The Last Goodbye

Sunday 11 October, 2015. I woke, surprisingly hangover free, in the guest bedroom of one of my oldest friends. The night before me, my host Gemma and a bunch of other smashers had gathered in The Town Wall pub in Newcastle for a mini school reunion. It wasn't supposed to be a mini one, I was hoping for a much better turn out if I'm honest but those who did show up made sure it was a belter of a night.

The trip was significant in many ways...  For starters, I drove myself home for the first time ever and while this may not seem like a big deal, it's worth noting that this was October 2015 and I'd only been driving since May 2014. It was the first time I'd seen some of my old school friends since 2000 and it was also my first night out on the Toon since 2007. Being able to wander round Newcastle city centre with Gemma during the day and then just decide to go to Santana's for dinner was wonderful. As a parent, you don't always get that kind of freedom and I loved every minute of it.

On the Sunday however it was time to break the spell and head back to Kettering and my babies. First though, I had a few more people to see. I drove from Longbenton to Whitley Bay to meet one of my closest friends, an absolute diamond of a woman named Christina. We walked to The View which overlooks Longsands Beach and shared a cheese scone that was roughly the same size as my head! I was reluctant to say goodbye to Chrissy as it's so rare that we get to spend any time together and before she moved from Kettering where we met back to the North East where we both hail from we were pretty much joined at the hip! I was due to visit my Dad and step-mam next and even though we hadn't set a time, I still had my Dad texting to chase me up. Was I still coming? Had I left yet? Was I on my way? What was my ETA?!

I headed away from the coast towards Denton Burn and my childhood home. We moved to Earls Drive in early 1989 when I was just seven years old. I'd left for university in September 2000 and apart from a short stay in the summer of 2001, I've never lived there since. Driving myself to that house was completely surreal. I parked round the side and headed in. My Dad and Marion greeted me warmly, as did Lola, the Labradoodle. I sat in my dad's battered leather armchair in the front room, catching up with Maz while my dad buzzed in and out, ever the fidget! He made me a cup of tea and some toast with butter and jam. I can't remember if the bread was homemade but the jam definitely was. I told them about my night out and my dad was disappointed that more ex Sacred Heart and St Cuthbert's pupils hadn't attended. I agreed that more could have made the effort but told him we'd had a grand old time anyway and I wasn't feeling rough which was a huge plus! He asked me how many syns my toast and jam would be as my role as a Slimming World consultant delighted and amused him in equal measure. I replied that in that moment - sat in the front room of that house, eating toast my dad had made for me with his own homemade jam - I didn't give a monkeys how many syns it was!

I had promised to visit my Nana (my dad's mam) before heading back to Kettering so I got ready to say my goodbyes to my parents. On the table in the dining area was a hat belonging to my dad. It was a trilby style with a wider brim and I popped it on my head to try it out for size. My dad was a lover of hats, wearing baseball caps before they were chavvy and sporting a beret at a jaunty angle embracing his inner Frenchman. It was one of so many quirks that separated him out from all the other Dads I knew.

The parents followed me out to see my car. The notion of me as a driver was still a bit of a novelty as I hadn't passed until I was 32. I proudly showed them my adorable silver 57 plate Twingo... and less proudly added "... and here's the dent from where I wedged it up against a concrete pillar in the Newlands Centre car park!" My dad laughed and showed me a scrape on his C4 Picasso "... and this is where I damaged my car putting it back on the drive after too much red wine on a Sunday!" Like father, like daughter.

After hugs and kisses and promises to let them know when I made it safely back to Northamptonshire, I got in and buzzed down my window. I beeped the horn and as I pulled away I heard my dad chuckle "Eeeh Marion, look! There's our Kati driving a car!"

I visited my Nana, drank yet more tea then hit the road for the long drive back to the East Midlands. Every visit home to Newcastle always leads to a bout of depression. My heart breaks a little every time I have to leave behind my hometown for my adopted home in Kettering. I moped about all week, promising myself that I would make more of an effort to visit. I'd now proved to myself that I was capable of the journey and I vowed to do it more often.

Sunday 18 October, 2015. I'm sitting at the dining table of our home on Churchill Way. I am at my laptop, catching up on my SW admin and the children are playing happily around me. We're all still in our pyjamas. Pete is awake but still in bed upstairs. As I'd been off gallivanting the weekend before, he was enjoying a lazy morning in bed while I manned our small humans. My phone rang. Clare. We'd FaceTimed the day before as we often did (and still do) on a Saturday morning but it wasn't unusual for her to call again! All those years in childhood where we were at odds have been replaced by an ability to talk at length on consecutive days, never running out of things to say. I answered, blissfully unaware that she was making the most difficult phone call of her life, uttering words that changed my world forever.

"Dad's died"

I think that's what she said. I can't be sure. In that moment I was consumed by a primal feeling, the like of which I've never experienced before or since. I wailed like a wounded beast and fell to the floor. I so wish the children hadn't been in such close proximity when I answered but how was I to know that Clare was ringing to deliver the most awful news imaginable? Our Dad... our funny, kind, mischievous, flamboyant dad... was gone.

Eva ran to fetch her own dad, calling out "Daddy, mummy's crying and she won't stop!" There was panic and fear in her voice. Pete was there in an instant, taking the phone and speaking to Clare.

Within hours I was on a train to Newcastle. I have no memory of packing a bag, getting dressed or the journey to Peterborough to put me on the train. I arrived at the Central Station and my step-brother was waiting for me. Once we'd collected Clare from Newcastle Airport, the three of us headed to Earls Drive.

A week before I'd kissed my dad goodbye and driven away... And seven days later I was back and he was gone. The hat I'd taken a shine to was still there on the table, I put it on my head again and claimed it as my own. I wore it to his funeral a few weeks later and even as I've moved around what feels like a million times this year, it's never been far from me.

Almost three years have passed and I still have days where I can't quite believe he's really gone. Only twice have I genuinely forgotten and the pain that followed in the moment after where the truth hit me like a truck all over again is astonishing. To say I miss him doesn't seem to cover it. I am acutely aware of his absence every single day because the world just feels different without him in it. There was Life with Dad and now there is Life without Dad... but there is still Life. Sometimes I am secretly glad he's not here to see what an absolute shambles my life is at the moment, but then part of me knows he'd be proud of me for surviving the lowest lows. He'd be delighted to see me striking out on my own and trying to do what's best for me and the children.

Our Clare shared a quote that I think sums up beautifully how we both strive to live... "When I am at my best, I am my father's daughter"