Everyday Miracles

When my father died on the floor of the doctor's surgery last week, he said there was nothing. No tunnel of light, rainbow bridge, or flashback through the highpoints of his life. He does not believe in god and heaven, so perhaps he feels this has proven him right - I must ask him. For me (I did and do believe), I have been wondering uneasily 'is this it?' I've been debating whether to write about Dad's death, but it has, understandably, been preoccupying so much of my thoughts not much of the blog makes sense without talking about it. Yesterday's post for example was cathartic but not typical - normally the small stuff washes over me. At the moment my tolerance levels are low, and I have a sense that I am wasting time. I am tired of waiting. There is a sense it could happen to any of us - just like that. Apparently Dad could have dropped dead at any point - miraculously his heart chose to give out while he was at the surgery. The last few years have been a long battle with non-Hodgkins lymphoma for him - not once has he given in, and even now having died he is sitting in hospital in Exeter waiting for another round of surgery working on house plans (he designs and builds) late into the night. He has bounced back from CPR, is cranky, bored, and wants to get out. In the second book there is a passage where Mike, the world weary surfer, gashes open his arm on rocks. It would take too long to get to hospital, so he sews it up himself. That was not some macho piece of fiction - that was my Dad, and one of my earliest memories.

When I was thinking of calling this blog The Pram in the Hall, I did some googling. In other blogs there were all the usual winsome references to Woolf, and rooms of your own, and how each child costs you a book (apparently). Then I came across J G Ballard - he writes from a "warm domestic nest", in Shepperton, calls the three children he raised single-handed after the early death of his wife, "miracles of life". He believes the stability of domestic confinement let his imagination run wild: "My greatest ally was the pram in the hall." I agree with him. I imagine he had some help when the children were younger, at least with the house, because for this alone there are physically not enough hours in the day I have realised. I think I get my protestant work ethic from Dad - after he sold the construction company and timber mills he always worked from home, sitting at the drawing board late into the night. However, Dad always had Mum, a full time homemaker, keeping the fires burning (and then there were housekeepers and gardeners).

I think as I alluded to a few posts ago, times like this call you up short. There is a sense it is time to cut away deadwood and make things count. Days like these make you question everything and be thankful for everyday miracles like the man who saved my father's life. JG Ballard said "Deep assignments run through all our lives; there are no coincidences." He saw the best and worst of human life early on, (see Empire of the Sun), and has always had a strong sense of the surreal (another preoccupation of mine). It feels like there is so much to do and so little time. I've narrowed it down. If this is it, I want it to count. A couple of years ago, when the pilot was still a City headhunter, he got me to try out a personality test they were using on their clients. Turns out I have the same personality profile as Gandhi and Oprah Winfrey - go figure (when, I wondered, did they get Ghandi to take the test?). Maybe I am idealistic, maybe I do want something to believe in and give something back. I want to be here for my family and friends, raise two decent human beings with love and laughter and publish best selling books that engage and entertain people, give them an escape for a few hours. Everything else is window dressing. If this is it - what do you want your legacy to be?