A tribute to my father

The photo my father laminated (from right: my brother, mother, me, my father, a cousin)

This is the most personal post I have ever written. Some may think it is inappropriate to be written a a blog post, it should be in a personal journal instead, but I feel this is right.

My father died 2 months before by thirteenth birthday. It was the most painful thing I ever experienced, but I don't believe I was allowed to mourn it properly. My mother took the 'tough love' approach, I think that's what she had been taught before, but unlike me she had never experienced a parent's death when she was so young, her father died in 2001. My father died on Sunday and she made me go to school on the Monday. I think she felt it was better not to brood over what happened, but that's exactly what I needed.

My gran saw me crying in the garden in front of the small pile of my father's possessions, that had been transferred from the Bungalow he lived alone in, in a nearby village. There was his red 'Le Coq Sportif' bag which he brought with him every Sunday to our home where we would spend hours around the living room table. He would teach me endless amounts of French and throw in an anecdote of his time working on his family farm in Ireland (the time he was locked in the pen of an angry bull which came charging at him and gave him a head injury, was the most memorable story).

Towards the later years of his illness, he began using a cane. I didn't think much of it, more did I know what hospice was. A few weeks after he died, I watched a programme on television which talked about  terminally ill person who was in a hospice. Then things began to click. I wondered if I knew what a hospice was, which I knew my father went to, would I have tried to spend more time with him, to discover more about this wonderful man. This was one of the biggest regrets I had. We had so much in common but I had not made enough effort to know more about him. I thought we would have forever together.

It was not until I was seventeen that I first told someone about what happened to my father. It was an English teacher at my school and we were walking on a South African beach, on the last leg of our 5-day camping trip in the St. Lucia Wetlands park. I couldn't believe that I had not told anyone in four years. All that time I had bottled up all of my grief. My friends at school came to see me on that Monday. I was sat in a spare math room during lunch, during lesson times I sat in the library. My friends shuffled in awkwardly and didn't know what to do or say.

What happened as a result of not fully expressing my grief was that my heart locked tightly shut. How do I know this? My evidence is the fact that I don't know what it means to 'miss' someone. When people like my mum, sister or friends tell me they 'miss me', I don't understand what that feeling is like. I don't miss people, not my mum, not my sister or brother, no one.

When my gran died in February I was not sad, I didn't miss her. I think I managed to force one tear out, but that was after a lot of work. My brother on the other hand, was crazy with grief, and jumped on the next plane to Cairo to attend her funeral. My gran was in my life a lot. She lived with us every year, in England, for 6 months.

What I want to do is 'heal' me heart. I want to let the pain that has been locked inside, out. In some respects its quite convenient not to miss people, I have no yearning to go back to see my family or friends, so some may say that I am really 'independent'. But on the other hand, this means that I am not able to experience the complete, glorious spectrum of human emotion.

It's been nine years since my father died of the brain tumour. My conscious mind may have lost some of our memories, but I know that my subconscious has a perfect record of everything I have ever seen or done in my life. That's why, before I sleep I will start to ask my subconscious to show me all of these memories. I want to re-live my time with my father. I want to fully experience the pain of loss and then hopefully I will heal my heart.

After I meditated this morning (meditation helps clear the conscious mind away (like the froth on top of the sea surface) so that you can look down into the subconscious mind, and see the wonders that it has in store), I picked up a photo from the coffee table beside me. I was about 6, and my father, mother and brother were sitting on a brown, fluffy couch with me. I noticed something new on this photo. It was laminated. I know no one else in my family that would take the time to laminate a photo. Then, I started recalling other memories tht I had not thought about in years.

My father was avidly interested in current affairs. When he watched the 10 O'Clock news you could be sure that you wouldn't be able to ask him one thing. 'Dada, what's...'. 'Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh' would be the response. It annoyed me no end. He would furiously jot down notes on McDonalds napkins, and keep them for whatever future use he had in mind. 

I have not inherited this interest in current affairs, but I have inherited his interest in religion. I wish I had asked him why he had converted to Islam, and why he no longer wanted to be a Catholic priest. But, maybe its not too late. The subconscious mind has all the information that humanity has ever known. It has the answers to these questions as well. One day, I will find out.

Other things I remember, my father was an avid fan of 'Lyon's Victoria Sponge'. He would cut each of us slices of this cake and we would sit together and eat. As a family we very rarely ate together, instead we often ate on floor stools, in front of the television, so eating this with my father was special for me. Often we would also have ginger nut cookies, dipped in milk.

When he left at the end of a long Sunday of lessons, I would kiss his bristle bearded cheek, and he would kiss me cheek. I had the irresistible temptation to wipe off the moisture on my cheek, but I couldn't do it in front of him, because that would be rude. Then he'd put his brown cap on, and his brown coat on, and leave through the front door. 'Bye bye Dada, I love you, you're the best dad ever', I'd call after him.

What I have taken from this life experience in grief, is to let it out. If someone is crying from grief, don't try to stop them, don't make them feel little or don't shame them. Just show them love and kindness. My sister cried in Egypt this summer over my gran, 6 months after she passed away, and almost the entire family tried to shut her up any way they could.

How is it better, I ask you, that instead of crying on the outside, a person cries on the inside? So as not to inconvenience onlookers with the 'shocking' sight of someone crying, you would rather have that person cry inside and cause endless long-term damage to themselves, which is then manifested on people that some across that  person, because nothing can stay inside forever. But instead of coming out as harmless tears, the grief is likely to come out as destructive behavior. Fear, anger, hatred.

So again, when someone is hurting, let them hurt, let the cry, just show them love and understanding.

Here's to my father, Frank Mullaney. Born on the 2nd September 1946, died in May 2004. Raised on a farm in Rooskey, Roscommon, Ireland. Left school with Honours. Attended a school to become a catholic priest in Wexford. Left Ireland to head a parish in New Jersey, US. Earnt 3 masters degrees then did a PhD at Harvard in Sociology. Went to Egypt for his PhD studies and after meeting many Imams decided to convert to Islam. Married my mum. Moved back to America with my mum. Was hit by a car and doctors found he had a brain tumour. Had an operation which saved his life. Had two children. Moved to England to work at the Oxford Islamic Centre. Had my sister. Had a bicycle accident in London, the road was wet, there was a barbed-wire fence. The brain tumour returned. Moved to a nearby village to live on his own in a bungalow, marital problems and worsening of his illness were causes. Visited the family home once a week for lessons with the children. One beautifully sunny day, a family friend (who my mum thinks is an angel) called us to tell us my father was in hospital. How and why she knew, who knows. We were about to go to a Saturday Car Boot sale, one of our favourite activities. When we got to his hospital room, I rushed excitedly to wake him up, he seemed to be sleeping. The nurse told me he was in a coma. Later that day the doctor told me my father was going to die. I didn't believe it. We slept in the hospital. Sunday afternoon he died. A priest came in to say some prayers. 'You are very young' he said to me. 'And I'm the oldest child', I thought to myself. My Irish aunts came to the hospital, my mum and family friend had an argument with my aunts, something about next of kin. I didn't care. I just wanted my father.

Dada, you were the best dad anyone could ever have. Thank you for teaching me so much. I love you.