Grief | Family | Childhood | Memories | Nostalgia

The Night My Dad Died, When I Was 22

Remembering my dad, 32 years after losing him

Me and my dad in the 1970s. Photo provided by the author

Content warning: Illness and death

(Later, there’s also a picture of the 12-year-old me on my bike!)

A Night I Will Never Forget

It was just after midnight. An unusual mixture of fog and smoke filled the air, as the after-effects of Bonfire Night lingered from a few hours earlier.

I was 22 years old, driving along the M62 motorway in my Mk1 XR2, taking my 62-year-old mum to the hospital.

My homemade compilation cassette provided an atmospheric soundtrack, and Waiting for Love by Cool Down Zone became forever linked to that night in my mind.

It was almost surreal; the roads were virtually empty. Most people were home in bed, as I had been until that dreaded phone call. As soon as I heard it ring, I knew it wasn’t good news.

I braced myself under the bed covers as my mum shouted up to me; we were ready to leave in minutes.

I drove as fast as the conditions allowed. Once we reached the end of the motorway, it didn’t take long to reach the Royal Liverpool Hospital.