Remembering Dad
A year and three weeks have gone by since I lost my father to Alzheimer’s. I’ve been trying to write about this experience for ages, or to write a profile that I feel reflects who he was. And I’m not winning in these endeavors at f*cking all.
Then last week I lost my father-in-law to cancer. It’s been a year of loss in so many ways.
So here’s a very different #throwbackthursday post: the eulogy I read for my dad, 5 May 2017.
I often joke that it is easy to be a journalist because I don’t have to make anything up; I just need to tell someone else’s story. But how do I begin to tell you this one?
As a journalist, I might start like this: East London, 1 May 2017 — Prominent business man and pillar of the community Alan Glyd Thompson has passed away at 73 years of age. Thompson, known as Al, was a family man first, a fierce friend, a dedicated golfer, and forever a Komga farm boy at heart.
As his daughter, I could say: My father, my daddy, is gone. And I’m sadder than I can explain, but also relieved that his suffering is over.
Neither of those is remotely adequate. I wish I could capture the “essence” of him on paper, but I’m no poet or biographer. So, let me start like a good journalist with what I know for sure…
I know that Al was a farmer’s son who loved this land and all animals, and was deeply, wide-eyed-ly passionate about the sea: swimming, fishing, picking muscles off the rocks, diving for crayfish. He was most at ease outdoors.
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I know he was a short shorts kind of guy, with tanned and freckled knees, dark hair that curled in the sea air like mine.
He had no fear of cold water. He would go splashing into the ocean whether the warm Natal or cold Cape tides were swirling in.
He loved to dance. He loved his dogs. He loved to dance with his dogs. He wouldn’t take no for an answer to an invitation to dance, and dancing with my dad always came with his own added percussion … that “chachachcahcha” thing he did, just in case you couldn’t keep up with his rhythm.
He never swore, and in fact couldn’t tell a naughty joke without messing up the punchline. Everyone in his circles had been subjected to at least one of his awful “Little Johnny” jokes that, even in his sixties, would cause him to blush like a school boy as he told them.
He was the epitome of a “people person” — someone for whom his relationships were paramount. He had an incredible memory for faces and names, and loved to reminisce with people about their school days, their Round Table shenanigans.
Dad loved his family unconditionally. He always looked at my Mom like a man who had won the lottery. In fact, it was just a year ago, during a particularly bad and confusing week, that he “rediscovered” my mom, believing briefly that they had just met… Dad declared himself passionately in love and proposed to her — having asked my Gran for her blessing, of course. They celebrated by phoning my sister with the good news.
I don’t share this story to have a laugh at his expense, but because this hideous eroding disease never really touched the core of my dad. Even when the world got fuzzy, his sight tunnelled and the narratives of books, films and anecdotes became too twisty and complicated to follow, these things that were so integral to who he was never left him. Dad found solace in the sea, the beach, his dogs, friends, and his family.
Today would have been my parents 44th wedding anniversary, or their second first anniversary if he had had his way….
We didn’t always see eye to eye. The height of my teenage rebellion coincided with some of the most stressful years of his life as a business owner, and because of this we butted heads often at that time. But I never doubted that I was deeply loved, and wanted — even if he did love to tell me I was his favourite “mistake”.
And I know that despite how different I thought we were, essentially everything that I love about the Eastern Cape (like this community, the wild coast), and about my family (our particular way of laughing through tears, our loyalty, and what some might call our stubbornness), the way I love my four-legged children more than I like most people — all of that is a direct result of his influence on my life. And I know that that is an amazing gift, Dad — a legacy of a life too short for us, but energetically well-lived:
Seventy-three years, 44 years of marriage, three children, four grandchildren, 15 beloved dogs, two or three ill-fated cats, around 730 fresh fried fish, and approximately-exactly ten thousand beach walks to Halfway Rocks, one Alan. Hamba Kahle Daddy.
