Losing you to Motor Neurone Disease was the hardest thing I’ve ever faced. Even now, all these years later, the ache is still there. But I’m so grateful for the time we had, for the lessons you taught me, and for the countless memories that keep you alive in my heart.
Christmas was always your time to shine, wasn’t it? You were larger than life, the heart of every gathering. After lunch, you would don the Santa hat, sit next to the tree and gather the family. You would call the name on the gift card and make a series of guesses as to what the present could be. We all had to watch and wait as the gift was opened. “It’s a cricket bat, no it’s last week’s fish and chips paper!” The more obvious the gift, the more ridiculous your exclamations were! By the end of the gift-giving, we were all rolling around in fits of laughter!
When I think about you, Dad, I think about authenticity. "What you see is what you get," you always said, and it was true. You never pretended to be anyone else, and people adored you for it. Perth loved you for it. Whether behind the microphone on the radio, in front of the camera on Telethon, or just being you with friends and family, your openness and honesty were magnetic.
And, of course, your humour. I can’t even count the number of times I’d roll my eyes at one of your jokes, only to burst out laughing a moment later. That’s the thing about you, Dad—you had this gift for bringing joy to any situation, even when times were tough.
Had we known earlier that it was Motor Neurone Disease you had, we would have loved to have accessed the support from MNDAWA, but unfortunately, we weren’t that lucky; due to you being misdiagnosed, we didn’t actually have the benefit of talking with the team, at MNDAWA until after you passed. This is why the education of GPs and allied health professionals is so important to us now Dad.
Staying connected with MNDAWA has been such a comfort over the years. Through them, I’ve met so many incredible people who know what it’s like to lose someone they love to this cruel disease. It’s like being part of a family, one that understands the pain but also celebrates the lives of those we’ve lost. I feel close to you whenever I attend a coffee catch-up or one of their events. It reminds me of the amazing community you were part of and keeps your memory alive in such a special way.
This Christmas, I’ll raise a glass to you, just like I always do. I’ll share your stories with the family, especially the little ones who never got to know you but hear about you all the time. I’ll tell them about the man who brought laughter to everyone he met, who cared so deeply about his community, and who taught me that life is too short for pretence.
Even though you are not with us anymore, we really feel his presence on Christmas Day as we continue our family tradition, and one of my brothers or kids often pipes up with a ridiculous dad joke. Every year for 10 years so far. I hope we always do.
I miss you, Dad. Every day, I wish I could hear your voice, feel your bear hug, and share one more laugh. But I know you’re here in spirit, watching over us and probably cracking jokes at my expense.
Merry Christmas, Dad. I love you more than words can say.
Your Cindy