Happy Birthday Dad

Say it before you can’t anymore

I originally sat down to write this article on 19th December 2020, my father’s birthday, but was unable to finish it at the time.

My father would have been 81 today, but he passed away over three years ago. The last time I saw him conscious was in a hospital. I’d visited to say goodbye before I went on holiday with my wife and daughters. Before I left, he said some things he’d never said before. “Try to have a son, you’re the last of us.” I thought that was just him being traditional, wanting somebody to carry our family name to further generations. In retrospect, I wonder if he knew it was the last conversation we’d ever had.

I regret not having more conversations with him. I know he didn’t find it easy to speak to me. I was an arsehole, especially as a teenager, and as an adult, I was a disappointment. But if I’d had the guts to speak honestly with him, I would have told him I was disappointed in myself as well. I didn't fulfill my academic potential like my siblings had. I never established myself in a respectable career. I got into debt. I had a bad attitude. It would have been nice to let him know there were some things we saw eye to eye on.

Conversations are so valuable, as is time together, but we have a habit of trivializing them. When I think back over some of the most stimulating relationships and enjoyable days of my life, as well as the most pivotal moments, they all started with conversations. Me and Dad would often infuriate each other. We came from different times with different viewpoints and our ideas clashed all the time. Now I’m starting to realize how similar I am to him. In a different life, I believe we could have been extremely good friends.

But I don’t get a different life. I don’t get a second chance at this. There are some very happy memories with him, but they are too few. Laughing as he raced me down the street when I was 6 years old, long drives sitting in the front of the car with him, talking and listening to music when I was a teenager, seeing the surprise and the smile in his eyes when I collected him from the airport in a Mercedes S class he didn’t know I owned, seeing him play with my daughters, working with him in my summer breaks.

The more I hear about the man Dad was, and the more I learn about his early life, the more I feel I understand why he was the way he was. That’s not the understanding afforded by rose-tinted glasses, it’s the understanding afforded by a psychology degree and decades of reading and observation. My father came to London in the 1960s. He was the first in his village to establish a base here. I can only imagine the courage that took in the face of rampant 1960s racism. For that alone, I am grateful. My life, and that of my siblings, would have been extremely different (and worse) if we had only the opportunities afforded by life in Pakistan.

My father was outstandingly intelligent. He had a fantastic sense of humor. He was an adventurer and an independent thinker who stuck rigidly to his principles. He was never afraid to say what he thought, and he never took any shit from anybody. But life didn’t go the way he wanted and in his later years, he became resigned and frustrated. I never appreciated that whilst he was alive, I was too busy being pissed off. I wish I’d not been so short-sighted, because now, all that understanding is useless.

Some people who knew my father will disagree, but they do not share my experience and feelings. Part of that experience is bereavement. If there is a person in your life you have grown distant from, reach out to them. Make the effort with no expectation of reciprocation. You might be surprised, and if it doesn’t work, write it off as a sunk cost. Sunk costs are a lot less expensive than loneliness and regret.