Scent of larkspur greets me
as I head windward, enslaved in my body
vermilion blossoms delight me, a mariner
on this stormy sea of pain
I am incandescent that I lived when death came
I execrate my fiendish body
on which hare brained surgery was performed
I miss my Dad’s fingers in the tendril of my hair
he is in the lattice of my thoughts
I used to love it when I was in the car with my Dad. I used to think cars were on an invisible track on the road. My Dad was always calm and patient. He never had an accident all the years he drove.
He drove us to the beach on summer days, at around 4 PM. The water was warm then and people were leaving. He could spot birds of prey even while driving. My sister and I would struggle to see them.
When we moved to England, twice a year Dad drove us back to our home in Germany. It took twenty four hours with the ferry. My sister and I slept in the back, though I watched the street lamps as we left Brussels behind.
I went with Dad to fetch a car from the factory. I don’t know why, but it had to do with his being an army officer. I was five. I accepted what was and felt special. I never asked about why or how.
Whenever it was just me with Dad in the car, he loved to make me laugh. Once, on the downhill near our home, as no traffic was around, he braked to slow down and moved his foot away. I giggled.
My Dad cycled and walked a lot. The car was for family outings and going to Germany. We got driven to Brownies as it was after dinner time, and sometimes I was fetched from the stables four miles away. Otherwise I walked, and met Dad half way.
My Dad never took a driving test. He joined the army aged seventeen. One day, he was ordered to move a lorry. ‘I don’t have a driving licence, Sir’ my Dad replied. He was ordered to move the lorry and see his officer the next morning.
In the office, he was asked to sign his driving license. I mentioned this in comments to someone here who thought my Dad was in trouble. How does obeying an order get anyone into trouble? He was issued a licence.
I would drive anywhere with my Dad. And he made a great passenger too. My mother? She scared me to death. My daughter is a great driver.
My Dad drove us to beauty spots away from where we lived as where we lived would swarm with people on vacation. We visited my parents’ friends, so boring, but our walks at beautiful places were legendary.
As a family we drove all over Europe, then I did so as a single woman, a married woman, and a mother with my daughter. I gave up my car soon after my daughter passed her test. I want to lessen my carbon impact on the Earth in anyway I can.
My memories of journeying with Dad are many and so happy.Â
For My Dad
Transparent skin on your long fingered hands
I didn’t notice before the same hands as mine and I belong
Not in slipping sands, alone, but from you, made by you
And I realise your flesh is less and veins blue are seen
Under the beauty of your frame and so I realise with tears
We are the same
Each day that I don’t see you there is a fear I won’t again
And that is too much pain for me to bear because of death
Visiting me long ago and I pushed my face against your neck
No letting go, wanting life, wanting you to never let me fall
You carried me
Your eyes still smile at me and humour from all my life is near
I make you laugh despite my fear and swallow the rising wail
Of grief untold, not yet borne, but dreaded though I steal the time
That still is left to us to share. I hold my breath and do not dare
To go far from you. I hold your hand often cold and want be told
Death is not near
I’ve known you young and middle years you never changed
Or spoke untruths. You walked and walked for search of solitude
But now I will not let you alone I will not leave you to the world
That in your head baffles you and yesterday is forever gone
If I could bear it in your stead you know my love for you understood
And I am still your little girl sat on your knee
Bournemouth Poetry Wall 2013
For my Dad
Open your drawer, stars, sun and moon
Flew out, surrounding me in your world
Orion and Pleiedes flooded the room
I lay on the floor, sobbed
Books for birding, books for trees, marshes
I felt their branches, knew their leaves
Running water was music to us both
I miss you and yet you live
The birds whose song you taught to me
Your binoculars I have kept for myself
For still I seek out birds and song
A habit instilled by loving you
You live now tricked by your memories, cruel
Always the problem solver, now you depend
On medicines and love from me
Yet til now your humour stays
Published on Bournemouth Library Wall some years ago
The pain in my hip has returned. It is no longer a biting pain that come and goes when I meditate on it. It is pain that brings tears and travels down my leg. Yesterday I prepared no food. I drank the protein drink that I use to minimise carbohydrates in my diet.
When I stand, the pain is terrible and I stagger until my leg obeys my brain and then I walk awkwardly with pain at each step.
This started at the end of last week. It went away, and only niggled. On Monday, when I helped the young woman, I was not aware of it and it was not until Thursday that I felt a need to do something, by my surgery was closed. On Friday it was much better but now I am so scared.
I had my first hair appointment today. I was really worried about how I would cope. I didn’t cope well. I literally hobbled in and to the sink and back to the chair.
The mirrors make me hate myself. I get by in life by not seeing what I look like. I came away ready to crawl into a hole, except my hair looks great.
The nerves down my leg hurt most of the time. My hip at times hurts just motionless, and as I type. Part of me wants to fall so that an ambulance will come. Initiating anything medical or surgical terrifies me.
There are so many times I wish I had died when I had my brain surgeries. I hate my body. Although it was not as bad as it is now, I have never had the joy of a beautiful body. Tall, slim, and athletic. Wearing anything I wanted to.
I want my Dad. I want him to cuddle me.
In the salon, The Scientist by Coldplay came on and I feel so relieved that Mike chose to reject me. Who would want me. And yet I long to to have a hand to hold in the night.
Why is life so cruel? Oh God that I have loved and served, why is this happening to me?
Haven’t I suffered enough? Is there no end?
I am terrified and don’t want to give up my home and garden.
Transparent skin on your long fingered hands I didn’t notice before the same hands as mine and I belong Not in slipping sands, alone, but from you, made by you And I realise your flesh is less and veins blue are seen Under the beauty of your frame and so I realise with tears We are the same
Each day that I don’t see you there is a fear I won’t again And that is too much pain for me to bear because of death Visiting me long ago and I pushed my face against your neck No letting go, wanting life, wanting you to never let me fall You carried me
Your eyes still smile at me and humour from all my life is near I make you laugh despite my fear and swallow the rising wail Of grief untold, not yet borne, but dreaded though I steal the time That still is left to us to share. I hold my breath and do not dare To go far from you. I hold your hand often cold and want be told Death is not near
I’ve known you young and middle years you never changed Or spoke untruths. You walked and walked for search of solitude But now I will not let you alone I will not leave you to the world That in your head baffles you and yesterday is forever gone If I could bear it in your stead you know my love for you understood And I am still your little girl sat on your knee
Chrissie Morris Brady
Published 2014
Receiving my copies of One Hundred Memories yesterday was a completion of a long process, and I have come to know and love the editor very much. Her services to poetry are tremendous and I admire her greatly.
I read my poem a tear came to me. For no longer being a child, for all those things Dad did for us that I took for granted. For losing my Dad twice, once to Alzheimer’s and then to death. Although the Alzheimer’s helped me rediscover my Dad, as he forgot the chains my mother had wrapped around him over many years.
I am so grateful that my Dad died in my arms. My friends have found this hard. To me it was the most natural thing in the world. I cannot tell you how much I loved my Dad. He was always there for me, always calm. While my mother got hysterical and self centred, my Dad remained peaceful and strong. When my head had two openings, he never flinched, though he teared up. And while I was recovering, with akinetic mutism, he carried me.
Now that my sister has also died, it is likely that I will die alone. I do not have a partner, I have not wanted one for fifteen years when a long term relationship failed. I remember saying to someone last year that I don’t want involvement with a man, and then one crashed into my bedroom.
In all truth, it is better to be alone than to be in a relationship in which you have to pretend, lie, or not be your truly authentic self.
Never make do. I say this to all young people. Don’t settle for hamburger, when you can have steak.
Make sure you are on the same page about almost everything.
Today, a fellow blogger said I had given them inspiration. That’s humbling and reason for much gratitude. I feel such joy that they are inspiring others. That is why I stated this blog.
Is published by Dream Well Writing. So many thanks to Mel Wardle Woodend.
The Buzzard
Remember those late afternoon trips
to the beach? You would almost
always spot a bird of prey
hovering, watching, before diving
The day I recall is a buzzard
hanging in the sky. You pointed
and we chorused ”where? where?”
clambering around the car to see
You pointing, and still driving
Always calm, you gifted nature
to me
This anthology is in aid of the Alzheimer’s Society, on the 25th anniversary
Today I had occasion to visit facebook, and in my notifications was a prompt to look at memories. I found this:
I am deeply grateful for my Dad. A gentle man who can mix which rich and poor and not be changed, who taught me manners and right from wrong, who has given me hours and days of laughter and hiking, who carried me when I was so near to death and wept for my suffering. A man who has stood for something all his life and taught me to stand and be counted. My Dad has my undying love and admiration. He is my only hero.
I am truly grateful for grace. Perhaps not everyone will understand. Grace has kept me strong, been a source of mercy and sustenance and will help me in the difficult times ahead. Grace has renewed me when I have reached the end of me, and made relationships endure.
I am grateful for my daughter Lara who is an amazing person. She is to me like a fragrance, refreshing and attractive in essence as well as looks. She has so many talents, is well loved by many and will go on to many more wonderful things. I feel such a feeling as her abilities far exceed my own in so many talents of sport, dance, charisma, hiking, leadership, choreography and pure presence. She has achieved more in her 16 years than some bother to try in a lifetime, despite some difficult circumstances that were beyond our control and my declining health. It’s a privilege to know her, let alone to be her mother.
This is still true today. My Dad is my plumb line in almost everything I do, the one difference is that he was in the S.A.S and I belong to CND and lots of other anti-weapon and anti-war movements. I’m so grateful he was my Dad.
Last night I had the most deep and recooperating sleep. I was dreadfully tired Wednesday and slept from 5:30pm to 8:30pm. Then I had difficulty getting to sleep later and did not sleep until after 8am.
Yesterday I got a second wind and popped out while the sun was shining. I ate good dinner and then scoffed a pack of brioche rolls. I went to bed at 9.30 and woke at just around 8am this morning. I felt great, and as the only appointment I had today was not until after lunch, I went back to sleep for a while.
My medicine always makes me very thirsty, so I keep two glasses of mango and apple cordial beside my bed, and as I work from my bedroom it keeps my thirst slaked all day.
Writer and psychologist. My health, a journey with two life shortening diseases 
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