Sep 12

Somewhere along the way my Dad died.  I knew he died.  It was completely unexpected, well, except that he was 84.

Brian Storer

Brian John Storer
13 December 1928 to 30 July 2013

It was 14 months between my mother dying and Dad dying.  The two deaths were so very different.  Mum’s was drawn out and painful to witness, it went on for months and the final 24 hours were horrifying beyond my expectations. Some day I’ll publish the blog I wrote about that, but it’s still pretty raw.  Dad on the other hand went at the end of a normal day.  Like so many others.  We have a photo of him, just hours before he died, he is alert and happy.  When his death came he literally sat down and simply died.  Oh for all of us to have it so easy.  He died his own way, on his own terms, no fuss, not bloody quacks, no hospital stay.  He was a stubborn man who didn’t need anyone else to help him.

I didn’t ever really connect with my dad.  To me in my growing up years he was an angry violent drunk.  He was vindictive and mean.  I guess I loved him anyway, but I feared him and wanted to be spared from his anger.  I didn’t want to be near him when he was drunk as he would often use me (or other siblings) for a cheap laugh or a joke. He thought it was funny to get drunk, wrestle me to the floor and proceed to tickle me.  It was horrifying and scary for at any moment he could erupt into a ball of anger.  I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of the belt or him trying to ‘knock my bloody block off’.

These memories last long into adulthood and it was years before I realised that I was outside his control and I no longer had to fear his anger.  It’s clear that he left a big scar on my psyche.

Do I have any fond memories of him?  I don’t think I have any great moments from childhood that spring to mind. I grew into adult hood and watched as he grew into old age.  He and Mum won Tattslotto and after years of struggling on ‘compo’ after a train accident that left him unable to work this was a fantastic thing to happen.

We sort of settled into an adult relationship.  He loved seeing my kids, he always took a keen interest in them and what they were up to.  Over the years he certainly mellowed.

Then the whole issue of my sexuality came up for me.  Dad was a devout catholic, he really believed in the stuff about jesus.  I did too, for a long time.  It was perhaps the only thing that kept us together. My fear of him rejecting me because I was gay was at the top of my mind.  I didn’t want him, or Mum to find out.  I kept it hidden in plain view.  Both of them met Michael as we always travelled together.  We never really spoke directly about who Michael was and I was always anxious that they might ask me.  I knew that if they did I would tell them that he was my partner and that I was gay.  I mostly keep to myself but when you ask a direct question I’ll give you a direct answer.  My parents would ask my other siblings about me, but never did they speak with me about it.

Is it a crying shame?  Maybe, I don’t know.  And now I’ll never know.

That’s OK.

Yes, there is some regret there, but I understand why I kept this away from them.  I didn’t want to be rejected and I didn’t want either of them thinking that somehow they’d failed me.  I didn’t want them thinking that I needed saving from the fires of hell, or when they worked out that there was no saving that somehow I was bound for the fires of hell.

And that’s what I think they thought about gay people. I can just about recall every nasty thing my dad ever said about gay people.  The ‘woolly woofters’ which I think is rhyming slang for bloody poofters.  I’m not sure.

I’ve shed a few tears about his passing.  I know that there is a spot somewhere in my heart for the love of my Dad.  I feel the sense of loss, a part of my life that has finished.  I feel the pang of that separation, even if it isn’t as powerful as I would have liked it to be. Then there’s a bit of envy as I interact with my siblings.  My brother Craig talking about calling Dad when their football teams played (Hawthorn and Richmond) or my sister Janine telling me about taking him out to lunch just days before he died.  My brother Larry telling me about the things he did for Dad.  My sister Angela visiting him with her children and developing a relationship with all of them.  Including him in their everyday life. I didn’t have that.  I stopped myself from having that sort of relationship with him.  Part of me didn’t want it because my childhood was marred with unpleasantness that I never got over.  Part of me was protecting myself against his rage and his rejection.

Did he know?  Yes, I think so.  I think both my parents knew I was gay, but we never spoke about it, it was a subject that none of us ever wanted to talk about. I can romanticise about my relationship with my dad.  It’s easy to do that.  I did have a relationship with him, it’s just not as I’d hoped for.  I think it’s mostly my fault for not addressing those issues with my folks, despite my straightforward and honest approach with people, the courage and bravery left me when it came to speaking with my folks.  And that’s ok.

It’s not easy to say to people that I didn’t like my dad too much.  Because I didn’t.  I’d do anything for him, but I didn’t like him.  Whether or not the strain of that relationship was felt by him I don’t know.

Have I done the right thing?  Yes.  I handled the relationship in a way that meant I never had to put either of us into a confrontation that would send my stress levels through the roof.  I did a bit of self-preservation.  I may regret that we never had that conversation, but I don’t think so.

I’m at peace with where we left things. Despite all of this, I did spend time with Dad, short amounts of it.  I’d visit and sit with him for a while, watch some TV, talk politics and about the latest news, catch up on stories from home. Then I’d leave.  Sometimes I’d call him.  I set up a computer for him, Dad was mostly blind so the computer needed to read to him, it brought him many hours of both pleasure and frustration!  I felt safest around him when others of his children where present. I was there when Mum died, I made sure that he got what he needed by way of his religious beliefs.  I stood next to him as she died and prayed with him.  I understood just what his religion meant to him and I think I helped him at the time.  I made sure we conducted Mum’s funeral in the true traditional catholic way.  For what it’s worth I also made sure that his final service was very catholic.

Now both my parents have died.  At times I have felt a great sense of loss.  It’s a little overwhelming.

My Dad called me Son.  He is the only person in all the world who called me that.  He may have forgotten my name, there were so many of us!  No, no, that’s a joke.  I called him Pop or Dad, he is the only person in the world who I used those titles with.  The name Son was what separated each of us from everyone else in the world.  Pop may not have had the knowledge on how to show his love for us, but the weight of a single word when addressed directly to you is sufficient to carry the full set of emotions and love.  It is a special bond, a link that only a father and son can share.

Until my own father died, I didn’t realise that I use Son a lot when I speak with Tomas, I call Caitlin Princess.  I’m not aware of whether or not our parents had special names for their daughters.

The value of family can never be under estimated.  The spontaneous hugs from Caitlin when I’m distressed or Tomas standing next to me at the graveside, hand on my shoulder, Michael my fiancé a hairs length away from me at all times, ready to embrace me when the grief strikes, these are the important moments when we pull together to take care of each other.

This is the love of my family that I value.

Mum has gone, Dad has gone, there is no one to call me Son.  The special connection to my birth has gone, the two people whose love for me was never in question have gone.

I feel alone.  I know I’m not, but the world has changed for me.

For me, I need to write this down.  The exploration of my feelings and the grief, the resentment, the anger and the love are a swirling mess of thoughts and emotions.  It helps me to write about it.  I’ve spent 4 weeks in Bali writing this blog.  My finger now hovers over the publish button.

I want to share this.

Everyone dies.  Maybe your dad already has.  Maybe it is yet to come.  Mine died, quickly.

If I’d had some warning, what would I have done differently?

Nothing.

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Oct 22

Helen Edwards June 18th 1960 to October 19th 2010

I was standing in the office at the Charman Road shop when my sister Angela called me. I’d had an early start to my Monday and had a full day planned.

The minute she said hello I knew that this was a difficult conversation for us. All she said was that Helen was in hospital in intensive care. Without thinking I said I’d be right there – there was no need to ask or to elaborate, it was perfectly clear to me that Helen had reached a point of no return and Angela didn’t want to do this bit alone.

I picked her up and we drove to Ballarat, straight to the hospital. We were a bit before visiting hours, so we found something to eat and returned. Helen’s husband Rod came down and escorted us up to ICU.

Helen was sitting up in bed, she had various tubes and pipes attached, but still quite lucid and able to chat. Alas, she had lost her voice so was just whispering to us. She was alert and engaging, asking all the questions about my family and what was happening. She chastised us for being there, gave us a scowl.

We stayed awhile before heading back to town. We promised Rod we’d visit again the next day.

First thing next morning Angela rang me again, Helen wasn’t well again. We jumped in the car, knowing that this time it was more serious, this time we understood that death wasn’t far away.

When we arrived Helen was on her bed, back on the ward and was very clearly in a great deal of discomfort. Rod and the children, Melissa and Daniel where there and they all were very clearly distressed. The staff had given Helen something for the pain and slowly her breathing calmed and she seemed better. She was sleeping.

My brother Shane arrived and we sat in the room, mostly in silence. Helen continued to rest. One by one we each spent a few minutes alone with her, able to speak just one on one. It was a very emotional time.

Angela and I stayed til about 6.00 p.m. and as Helen appeared to be stable, we decided it would be ok to go home and return in the morning.

At 11.00 p.m. Angela called me to tell me that Helen had died.

My family of 11, 7 boys and 4 girls was now 10.

I was driving home from dinner.

I stopped on the side of the road. With a family this large we have to split up responsibilities. I again made the rounds of ringing my list of siblings to deliver the news. In between calls liaising with Shane and Angela to make sure we had everyone covered.

It was difficult.

Angela called to tell me about the last moments for Helen. Rod, Melissa and Daniel had returned to the hospital after taking some time to shower and freshen up. They where keen to get back in time for ‘trolley time’ when the hospital supplies some wine or beer to patients. They where laughing and joking with each other. Remembering the times when Helen had to go to hospital, they always joked about making it in time for the trolley. Gathered around my sister, in this moment of light hearted humour, Helen passed away.

What a way to go.

I’ve been on the side lines in all of this. I wanted to support Angela, make sure that she’s ok. For her this has been an incredible roller-coaster and I’m glad I’ve been able to stand beside her and just be there. I admire her for her courage and unconditional love for her sister. Angela extends that love and concern to Helen’s children, Rod and then to others in our family. It’s an amazing thing to watch and I stand in awe.

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Dec 29

Retros – Dave.

David Powell

Card distributed at the Funeral

I hadn’t spoken to Dave for a little while. The last time was July 2009 when Alan called and put Dave on the line, we chatted briefly, traded a couple of insults and that was that.

Alan rang to tell me Dave had died.

I got to Tamworth for the funeral. Alan was there and met me at the airport. He was resplendent in his monkey suite. It was good to see Alan.

We were early, it wasn’t clear whether there would be 10 people or 100, but as 11.00 a.m. Rolled around the crowd started to build until we had about 150 people packing the little chapel, as we gathered in the little brick building we listened to a medley of music from some of the productions that Dave had been involved in over the years.

Dave’s immediate family sat at the front of the chapel, I’m not sure who they were, brothers and sisters, nephews and nieces. Dave didn’t really talk much about them over the years.

The service started with the celebrant who made her speech from the Funeral Directors Guide on how to say shallow meaningless things. There were plenty of nods about the place as she gave us line after line of ‘comforting’ words.

Stephen Carter from the Tamworth Musical Society then led the eulogy and related to us a brief story of Dave’s life and his involvement with the society spanning many years. Steve also read a short bit from Alan. Dave had been helping Alan’s Dad out for many years, visiting him and taking him for drives.

Alan Whitham and Gregory Storer

Alan and Gregory at Dave's funeral

Then we heard from the lead performer from the TMS production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dream Coat.

He began:

I closed my eyes, drew back the curtain
To see for certain what I thought I knew
Far far away, someone was weeping
But the world was sleeping
Any dream will do

His voice was clear and resonated about the building, the piano accompanying him wonderfully well. As he started the second verse from around the chapel groups of the TMS began to support him with the harmony and the effect was simply stunning. As he sang his line they responded and for a few brief minutes we were transported into the musical.

Next we had someone from the local Diabetes Society and he told us about Dave’s involvement with them, it sounded like a significant contribution.

Finally a song from the Boy From Oz, Dave’s last production. The vocalist struggle to keep the raw emotion to one side, however despite the over whelming nature of the day he carried it through to the end and did a marvellous job. Finally breaking down after the last note.

The part missing from this was what Dave meant to us, to me. The part about him being a big poof, a tart and a slut. No mention made of his sexuality or the ‘other’ group of friends he surrounded himself with. There were a number of gay people present, just about everyone from the TMS for starters. This is my story about Dave, and perhaps under different circumstances I might have got up and said this about him.

When I first stumbled into GAG in 1996, Dave was there, RETROS. He was quiet at first, but always there, always ready to say hello and engage in a little banter. As time rolled by and we got to know each other better we started to slag off at each other, having a good time trading insults and generally being gay. Neither of us knew about each others life outside the chat room and over those first few years we discovered more and more. He was at home, downstairs, his father upstairs. He was hiding behind the computer screen. Like a naughty school boy. We formed a strong friendship and during one of our daily catch ups it came to light that he would be in Western Victoria the same weekend I would be there. Both of us seeing family. So we arranged to meet. Strangely enough I chose the initial meeting place to be the public toilets outside the local footy oval, as we both knew where that was, from there we had a coffee and breakfast at a café and started chatting. One of his brothers had a farm just out of Hamilton and he had been visiting there, driving all the way from Tamworth for a few days.

Over the years I caught up with Dave several times, a visit to Tamworth, his visits to Melbourne and he even drove up to the Gold Coast while I was holidaying there to see us.

Dave was funny. He was quick witted, a slut with his language, able to trade sexual jibes at the drop of the hat or the drop of the soap. He was always prepared to have private conversations and at times was willing to listen to my worries and give a few encouraging words. In our irregular face to face meetings Dave was always ready with a gag or a practical joke, he had a wicked smile and always a twinkle in his eye. His eyes also roamed a fair bit, because after all he was gay.

It wasn’t until his death that I realised just how much Dave had been there in my life for a good solid 10 years, we would at least say hello to each other most days.

I regret letting it slide the last few years. Life gets in the way and friendships suffer as a result.

Dave, you are such a slut.

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