FEARLESS ......
I am finding the beauty in every day, and the joy of my Dad and the privilege it is to be with someone I love so much on his last weeks/days on the planet, feeling love in every pore; strong, present. I see his every eyelash, I watch his every breath, I laugh at his humour, I get to hold my Mom’s diminishing frame in my arms and provide her with strength, I massage my (once massive and muscular) Dad’s thin and bruised body, and am thankful for my many blessings. I try not to cry when I am with him – I act as though I am strong and like I have strength for us all. When I leave however, I cry buckets.
We are surrounded by angels at every turn who provide me with car spaces, helpful people in Centrelink, kind friends who arrive with food and flowers, emails, phone calls, cards, and the autumn sun shines. Josh came and spent a magical day with his Gramps, and to see my huge son loving his Gramps so tenderly, laughing, telling stories, listening to stories, finding his Gramp’s favourite motorbikes and champions on his computer, pushing him in a wheelchair; laughing when he got my Dad out of the wheelchair, and Josh got into it, and my Dad pretending to be pushing Joshua …..all such a gift!
When we told my Dad he had pancreatic cancer, and ‘weeks’ to live, he took it steady and strong. At almost 88 he said to the doctor, “I have had a good innings, more than my ‘three score years and ten’, as the Bible said. I have had a wonderful life and a beautiful loving wife and marriage, and three fantastic kids, many adventures, and I have travelled the world and been very happy.” I left with the doctor so he and my Mom could spend some time alone. When I came back 45 minutes later, he took my face in his two hands, looked me in the eyes, and said “You have made me so very, very, very happy!” I cried into his neck and told him how much I loved him and how grateful I was for the many things he taught me, including how to be healthy and strong and love physical exercise. He said, “I have stared death in the face many times, and cheated death many times. During World War Two, often. And down the mines every week, men died, but I did not. I accept this.”
I reminded him of other times in Northern Rhodesia when he cheated death. In the Congo Bush War – called The Congo Uprising. He was Captain of the Life Saving Team, and Captain of the Northern Rhodesian Swimming Squad and, many times, saved people’s lives – in the pool, on holidays, at the beach in South Africa and Australia. Once he was trapped in an underground mud rush on 600 Level, I think, with his ‘gang’ of about twenty men for 14 hours. When they finally rescued some of them, most men went home – exhausted and emotionally shattered, and some never went underground again. My Dad had something to eat and drink, then he went back down and helped in the rescue of dozens more men.
But the thing I remember mostly, with awe, is this several years later. He was Chief Engineer of the Nchanga Open Pit Mine, at that time the biggest in the world, and he repaired the 200 tonne trucks – they were as big - bigger than a house. So big that the cab was as tall as the roof of a house to climb into. Dad used to train the drivers to drive them, and sometimes in the middle of the night there would be trouble, and one of those massive wheels (I think there were about 12 on each truck) – would slip over the edge, the precipice of the open pit. The African drivers, fearing for their lives and knowing these vehicles cost at that time about 500,000 pounds sterling – would just clamber out of the truck, and leave it, perched on the edge of the open pit.
Often I would see the mine vehicle’s headlights in our driveway at midnight, 2 am, 4 am – fetching my Dad to rescue the 200 tonner. The Africans thought my Dad had magic. They called him Bwana Tembo (Bwana Strong Rope). He would be at the pit in a few minutes, and while I never saw this, but my ‘Uncles’ who worked with him did, and they told the story with reverence. Dad would curse at the stupidity of anyone leaving one of his beloved vehicles in such a dangerous way. Fearless, he would clamber up into the cab, which was precariously perched on the edge of the massive open pit and manoeuvre it off the edge, back and forth, as gently as a woman rocking a baby, until all wheels were back on solid ground. I was told by those who worked with him that nobody else would do it, he was the only one ‘mad enough’ to attempt it, and he earned legendary status. My Uncle Len (not my real Uncle) would cry as he told this story - for my Father’s courage – and for the fact my Dad saved his life, by bringing him up from the aforesaid mud rush. “Your Dad was fearless.”
I reminded him of this and said “Dad, you were fearless!” He looked me straight in the eye and said “And I am fearless now.”
My Father is fearless.
How can I not draw strength from that?
Footnote: My Dad died just a few days later, on 6th April 2009.
Sandra Groom, NSW Australia
April 2009