What to say about my parents? Firstly, I guess, they are both deceased. My Mum died in 2013 after a 5 year struggle with Alzheimer’s disease. My lovely Dad passed after a fall in his back yard, in which he sustained a catastrophic head injury. That was August 2019. My life has never been the same since. The losses of my first husband and subsequently My Mum have somehow intricately weaved themselves into my being. I still miss them, but it’s a dull ache. The loss of my Dad is still like a knife to my heart every time I allow myself to feel the feels.

I have both parents’ ashes here. I’m undecided what to do with them. Maybe one day I’ll know. I have a bottle of my Dad’s aftershave on my shelf. It still smells like him. I only occasionally indulge myself because tears inevitably flow. The sense of smell can evoke such intense memories. I have some of my favourite pictures of him around the flat, interestingly none of My Mum. And that wasn’t planned. Probably just a reflection of my still actively wanting him here. As much as I loved My Mum she was difficult to live with, and growing up with her toxic brand of parenting gave me shedloads of problems and insecurities to deal with as an adult. Like me, she struggled with her mental health. Unlike me, she inflicted it on those closest to her, by not getting help. It wasn’t pleasant. Unlike my brother, I don’t believe she went out of her way to makes us suffer. I believe she was personality disordered. I think she was ill and lacked any clear parenting guidance. And as much as I put my Dad on a pedestal now, when I was kid, he was a workaholic, and I longed to have more time with him.

My Mum came from a sleepy Hampshire market town. The first child of the milkman. My grandad drove the milk lorry. When war broke out his work was considered essential and he joined the Home Guard. My grandmother, we discovered many, many years later was going nightly to the Isle of Wight working in the production of munitions. They had two children, Rosemary and Clifford.

After an abusive marriage, and a probably equally abusive long term relationship, My Mum, Rosemary, met my Dad, Dennis (aka Chris). She was a telephonist for the General Post Office (now BT) and he an engineer. He only ever worked in telecommunications, from being a telegram boy at 15, during his national service in the Signals Corp, and until his (early) retirement at 59. He shunned promotion and an offer of a career in the army, and although he led a team at BT, he had no desire to ever move into management. Like his own father, he was an engineer through and through. He was technically brilliant. His colleagues, at his funeral, described him as, “A legend in his own exchange” (telephone exchange). I’m told no one knew the running of Southampton telephone exchange like my Dad. When a new manager came in and threatened to move my Dad out to a different location, Dad’s line manager said they’d better send him too, because he couldn’t do his job without Chris.

My parents were married in December 1964. By 1965 my brother was born. And although I forget the date without looking it up, my other brother was born, who tragically didn’t survive, dying just hours after his birth. I arrived in 1971 and my Dad told me he was so glad I was a girl, because he didn’t think he could cope with another boy like my brother.

I fully believe now that my Dad was on the autistic spectrum. He was a loner, a perfectionist, and he really struggled with emotions, both his own and other people’s. Especially My Mum. Her emotions were big and loud and demanded attention. I don’t think my Dad had a clue how to handle her. I think the reason my Dad worked so much, as much as his desire for financial stability, was to avoid My Mum and her mental illness, and my brother and his behaviour. I just kind of got overlooked as a byproduct.

I feel like I became My Mum’s emotional crutch. I was leaned on far more than I should have been as a child. She was manipulative and used emotional blackmail to get what she wanted. She fully had me convinced as a child that no one loved me and cared about me like she did. Not even Dad. She had a way of vilifying him to persuade me to feel sorry for her.

When I started my therapy journey at 17, I began to realise how messed up my childhood had been, but it took many more years of counsellors and therapies before I was able to not be angry with her anymore.

My Mum loved to dance, play table tennis, travel and drive her car. As a child I never shared her enthusiasm for going for a ride in the car. I wanted to go somewhere, not just ride. Especially as I got carsick! Things improved when she traded in her daily ride for a Transit camper. I felt less sick being higher up. And there were adventures to be had.

One of the complaints My Mum made about Dad was that he was always at the pub. The reason for him spending so much time at the pub, was because he loved to play darts. He was not only technically good at it, he was brilliant at the maths. He knew shots out others wouldn’t have even dreamed of. He was always happy to chalk, unlike most of his peers. He told me had a mentor when he was young, who tried to persuade Dad to go professional. Dad turned it down in favour of a dependable career in telecommunications. My Dad gave up playing darts when My Mum’s dementia progressed and she couldn’t be left alone. He never played again after she died.

I particularly cherish the times Dad and I spent together after My Mum passed. The endless lunches, coffee dates and visits to mine. I had the privilege of advocating for my Dad at his various hospital appointments. And until the day of his fall, Dad was still the man who could fix or sort out almost anything for me. He was an absolute treasure.

Interestingly, a while back, I attended an online event with Jane Wallace of The Psychic Sisters as a total sceptic, purely because I was curious. I was trying not to even make eye contact, yet she singled me out from among many others all on a group Zoom call, and told me she had a message from my Dad. I’d never met her, or exchanged any information with her and she tells me all this stuff that was personal to me and Dad. I was overcome with emotion, the floodgates just opened. If I’m honest, I do sense him with me.

I miss both my parents in different ways. After losing a spouse I didn’t fully believe anything could hurt as bad. Yeah.