28 December 2007, Bowral, NSW, 2007
So, this is Roy’s day. A day we’ll laugh. A day we’ll cry. A day we’ve come together to remember.
But we will not be alone in our thoughts.
Roy has bonds with people far beyond his family's reach. For instance, in the early 90s, Roy’s job meant he was responsible for the livelihoods of many thousands of men and women, and their families. I remember he would come home upset every day he had to let just one of them go. Despite his best efforts, obviously his sincerity did not go unnoticed. And so when he was terminated at the onset of his illness, his farewell party was strictly ‘standing room only’, and the chief of the workers’ union openly wept.
Yes, my father had a remarkable effect on people.
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No one knows why, but Roy’s health noticeably declined in 1995. We learned much later that his brain was accommodating Dementia with Lewy Bodies—a neurodegenerative disease akin to suffering both Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s at the same time. Simply put, his brain was patiently ‘shutting down’. Over thirteen years Roy progressively lost: his movement, his speech, his rationality, his intellect, and his memory.
But there are many more things Roy never lost.
Roy never lost his sense of humour. I remember countless times over a beer when Dad would turn to me and whisper something he thought funny. I’d look at him to try and catch it, but he’d already be cheekily grinning—so much so, that his eyes would near close. At times I wouldn’t know what he had said, and more often than not, when I asked nor did he. But it didn’t matter. We just sat there and laughed together anyway, albeit for entirely different reasons.
Roy never lost his dignity. I remember years after Dad’s health had declined, a good friend of mine found a children’s maths book on the kitchen counter. Assuming it was mine he said, “Gee Nico, you are not that bad at maths are you!” Unfazed, Dad confessed that the book was his and kindly explained how mental exercises helped preserve the functioning of his brain. Perhaps my mate had learned about Dad’s illness the hard way, but how Dad handled it with such tenderness has stuck with me.
Roy never lost his personality. I remember when Dad mistakenly took some tablets from the medicine cabinet as well as his own. He fell into unconsciousness and didn’t recognise anyone. When I arrived at the emergency ward later that evening he bucked up and quite calmly said, “Oh hi, Nico, it's good to see you!!”. Moments later he whispered to me, “Do look after your Ma and the girls,” as if they were making a fuss over nothing. Overhearing the doctor ask Ma if he should be taken into private health care, Dad leapt up and said, “Shit! And how much will that cost me?”
Roy never lost interest. Dad, Liverpool beat Derby County two-one away from home in their Boxing Day match.
Roy never lost his kind-heartedness. I find it hard to imagine playing a football match without Dad coming to watch. He was ever-present. In the end Dad would invariably travel two or three hours to see me play—on buses, on trains, and on foot. It meant so much to me then, but now those memories of Dad perched on the touchline are among all I have left.
And most importantly to Roy, he never lost the love of his family. We were all there for Dad: through the tumbles, through the trips to the emergency ward, through the stuttering, and through the blank stares—but none more so than his wife, Jan. Whilst I am lucky to have had such a lovely man as my father, it is, in no small part, due to him finding such a strong and caring woman. Much love, Ma. And on behalf of your ‘Roystie’ once more, thank you.
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Despite his death we have not ‘lost’ Roy; I’m sure we all hold many more treasured and tortured memories of our own. May it be some time before they fade.
N.A.J. Taylor
Bowral, NSW, Australia