Tag Archives: bereavement

THE BOOK I NEEDED TO WRITE – MICHAEL PARKER

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When I was a Chindi Author (a group of indie writers in Chichester), Michael Parker was our elder statesman, the author who had been traditionally published, and who had time for everyone. It was hard to think I could come to respect him more, but since his beloved wife Pat died last year, he has written an incredible tribute which I hope to review for Frost next month.

I have always been able to write. As a teenager at Grammar school, I used to write hooky notes for my mates and charge them one cigarette for each note. You could say I was earning royalties even then. I was a prolific reader too and often found myself in awe of the authors and how clever they were. But I never aspired to become a writer; that was something only the clever ones did: those with university degrees and a middle-class upbringing. For someone like me: a working-class lad with no qualifications, I never believed I could become a published author.

I started dabbling with storytelling in my mid-twenties and wrote a family saga. It never saw the light of day, but it did become the seed, that feeling that there was something there. I remember contacting the Daily Mirror and asking them how I could get my book published. I had no clue about the publishing world. Their advice was to get an agent. It was when I was in my late thirties that I finally succeeded, when Macmillan agreed to publish my first novel, North Slope, in 1978. The Financial Times called me a “gifted narrator”. As rewarding as that was, it didn’t mean I would become a successful author.

Years later, when I was living in Spain with my wife, Pat, I found myself writing and being published. Eventually I ended up with seven traditionally published novels; six of them with Robert Hale of London. I was published in Norway, Denmark and Canada. Now I have fourteen books to my credit: all of them available on-line. But the book I needed to write: the book I want to talk about now, was a tribute to my lovely Pat who sadly died of cancer last year, 2020.

Pat became ill after a five-week trip to Australia and the Far East. She was diagnosed with cancer on our return after an examination for a spider bite. I looked after Pat for almost two years, here at home, until she finally succumbed to the disease. By this time, I’d already given up writing; there was no longer any inclination or desire. My sole reason for living was to be by Pat’s side and nurse her.

When it was all over, I was asked if I would start writing again. I would shake my head and say probably never. But my granddaughter, Gemma, wanted to know more about her Nan, and it was this that encouraged me to write down my memories after sixty years of marriage, and put them in book form: a tribute to my lovely wife. The book has now been published and is called, My Pat, a love story.

I don’t have enough time here to explain what a lovely woman Pat was, but the following is a short extract from the book:

I first laid eyes on Pat when she was fourteen. I was a “mature fifteen-year-old” who could not possibly have any interest in a girl as young as that. Besides, Pat was my mate’s little sister, and it was beyond parody to think I could have anything to do with her. But I still remember her dark hair, lovely eyes and generous mouth, plus the fact that she was wearing a canary yellow sweater. So, it stands to reason I couldn’t have noticed her. Four years later we were married.

Whether I’ll write again remains to be seen, but I am happy that I have published my best work ever.

You can learn more of me and my books by hopping over to my website: www.michaelparkerbooks.com.

 

 

 

 

 

Catherine Balavage on the death of her Grandfather.

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In 2008 my Grandfather, Henry Anderson. Known as Harry, was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Upon finding this out I felt two things 1) Denial. The Doctors did not know what they were talking about. 2) If true, I should spend as much time with my grandfather as possible, as he would probably die soon. There was a certain numbness to this. In knowing it was true, I could not comprehend it. It did not seem possible.

The author with her grandfather, Harry Anderson.

The author with her grandfather, Harry Anderson.

When I was younger we had a cat. The cat got old and grey. I knew it would die soon. I talked to my mother about this and I told my mother that I had decided to prepare myself for this. My mother, with all the gentleness of someone who was older and wiser, to a child who has no idea about mortality, told me this was not possible. You can never prepare yourself for death. She was right.

grandad

My Grandfather died on the 5th of December 2009. He was 83 years old. He had lived an amazing life and has a loving family. He had been a pilot in the RAF. I tried to make sure my mother was alright after she called me. Then I went to work. I had tried to see my grandfather as much as possible when he was alive. I was shortly going to go up to Scotland for Christmas, and now….

This happened on the Oxford Street Christmas shopping day. The roads were closed off and it was wall to wall people. After work I walked around in a numbness past crying. I kept saying over and over to myself WH Auden style ‘He is dead.’ and yet, it would not sink in. I would never see his face again. I felt like my heart had been ripped out and handed to me. But I could not cry. There was nothing in me.

It was a few days until I managed to make it to Scotland. I felt awful. Ached for my mother, so recently orphaned – her mother, in the last stages of renal failure, had killed herself aged 40. My mother had outlived her own mother – I held her like I had never before. I was so proud at how strong she was.

In my Grandfathers home standing in the last remnants of a life no longer lived, looking for something to remember him by, I had never been so heartbroken. I stared at his shoes, haphazard around the room. His feet would never be in them again.

When I was 5 years old. I was singing and showing off. The picture is above.  As I was singing I fell down some stairs. My grandfather rushed to save me but before he could I just got up and carried on singing. Later on, my grandfather always insisted I made him tea when I was in Scotland just so he could use the line ‘I just got a cup of tea from a movie star.’ His faith in me was blinding. He bought me a jewellery box when I was 17. ‘For my diamonds.’

At the funeral it hit me. On the way there we went past me Grandfather’s coffin. My mother’s face fell as she said quietly ‘ Oh god, that’s my dad in there. There’s my dad.’ Upon seeing all my family who I had not seen in years it got worst. My father, sandwiched in-between my mother and I , did not know who to comfort. We were both crying hysterically. He looked like a cartoon character going between us both. I had never cried so much in my life. After the funeral when I looked in the mirror, I looked like Alice Cooper.

There is a lot of myths about deaths. One of them is ‘it gets better’ It does not. My acting career has gone from strength to strength. I live an amazing life full of the most amazing people and yet I miss him every single day. It hits me when I see the biscuits he used to buy in the supermarket. When I am on set, in the quiet moments. I loved him so much and I will never see him again. At this moment I have no tips on bereavement. Time does not heal. It merely blunts the edges.