They could see the trees in the wood, and hear them talking their strange tree-talk: ‘Wisha-wisha-wisha-wisha!’
I have such wonderful memories of our parents reading Enid Blyton’s series of Faraway Tree books to us when we were young. I drew pictures of MoonFace and Silky to show my school teachers and dreamt of visiting the lands at the top of the tree.
In January 2012 I started again at the beginning.
Every night I sat with my dad and read about the adventures of Jo, Bessie and Fanny. Together, we visited the Land of Birthdays, the Land of Wishes, the Land of Goodies and many more.
It was around this time that I’d started counselling through the hospice’s family support service. It was an opportunity for me to be speak my feelings and my fears aloud.
“I’m scared to finish the book,” I confided in February. Dad’s condition was deteriorating. In January we were told we could lose him in 24 hours. It was a false alarm but it stayed with me. I feared the next time I would hear the warning.
I’m scared that if I finish the book, that’s the end. But I’m equally scared that if I don’t finish the book, I’ll never be able to read beyond that point, I’ll never be able to share the book with my own children.
I continued reading. I wasn’t always sure he was awake but I read on.
We only had a few chapters to go when I was leaving work on Friday 2nd March 2012. He’d been sleeping more and I’d made the decision to take leave from work again. I finished early on Fridays so I’d popped to Tesco for a quick bite to eat before heading to the hospice when I received a text from my step mum asking if I was on my way.
Dad’s condition had deteriorated drastically, we had a matter of hours.
I started reading. With my family around the bed, I came to the final chapters.
Now today there was no fruit to be seen, only withering leaves. Jo leapt up on to the first branch. Up he went to the next and the next, but all the way up the leaves seemed to be withering and dying. It was curious and rather alarming. The Faraway Tree was magic – something very serious must be the matter if the leaves were dying.
I’m scared that if I finish the book, that’s the end. But I have to read on. If I don’t finish the book, I’ll never be able to read beyond that point, I’ll never be able to share the book with my own children.
Sitting alongside my dad as he was slipping away, my fear was becoming reality. The cruel twist that brought me to read this chapter on such a day. It couldn’t be mere coincidence, had he held on for me to finish the book?
The tree recovered, but it was time to say goodbye.
Good-bye, MoonFace, and thank you for rescuing me off the Ladder-That-Has-No-Top. Good- bye, Watzisname, I hope you remember your real name sometime. Goodbye, dear little Silky; it has been lovely to know you.
A few hours passed after I finished reading. A chance for everyone to spend some time alone with him.
When the time came, I held his hand. I never wanted to let go, I never wanted to leave his side. I never wanted any of this. Goodbye daddy. Night night, sleep tight.
On 10th June 2012 we planted a tree. An oak tree that I would come to know as Papa Oak. A tree that I would confide in, share my stories with and care for from that day onwards. A place that we can be alone, a place of escape; my very own Magic Faraway Tree.
On Sunday I visited in my running vest to show him my medal. Just like the little girl he used to read to at bedtime, I was beaming with joy as I went to show my daddy what I’d achieved. Because just like that little girl, everything I do is still to make him proud.
They could see the trees in the wood, and hear them talking their strange tree-talk: ‘Wisha-wisha-wisha-wisha!’
Third time lucky: I tried to write about the day I lost my dad twice already this year – on the 4th anniversary in March and during Dying Matters Awareness Week. Four years later, I still don’t use the ‘d’ word and perhaps that is why this time has been possible – because the focus of my story wasn't the sadness and the loss. Though both those things are inevitably a part of it, my focus writing this was a memory I shared with him, a happy memory of reading a magical story of adventure and joy.
