Episode 22: Father's Day, Take Two

This week's podcast episode is about Father's Day, grief, parenting after loss and the poem I wrote for Oscar on Father's Day last year.

We talk about remembering Alex, the male role models helping to shape Oscar's life, and the question that sits quietly underneath it all:

Will it be enough?

A conversation about love, loss, family and all the ways people continue to show up long after the worst day has passed. ☕️🖤

Transcript

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Hello and welcome back to the Early Morning Coffee Club, the podcast by grief is intense, humour is finely ground, and strength sneaks up on you like a double shot. How are we all doing this week? I'm okay, and by okay, I mean I'm anticipating the arrival of Father's Day this weekend. I just know it's going to be met with this whole mix of emotions, sadness, obviously, gratitude, love, a bit of anxiety, probably some tears. Actually no, definitely some tears. And if previous experience is anything to go by, at least one completely inappropriate moment where I laugh at something and then immediately wonder if it makes me a terrible person. So yes, I'm okay. Just the kind of okay that comes with navigating a day that used to mean one thing, but now means something entirely different. Because Father's Day feels different this year. I mean, no shit. Aside from the obvious, I mean this because this will be our second Father's Day without Alex. The first Father's Day last year it was just pure survival mode. Honestly, it's just the blur of emotions, logistics, expectations, trying to make it through a day that honestly suddenly felt impossible. Honestly, I don't really remember much about last year's Father's Day, other than crying a lot. I do remember though writing a poem for Oscar in the run up to it. The poem's called I Still See Him, and I want to share it with you all again now a year on. I still see him. Today for you, I know it feels all kinds of wrong that he's no longer here, he's gone. But I still see him. I see him when you scrunch up your nose when things don't go your own way, or the happiness light up your face when you hear our favourite songs start to play. I hear him when you laugh, when you're shouting and cheering at the rugby, and especially when you're tired, when you whisper love you babes and hug me. I see him in your kind heart and that cheeky grin, those restless toes and bald patch of hair on your chin. Your loud voice, your sense of adventure, your quiet wisdom, your caring nature, your locks of blonde hair, your inquisitive eyes are all beautiful reminders of the man who we loved and who died. So when you miss him today more than you ever knew could be true, I want you to look at the person in the mirror staring back at you. Because a part of him is a part of you, his DNA ingrained like the stain you left on the rug when you were two. I don't know what it's like to walk in your shoes, and I hope you will never have to walk in mine, but at least holding each other's hands we can try to walk together in a straight line. He was the best father, I know you might not remember, but I can already see the best parts of him will live on in you forever. Looking back at that now I realise it wasn't actually a poem about grief. It was a poem about inheritance, not the things someone leaves behind in a will, the things that they leave behind in people. When I wrote I still see him, I wasn't talking about seeing ghosts. I was talking about all those moments when Alex appears unexpectedly in Oscar. Like when he scrunches up his nose when something hasn't gone quite right. When he laughs, when he gets excited, when he's charging headfirst into an adventure without giving any thought whatsoever to the consequences. Again, his father's son. I see Alex in his kindness, his confidence, his cheeky grin. And unfortunately for me, I suspect his stubbornness too. There are moments that stop me in my tracks because for a split second he's there. Not physically, but undeniably. And that's what this poem means to me. It's a reminder that someone can be gone and still present. That grief and love can occupy the same space, that death doesn't erase the impact someone had on the people they loved. Oscar, I hope one day this poem means something slightly different. Because the reality is that you will have far fewer memories of your dad than I will. And that really fucking hurts. There are things you won't remember. Stories I'll tell you. Moments you'll only know through photographs and videos. But there are also things that don't need remembering because they're already a part of you. Your mannerisms, your personality, your sense of adventure, the way you move through the world. The poem was my way of telling you that although your relationship with your daddy changed when he died, it didn't disappear. A part of him is still here and it always will be. What Oscar needs is permission to talk about him, permission to ask questions, permission to laugh about him, permission to miss him, permission to say his name. So I try really hard to make Alex a part of everyday conversation. I mean it's not actually that hard. I want to talk about him all the time, obviously, but he's not a taboo subject, not a whispered topic. He's just part of our family. Which is why I found it slightly alarming when the other day I caught myself doing the exact opposite. I was getting Oscar ready for bed, reading him a bedtime story about a daddy bear and his cub, and without even thinking, I read the word daddy, flinched, and the next thing I realized, I'd changed the word daddy to mummy. The mummy bear took his son fishing. The mummy bear taught him to climb trees. By page ten, this poor mum bear was doing absolutely everything, and the dad had mysteriously vanished without explanation. I wondered if Oscar would be confused. He was just tired. He didn't notice I was basically rewriting children's literature in real time. But it made me realise how sneaky grief can be. You think you've got it all figured out, you think you're handling things well, then suddenly you're editing woodland animals to fit your family structure to soften the blow not only to your son but yourself as well. The truth is stories about dads are everywhere. At school, in books, on TV, in conversations, on Father's Day, cards lining every supermarket aisle. And maybe the answer isn't trying to remove those reminders. Maybe it's learning how to sit alongside them. To acknowledge them, to let them exist. Because avoiding them doesn't make them disappear. It just makes them harder to talk about. Something else I think a lot about is male role models. Not because I think anybody can replace Alex, nobody can, and nobody should have to. But I think every parent wonders whether they're giving their child what they need. And when you're raising a little boy without his dad, it's hard to not wonder whether there'll be something missing. Will he have enough examples of the kind of man he might want to become? Will he have enough positive male influences? And then I look around and realize how incredibly lucky he is. He has his grandfathers, pops and grandpa, men who love him fiercely and show up consistently. He has his uncles, Uncle Dan and Uncle Cameron. People who make him laugh, teach him things, and remind him that family is about far more than genetics. And he has his godfather, John, and perhaps one of the greatest gifts Alex unknowingly left behind is the community of people who loved him. His friends, the men who still make the effort, who still show up at my door, who still remember, who still include Oscar, who still tell stories about his daddy, and who continue teaching him what friendship, kindness, and loyalty all look like. Although if Oscar inherits all of their personality traits simultaneously, we're looking at an absolute menace. A confident, adventurous, rugby loving child with strong opinions and questionable ideas. God help us all. Sometimes I worry about what Oscar is missing, the conversations that him and Alex will never have, the memories they won't make, the milestones Alex won't physically be here for. And I think that's probably normal, but Father's Day also reminds me to look at what remains, and what remains is love. A whole lot of love. Love from family, love from friends, love from people who continue to choose us long after the flowers stopped arriving and everyone else returned to normal life. Looking back at that poem, there's a line that always makes me smile. A part of him is a part of you, his DNA ingrained like the stain you left on the rug when you were two. It's probably the most accurate description of parenting I've ever written. One minute you're contemplating legacy, mortality, and the enduring nature of love. The next you're talking about stains on a carpet, which feels very on brand for both parenting and grief. Because life doesn't stop being ridiculous just because something tragic happened. The two somehow coexist. Will all these people ever be enough? I don't know. Because the truth is I'd always rather Oscar had his dad. Nothing replaces that nothing. But maybe that's the wrong question to ask. Maybe the question isn't whether anyone can fill the space that Alex left behind. Maybe the question is whether Oscar can grow up surrounded by enough love, guidance, support, and examples of good men that he never doubts how loved he is. And when I look around at the people who continue to stand beside him, I know undoubtedly that answer is yes. Not because the gap isn't there, but because so many people have chosen to stand around it. So this Father's Day, we will miss him, we'll talk about him, we'll remember him, we'll tell stories, we'll laugh, we'll cry, and we'll keep looking for all those little pieces of him that are still here. Because I still see him, and every year that passes I see a little bit more of him in Oscar. Maybe Father's Day will always hurt, but it also reminds me that love doesn't end when a life does. I hope whatever you have planned this Sunday, you're kind to yourself. This has been the Early Morning Coffee Club. Thank you for listening. I'm sorry you're here, but I'm glad we're here together. I'll see you next week.