she loves each and every one of us, just the same way.

I want to tell you about the UM and how stubborn she is. Still. How stubborn and yet so in touch with her children’s dreams. How much she really does write now that she can get to the computer, and her stories, all funny or sad, and how she tells them. How she worries about us. How much I get her now, because so often I see her in myself.

I want to tell you about me. About how in all that seems insane, I feel more grounded. I feel like I know what I’m doing. Bet you never, ever thought I’d say that. But, it’s true. For the first time in my life, I really feel like I know what I’m doing. How I’m brave, when it would  be so much easier to be a coward. And how every night when I put Cameron to bed, I think, man you’d love this part, right here. With the night-time cuddles, storytime  and fiddling around looking for the right bunny to sleep with. You’d love that part, right there.

I want to tell you about how I think that if you were alive, you’d be a phenomenal grandpa. Full of stories and your listening to their laughter. How I wish life could have given you more time with the troupe we all now call “our girls”.

It’s not easy, Dad. And it’s not grown any easier as each year has passed. How disappointed I have been, and how excited I have been. I look back and I understand why you would tell me that every sadness and every smile is just another thread in my carpet of life. How each and every one brings it more to life, and how each and every colour makes it more than it was before.

I hope you’re proud Dadadad. I hope I make you proud.

I miss you, in the way that I know you’re only person who could ever call me this and get away with it,

Cathy.

Rules For Living Cath

After I eventually fell asleep last night (i chilled on the couch, watched Oprah and a really bizarre re-enactment of a plane hijacking) I had the most.random.but.vivid.dream.

It was, however, divine. I was at home, the original one, and clearly someone, somewhere, thought I needed a chat. This dream left me smiling. I woke up after it and wrote down some notes (circa 4am today) and I thought I’d write it up here.

Random, I tell you.

I was sat at home, the house I grew up in, and my Dad walked into my bedroom. I must have been a teenager though, because I remember turning around and saying “what!?”, whilst flinging a smoke out the window (they knew I smoked, it was okay but hey,  I was angsty, what can i say? heh). And he said, clear as day I can still hear him in my head now:

“We need to talk about the rules. I think you have forgotten them”

The next thing, we were sat at the dining room table, tea, smokes, papers everywhere, and the big green glass ashtray circa 1973 and is fucking gorge and retro… He was wearing his cable-stitch jersey and it’s so weird yet comforting…he had his finger on his nose, holding his glasses, in the thinking position, that I know I do too.

And he showed me this piece of paper that said:

“Rules for Living Cath”.

They were scrawled out on the assignment paper I used to have to use for those bloody assignments for Uni. Weirdly, though, they were written in my ‘anal’ writing. The one I reserved for trying to be neat, back in the day of school and learning and Uni and, let’s not fool ourselves okes, bunking lectures to watch movies.

Somehow, though, I know that some of it was talked about in this dream-conversation and other points were written down.

Anyway, here’s what my notes said this morning.

I’ve just noticed now, not that it surprises me, that there are twelve points.

1. Speak your mind. Even if your voice shakes. Somewhere, someone, someday, will listen.

2. Have good friends.

3. Love at all times. The hardest of these is to love yourself.

4. Noone can make you feel inferior without your consent. One day, you’ll realise this and stop giving your consent.

5. Listening is a lot harder than talking.

6. Laugh as much as you can. Try harder to laugh at yourself.

7. Walking. You were born dis-co-hordin-ated. So, it’s right, left, right, left. Keep up, you’re doing well.

8. Never settle. yes, I know it’s tempting, but don’t settle. Compromise in your experience thus far, has led you to fuck yourself up. Don’t do it.

9. The moment someone demands you apologise for being you, stop feeling guilty about walking away from them.

10. Pets are for life. So are people.

11. When you die, nobody is really going to care if you ordered your wardrobe by colour.

12. Keep writing. Something’s coming.

I have a lot of gratitude this morning. And  a lot of peace within. Thank you Dadadadad.

oh. one more thing.

something my father did, sticks with me daily.

especially when i write something that could be construed as controversial.

he would always point a book out to me, the title of which has always strengthened me.

so this is my middle-finger-in-text-format to people who may not like what i write, for whatever their reasons.

i write what i like – steve biko.

oh, and a comment from my friend and compadre superperson Glugster below:

“I read what I like” – Glugster

If people don’t like what you write, then they should not read it. God, I hate dumb people.

12 July 2008

Dear Dadadad

It’s been three years, since them angels came and took you away to play chess with Ivor and ask all the angel waitresses – “is the kettle broken, duckie?”

I see Tabitha now sat beside you, on the arm of your chair, as it always was, and always should be. My two familiars together and watching over us.

What’s happened, Dadadadad? Where did life begin to speed up so fast? Was there a corner turned or intersection crossed that I don’t remember flying by? I know I’ve started to grow up, not just in this skin, but in this head too. Finally, I hear you sigh. Hehe.

Every day I look at the people around me and see how blessed I am. And how hard I have worked to be here. And how it just makes me want to work harder.

To work harder at work, work harder at life, work harder at being a mommy, and most of all, work harder at being just me. You always said that was enough. Enough for me, enough for you, enough for them, and that if it was not enough for the world, I should just ignore the world and carry on.

I’m carrying on, Dadadadad. I have felt defeated and broken and shitty, to be frank. There have been many days when I have wanted to sit across from you at the diningroom table, sunlight streaming in through the windows behind you (you do realise, we never, ever got around to putting the curtains back up after we came back from George hey? haha) and talk about everything and nothing. To drink tea, play cards, smoke and pontificate, interrupted only by cats and food and peebreaks. Peebreaks. You taught me that word.

The house, Dadadad, it’s gone and different now. I know you are not within there. I have felt you beyond it since you left us. I know you watch over it, and are happy that the UM set herself free from it. New beginnings. I worry you think we’d forget you, you and your “i am just a mushroom in the dark” mentality. We have not. In everything we do, every day, we remember you.

When I sit here, in this yellow-walled office, behind my laptop and type, smacking the keyboard, I think of you. Think of you, and waking up at 2am to hear you smacking that keyboard. Working towards doing something good in the world, helping someone. Hoping that you’re helping someone, somewhere. I have that same drive. Every time I turn this monster on, I think two things “oh crikey, more email” and “I want to do one good thing for someone today. if i can just do that, i know i’m okay”.

I’ll never be able to thank you and hate you enough for that drive – the drive that you and Mum imbued in each of us. The drive to help, to assist, to aid, to, as it’s called “hold hands”. And in all the noise and chaos and craziness, I know we are all holding hands, somehow, even when we’re shouting at each other.

I’d like to tell you about your grandchildren. I am sure you look at those three girls, and think “oh boy, in eighteen years’ time, i wish you lot luck”. You’d be right.

Cameron is phenomenal. She talks and talks and talks (no idea where she gets that from) and is so honest in her feelings, and expressing them. There was a moment this morning, we were having our morning cuddle, and I thought of you. You’d love morning cuddle. Sometimes I think you are watching us and cuddling too. If there is one thing Cameron has inherited directly from you, it’s her ability to hug and love without inhibition. You always gave the best hugs, and now I get them from Cameron. Thank you.

N-B is growing so quickly, and is the proudest big sister of all time. She’s responsible and caring, and above all things, is passionate. She dives into everything and is not afraid to try anything once, twice and three times if it makes her smile. She is always smiling and is so, so funny. I like to think, she gets her ability to smile all the time from you. No matter what, you always had a smile for us. Thank you.

K-J is just beginning to grow, and I hear very well indeed. When I held her, I felt that extreme peace you always spoke of, when you hold someone that is related to you. That is your family. Her little fingers reminded me of the fragility of life, and the wonder of the world through a newborn’s eyes. My brother, your son, is the proudest and most wonderful father. When I see him, he reminds me more and more of you. Strong and clear and profoundly in the moment. You were so, so right when you said that R and A had the strongest marriage, through thick and thin and inbetween. You were right, I can only think that they learnt from the best.

Sam was just here recently. One thing I can definitely say, is that she got the snore from you No, really, my sister is just like me it scares me. Just more bravely so. Unforgivingly so. And yet, so much of a soft heart. But, bloody hell, I would not want to meet her in the wrong end of a dark alleyway, if you know what I mean.

The UM. The UM is so graceful. She always has been, in a particular way, hey? Sure, we all know about the ability to throw stuff in the faces of pigs (we all have that ability!) but, with such grace. As I grow up, and keep moving, I see mom’s grace and am inspired. She is happy in her new abode, and I think she loves the way the sun moves its way across the rooms. She always was a sucker for sunlight. I get that from her, I know.

Dadadad, I miss you. I miss sitting on the lawn and talking. In our house, we were always talking, even when we didn’t want to talk to each other. Teehee Teehee. I wonder what you’d think about so much, but I feel your gentle guidance always. You are in everything I do, see. When I work, I know my drive to work is genetic. When I love, i know my unashamed love is purely part of me. When I live, in every second, I know I alive because of the life you gave me. Even when I am sad, I know I am not alone.

You taught me how important people are, and to always remember to honour them, and I try my best to. I look around me at the people I am surrounded by, and I know they are good, and strong, and there. Every day, I hope I do enough back. I know your opinion on this already though, and theirs too. I am very, very blessed indeed, and yes, I “have good friends”.

Dadadadad, I hope you are good. All-round good, and that the chelsea buns are fresh and that you have no need or desire to watch the laundry spin round the washing machine. Only you would understand that reference.

Dadadad, I must end off now. You are in my heart, my hands and my home. Always.

For you today…

My Inheritance – CSMJ

Someone once asked me, what will your parents leave you when they have gone away to heaven?

I had no answer.

The truth is:

nothing.

They’ve given it to me already.

You gave me life. Was that not enough?

Apparently not.

You have in my life
(as little and as short as it has been thus far…)
taught me so much.

The way I detail things intimately and fully.
The way I exclaim with joy or scream with anger.
The way I can swing from happy to sorrowful in a moment.
The way I love and hate in complete ways.
The way I love the little things.
The way my happiness abounds when I am joyful.
The way my sorrow is overwhelming when I am sad.
The way my hair grows, my funny toes.
The way I talk with my hands.
The way I stare off into space when I think.
The way I laugh wholeheartedly.
The way I like to do things properly or not at all.
The way I like everyone to listen to me when I speak.
The way I grin when I’ve succeeded.
The way I moan when I have made a mistake.

The way I write things.

one day til

tomorrow will be a hard day. im musing on this.

in the meantime, for my siblings and my mama, and mostly for the man i miss the most. Dadadadadad.

because whenever I hear this song, I think of you, and I am strong enough to carry on without you to phone every day, because you are always with me, throwing feathers my way and boiling that kettle. X

SOTD – the black parade – my chemical romance

When I was a young boy,
My father took me into the city
To see a marching band.
He said,
“Son when you grow up, will you be the saviour of the broken,
The beaten and the damned?”
He said
“Will you defeat them, your demons, and all the non believers, the plans that they have made?”
Because one day I leave you,
A phantom to lead you in the summer,
To join the black parade.”

When I was a young boy,
My father took me into the city
To see a marching band.
He said,
“Son when you grow up, will you be the saviour of the broken,
The beaten and the damned?”

Sometimes I get the feeling she’s watching over me.
And other times I feel like I should go. Through it all, the rise and fall, the bodies in the streets.
When you’re gone we want you all to know We’ll Carry on,
We’ll Carry on
Though your dead and gone believe me Your memory will carry on
Carry on
We’ll carry on
And in my heart I cant contain it
The anthem wont explain it.

And we will send you reeling from decimated dreams
Your misery and hate will kill us all
So paint it black and take it back
Lets shout it loud and clear
Do you fight it to the end
We hear the call to
To carry on
We’ll carry on
Though your dead and gone believe me Your memory will carry on
We’ll carry on
And though you’re broken and defeated You’re weary widow marches on

And on we carry through the fears
Ooh oh ohhhh
Disappointed faces of your peers Ooh oh ohhhh
Take a look at me cause
I could not care at all Do or die
You’ll never make me
Cause the world, will never take my heart
You can try, you’ll never break me
Want it all,
I’m gonna play this part
Wont explain or say i’m sorry
I’m not ashamed,
I’m gonna show my scar
You’re the chair, for all the broken Listen here, because it’s only..
I’m just a man,
I’m not a hero
Just a boy, who’s meant to sing this song
Just a man,
I’m not a hero
I — don’t — care
Carry on
We’ll carry on
Though your dead and gone believe me Your memory will carry on
We’ll carry on
And though you’re broken and defeated You’re weary widow marches on
We’ll carry on
We’ll carry on
We’ll carry on
We’ll carry
We’ll carry on

emo phases.

it’s an emo cath week, this week. this week marks three years of missing someone, see?

(note – being emo does not mean im not happy. i just feel affected more by things, and like to hide out a bit and be glummo. its allowed, and normal, you know)

peppered with outbursts and crying and missing people.

specifically, though, this week means change. it always means change.

and so the changes have presented themselves.

emo week, phase 1, means realising change is coming and loathing it.

emo week, phase 2, means getting up and doing something about it.

emo week, phase 3, means hoping like hell a plan works out.

emo week, phase 4, is having the phone put down on me (yeah, that rocked. not).

emo week, phase 5, is when I write something and publish it and hope like hell  i did you justice.

but for now, we’re in phase 3. and i am still wordless and wondering. but, im okay. promise.

So, i’ll leave it to Dylan Thomas because, if i think of you, I think of mom and you and Under Milk Wood on LP.

Do not go gentle into that good night – Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

random

my mum just dropped off some of my things she uncovered whilst unpacking after her great move.

in it is a scrapbook of birthday cards and letters and faxes (i forgot how much my family used to FAX each other. no pun intended there, really).

I found a birthday card from Karen! OMG!

And many from my family, still with my Dadadadad’s writing on them.

Some from my Grandfather Len. Still with his writing on them. I lived for those cards some years.

And then, one from Aunty Fay.

And it struck me. Aunty Fay is my Godmother.

I have no idea where she is.

Dear Dadadadad. The Elephant in the Room.

Dear Dadadadad

Today’s an anniversary for you and me. Today, three years ago, I told you that you were right. I told you what noone else would accept, ‘fess up to and tell you, for true. (for true, teehee, teehee).

You always said I was brave.

I stood there, mountainous, in a dress I loved when bought, and hated and could never wear again because it reminded me so much of the look on your face when you said “ducky, i’ve let the team down”.

Fittingly, you were wearing your golden brown jersey, the first one I ever saw you in, that day you peered over into my cot. Noone ever believes that I remember that. I must have been two days old. Noone but you. There’s a photo of it, but that’s not what sparks the memory in my head. The thing that sparks my memory of that is not in that photo. You know this.

It seemed fitting to me, in a melodramatic (‘drama, drama, drama, cathy, you love the drama’ – you are the only person who can EVER call ME cathy…), kind of way that this was how it would play out.

I was then shuffled out and made to wait on a plasticine chair (it sure as hell felt like it), and got to watch another family break bread over another plasticine table and talk as though nothing was happening, despite their reason for being there. They also had the elephant in the room, the same elephant as ours, and there they were, also trying not to look at it or talk about it. Like everyone else we knew.

They let me back in to sit with you, and you said ‘hello bump, shall we talk about what your favourite colour will be? happier things, please’.

And there we were, the two of us. You called it “laden up with death and life, us. Me with death, you with life. shit”. We laughed though, the pair of us, and had tea. A right Monty Python skit indeed.

We faced that elephant in the room, and taunted him a little with some peanuts. Laughed at him trying to fit through the doorway, and held hands when he finally stood in front of us.

I never wanted to leave you that day. We always somehow managed to confront the Elephant In the Room, no matter how much you or I or the world around, tried to avoid or ignore it. In any situation, I knew you and I could talk about the Elephant, whichever one it was that day.

Everyone in the world seems to ignore their Elephants. I think the reason why I am unashamed of talking about mine is that you taught me not to be. I wish there was still you that I could take my Elephants to, and splurge them, and have you veto or okay them. It always turned out that they were really mice, after then. I think I am some people’s Elephant. Well, they think I am. Truth is though, as you well know, I am but a mouse.

True, life and you have taught me that in dealing with the Elephants, they do become mice. And thus far, I have been able to, with time and splurging, been able to handle them.

But, some days, I want your Elephant Taming Skills. And your teeth-breaking chelsea buns, and for you to look at me over your glasses and say:

‘it doesn’t matter anyway’.

I want you to know that Cameron’s favourite bedtime story is “The Owl and The Pussycat”.

I bought that book on that same day, and kept it. I didn’t go and seek it out. It, literally, found me. Like all the good things that you told me would come.

Oh, and just so you know, I do get your feathers.

I kept it in vain hope that you would be able to read it to her, but knowing that it would be me to do so. I went home after that, sat, read it and hoped against hope that the truth in my brain would be wrong, and that the hope in my heart would be.

It wasn’t.

We found that out a few months later when, I was standing next to you, and kissed you byebye for the last time.

Every night, just about, she takes it off the bookshelf and says “mommy, the kittycat story”.

For you, Dadadad, I read that story and Cameron and I sail away on a “peagreen boat”, before she goes to sleep.

Somewhere, I know, you too, are dancing, “by the light of the moon, the moon, the moon”.

x.

P.S. tracy told me this morning that Cameron has your eyes. I’ve never seen it that way before but she’s right. She sends all her love, and you know she’s pregnant too now? And Sarah. And Jo, as you remember, has Crystal. All the girls. How we have indeed grown.
P.P.S. Keep sending the feathers.

you warned me this would come.

it’s strange this life thing.

i’m so sorry my nick. i’m so sorry you hurt and it’s horrible. i’m so sorry. i don’t have words because i remember when i heard about my dad, i couldn’t speak. i even remember the message “be brave. it’s cancer”. i can still see it in my mind’s eye. and today i read yours and cried at my desk.

all i do know, is the fucking cliches. the fucking ‘i know how you feel’ and the ‘make the most of what time you have with them’. and then of course, the one i hated the most – ‘be strong, this can be beaten’.

i fucking hated that one the most, because i knew it rang hollow with lies and baseless comfort.

i’ve been warned of this time in my life. when people’s parents would leave us. i thought i was alone in the world of people who have lost parents in this until i heard from karen.

i’ve been warned of this time in my life. when people’s parents would get ill and we would all worry and pray. today i’m praying for roxy‘s dad to get through it. soon it will be my turn again to do the hospital trip with my mother. i think of jo-anne every day and am inspired by the time in her life when we faced all of this with her mom.

and as we hit that time in our lives, i am reminded again of the, well, let me quote julie here:

“How fragile we are, and how mysteriously resilient”

it seems every day i am now reminded of just how fucking precious each of you are. yes, even those of you that irk me.

tonight, i will hold you a little tighter my cam, and squeeze you and tell you a million times that i love you so much in that way that only you and i can say it, in the right voice, and with the big smile we share when we look at each other.

and today, as i sit here waiting for hometime and yet another day to pass me by whilst i waste the sunshine behind this monitor screen, all i want is to phone my dad and tell him “i’ll buy chelsea buns, please make me tea and listen to me ramble and should we play cards or will you entertain me with yet another story, please. just to distract me from life”. fuck i miss you.

the house

someone very dear to me, inexplicably dear to me, said this to me recently.

he said, ‘let it go, the memories are in your head anyway’.

he was right. so right. as flipping always.

true, my heart breaks that soon, very soon, i won’t have a childhood home to run home to. not that I have very often of late. but, it’s the second to last step before i am forced to totally give up living, at least occasionally in my head, as a child.

but, emoness aside, he was right. so i thought i’d write this note and add to it as i can, about the memories that funny crazy messy noisy house holds for me

parties. i cant remember childhood ones. i remember the big and crazy ones we had. where cd players got broken and reputations grew and friendships flourished.
garry under the light with lisa
sarah and tracy reading the books, the start of it all, at 2am
the entrance window
you knocking and leaving notes on my window
room parties
wine on the wall
cupboard graffiti and how it got there
huddled in the garden
laughing laughing laughing
crying crying crying
watching them thatch the cabana. i was three.
christmas eve with the christmas stockings
moms ankle clicking as she walked down the passage
waking up with a cat on my head and my best friends strewn around the room. sometimes in the yard too. hahaa.
the kettle boiling. it was always boiling.
dinner time. the best time of the day. or the worst time of the day
3am tea with my dad
lying in bed and listening to him type all night
the couch in front of the tv
three ‘musics’ emanating from three rooms, worlds and enigmas – the passage cacophony
talking, talking, talking, it was never quiet
cigarette smoke, tea brewing.
mom’s cooking. as interesting as it got some days. (anybody who raises an eyebrow at UFOs knows why)
cuddled on the couch and reading.
“sweeties”

I’m crying now. I must stop for today. I miss you very much. But you’re in my head and my heart, not in the house.