Piano lessons. My favourite activity as I was growing up. That's not exactly the truth. My piano teacher smoked and she used to hit the piano with a ruler if I didn’t play loud enough. She, as well as her house, were the exact colour of mint humbugs. It was not a pleasant learning environment. I was at best an average musician and my dreams of being discovered never came to fruition, even though I always practised with the window open. However, the piano lessons facilitated a 20-minute stroll with my Dad. He would walk me to the piano lessons and walk me home; usually in time for The A-Team. A far preferred activity to piano lessons. In the busy lives of a working family, that time alone was precious.
Fast forward to August 2012, piano lessons were a thing of the past. again, simple moments with my dad were at the forefront of my mind. Britain was the happiest place on earth, seriously, it rivalled Disney World. I flew into London as the fireworks for the opening spectacle of the Olympic games lit up the sky. Everyone on the plane cheered. I sat in my window seat, head against the wall, heavy-hearted. The next day, as the medals began to fly in, and the world’s attention was on our little corner of it. I faced a struggle of a different kind. A slow race, with an inevitable finish.
9 weeks earlier, as part of his 40-year discipline of daily diary entries, Stoical McCarthy penned, in his shaky left hand, these words: Living with terminal cancer day 1- The air smells sweeter and each breath tastes finer. The garden looks lovely and Carol is cooking chicken. The weather is good.
These words rob joy from the world. They steal colour; slowly, the way the chemo steals energy, pounds, and the will to live. By the time I arrived for my visit, his size was diminished and his hair was gone. He was a man at peace with God and ready to meet him. As hard as it was, I could not ask God for an extension to this misery. Trusting my good God’s hand I prayed for His timing, His healing and for sweet fellowship during the agonizing waiting.
Cancer slows everything down. There is so much waiting. Terminal cancer even more. I had time and I took it. We sat in the garden, in the bedroom, in the dining room. We were mostly silent, we watched films, and we spent one full day listening to Mr Trololo. If you are ever depressed look at him on YouTube. There was humdrum and Grace for everyone to do their thing. These were precious days; a privilege. These times are not afforded to all, a time to reflect on a life well-lived. They were filled with joy, remembrances and the ever forgotten life hack to “never go to the supermarket hungry.”
On one of the good days, the last good day; Mo Farah was running 5,000 metres. Dad and I took a stroll. It was the sweetest, slowest walk I have ever taken. A walk past my primary school, and past my piano teacher’s old home. It was our walk. We didn’t discuss the route. We knew it. We knew each other. We were mostly silent. It was sweet. It was us. It was ours.
I stopped a car in its tracks and shuffled my dad across a road. We walked. Arm in arm. Holding each other. Our hearts breaking, and our smiles betraying the truth. We knew; this stroll was the last. The cared for and care-giver roles; they were jumbled at that moment. On the other, side there was a definite switch, but at this moment, it was jumbled.
We arrived home. We watched. Halfway through the race my dad leaps to his feet in a burst of energy and exclaims “I look exactly like Mo Farah” Mum and I fall to the floor laughing; if there was anyone in Christendom, who resembled Mo Farah, less than my Gaelic, emaciated, Father, I would like to meet them. There was joy. There was laughter. There was loud cheering. There was hugging as his race was won.
There was sadness. There were tears. There was laughter. There was hugging. 9 weeks later the words “Well done, good and faithful servant” were uttered from the one who wipes every tear. His race was won.
There was fear, there was anxiety. The Olympics were Brazil’s now and the memory of the last summer games stung a little.
There was a stroll. Past my old piano teacher’s house. There was a moment. There was fondness. This new moment was marked with joy that it happened, not with sadness that it wasn’t anymore. There was a victory for Mo and a restoration for me.
Time is a great healer; but time cannot restore.
