Meathman's Diary: My father and a million things left unsaid

'My father was not quite a farmer nor a fool, but came close to proving me wrong on both counts at different times in his life; he's gone over 20 years now, and not a day goes by that I don't think of him or quote him, or feed from his legacy, a true man and father of his time properly, embarrassing to no one but his own, awkward and straight. At the same time, a man with a sense of what was just and what was just nonsense....'

Writer, actor and poet Seamus O'Rourke paid a beautiful tribute to his father on the Tommy Tiernan Show on Saturday night and to say it resonated would be an understatement.

My own father died 20 years ago this week. He wasn't a farmer, nor a fool, but an electrician and a dreamer. There's rarely a day goes by that I don't think of him.

He died in the early hours of 25th January 2005, rising from the bed as to not disturb my mother despite what must have been the agonising pain of an onset massive heart attack.

Mam found him on the armchair, breathless and caked in perspiration. The ambulance was called and came and he would close his eyes forever in the back of it, the siren falling silent en route to Tallaght Hospital. He was 66.

That early morning drive from my then home in Johnstown to Dublin was the longest journey of my life, probably because I didn't want to get there. I could convince myself he wasn't gone if I simply wasn't there.

Ushered into a sideroom just off the bustling A&E in Tallaght Hospital, there was Dad. The man who raised me in that stifled, loving but hugless way nearly all fathers of the ‘70s and ‘80s raised their kids now lay still. The giant hands that lifted me over turnstiles, held on to me before I could fall from my first bike, grabbed me when I was giving guff to my mother were now cold and clasped tight and...smaller.

After all the formalities of funerals, eulogies and the practicalities of bereavement were complete my own mental post mortem began. In truth, its never concluded.

My father and me and a million things left unsaid.

His latter years were marred by poor health, physical and, in probability, mental. Work had dried up and wasn't pursued, worsening arthritis in his hands did little to help a self employed sparks trying to fashion fiddly cables into intricate fuseboards. He was also the worst businessman, never had the ruthless streak needed to put cash before chat.

In essence he gave up or at least I felt he did and we clashed on it, numerous times. He'd more to give, not least to Mam. We were hard on him. I was hard on him. The insufferable arrogance of youth.

Two decades on and my own journey to middle age has allowed me to appreciate the burdens he carried, the demons he fought and his fears for what lay ahead. He never got to hear that he'd done a fine job, with Mam of course, in bringing up three thankful sons. I'd love to have told him. I'd hope that he knew.

Thank you Seamus for stirring welcome, powerful emotions. I doubt I was alone.