PRESENT DAY SNIPPET: IN MEMORIAM OF R. LYNDSAY-MAXWELL
We lost a gentle, kind, intelligent, loving man – and for all who loved him, he leaves an empty place in our hearts
It was our Father’s funeral yesterday, on Friday, 1 March 2024.
I’d have wanted a more poignant way to break the news since my last post here. My Father’s energy has now gone on to live wherever the energy in the universe goes when it’s no longer needed by a body, dispersed amongst the stars.
Reid Lyndsay-Maxwell (24 July 1953 – 11 February 2024)
Much-loved father, grandfather, father-in-law, beloved brother, brother-in-law, uncle, and wonderful friend
Loved by many and missed by all
Jae and I have been busy since our Father’s death. There’s a lot to organise when someone dies – not least of which are that person’s possessions, all they’ve left behind, against a backdrop of crippling emotional weight. It’s not like me not to write each week but I’ve been crushed and paralysed by the sadness I’ve been feeling. Simply existing has been a challenge, along with going back to work, helping sort and organise Dad’s house, and arranging the memorial with my sister.
Thoughts a couple of weeks ago…
When my father was still hanging onto the threads of life I wrote this, which is now mostly irrelevant.
My Father never knew that one of my greatest fears was of him dying without ever getting to know him better. What I meant by that was he knew me as I was stuck in time up to age 10 when I moved to Florida. He wrote to me every week. I wrote to him on occasion. I knew him as he was, too – also stuck in time – forever 44.
I don’t think he knew how much I missed him and longed for him for all those years we were apart. I cherished every single letter he sent and I still have them.
As a parting gift, he bought me a gold locket and I never took it off – so much so that the picture of his long-time partner is preserved perfectly and the picture of him has a scratch down his face because of all the times I touched it – and the fact that photos don’t withstand the shower.
My sister, Jae, also bought me a locket at that time, round in shape, silver, beautifully simple. The pictures have nail marks for the times I rotated them to see the pictures of us: sisters preserved in time in each half.
In some ways, life in the US was better for me growing up – educationally especially and it did enrich my life and give me experiences I’d not have had otherwise – but in other ways, my heart was forever divided by an ocean with so many loved ones left on an island over 5,000 miles away.
My grandparents visited but Dad wasn’t able to visit and I was too young to fly alone. Jae even lived in New Orleans for a time when she was working on her biochem degree at Tulane University for one year of her degree at Manchester University. She paid for me to visit her one Thanksgiving break, and she visited when she was around fifteen by herself and my mother took us to Epcot.
When I could finally afford to visit England at the age of 19 when I was a university student, I came every couple of years or so. I remember my and Dad’s tearful re-meeting. I needn’t have worried about not knowing my father as his values and character stayed true – and no matter what he always loved his girls fiercely. I’m sad for the lost time but thankful for all the years we did have.
When I moved to Germany with my first husband, I visited England more often. Dad came with Grammy to visit me two or three times (such happy memories), and, finally, when my ex left me, I moved back home to be closer to Dad.
“The things they carried”
Sifting through belongings, categorising them, makes me think of The Things They Carried somehow.
In Dad’s things, I found that he was as sentimental as me but I never knew. He’d written on the back of a movie ticket from 2006 that we’d gone to see together: the second instalment of Pirates of the Caribbean (never as good as the first). He’d kept so many artefacts of our childhoods – not that he ever showed us. He wasn’t that sort of father. He never said, “here, girls, let me show you these things I’ve kept.” He was private in that way. He’d even kept the cork with a ten-pence piece jammed in it from when I had Father’s Day with him that same year, the first in a long line we’d missed.
When I returned to England in 2016, I thought I was moving back to spend time with those with finite time: my Grandfather, my Grammy, and my Father. I didn’t know Dad’s time would be even shorter than I expected.
Looking back at 2 am through photos, I realise my Father hasn’t looked well for many years. I’ve been back in England for almost eight years now. We’d all joke as a family about his “annual” trip to the hospital.
I rarely visited the hospital when he was in. I hate hospitals. I always knew he’d come home. I had a stupid faith that he’d get better. I’d been kidding myself that for the last two years, his health had declined further and he hadn’t been taking care of himself despite my “nagging” about him not eating properly and not chasing his ailments with medical professionals, but I think the fight had gone from him.
Thankfully, I didn’t avoid the hospital this time.
The push and pull: he’s getting better; now he isn’t
Even a week ago on Saturday (3rd February), he was getting better and recovering and then Saturday night suddenly he wasn’t but they still had hope he was getting better. And that hope was snatched away again on Wednesday (7th February). This back and forth has been awful and what’s worse with a stroke and seizure on top of his infections and high oxygen requirement, he can’t even talk to us; he’s locked away in himself with only the ability to nod or say, “no” or wave with left-hand gestures (he can’t use his right side).
My Father (known as Lyndsay to some and as Reid to his siblings), is now in palliative care. I will never get the wish of hearing his voice again.
Tomorrow, he may be able to be transferred to hospice care where I’m told the room will overlook a garden, be nicer, and less clinical than the hospital as he wouldn’t be likely either to make the journey home (as he would have wished) or receive the end-of-life care he requires at home.
We found out the day of or the day after I posted this post.
The weight of sadness is crushing.
I miss him already and he’s still hanging on by a tenuous thread.
Side note: he never did make it to the hospice. He died in hospital. He’d been drugged up and made comfortable for days. We were told he’d live two to three days. He lived five. Jae and I tearfully told him he could let go when he wanted. We told him our goodbyes and of all the ways we loved him. I hope he could hear us. By that point, he was unable to respond. We’d all been to see him that day but he waited until we were gone to let go. I’ll never forget the phone call from my sister.
Reflections on when I wasn’t a good partner in grief
I know so many people have faced grief as have I but maybe there’s something different about losing (or imminently losing) a parent.
I can’t help but think that 2024 is a karmic kick in the teeth.
When my first husband was my age now, he lost his family friend to a heart attack very suddenly. Then, his father slowly died of cancer. Those deaths broke him – and maybe our marriage too (of course, I’ll write about this eventually).
But I was 27 or 28, still young, having only ever been impacted by the death of my Great Grandmother Eva who had died at the very old age of 96 (I think). It was sad to lose her and I’d loved her and had fond memories, but that’s the cycle of life.
I didn’t know what to do or how to support him in his grief as he withdrew from me further. That was my fault for certain but maybe it shows how despite loving each other, we weren’t a good match. We couldn’t communicate or meet each other’s needs. As a selfish twenty-something – someone needy, unsure, and not yet able to self-soothe or realise “not everything is about you” – I felt his withdrawal as something he was doing to me, not that he was in his own private world, out of his mind with grief.
Michael’s goodbye: all the people we have loved and lost before
Michael came after work to the hospital to see my Dad on Thursday (8th February). It was too much for him. As he cried and held me last night, both of us sobbing into the pillow, he said he was sorry that he couldn’t handle seeing Dad like that, how he wanted to tell him he loved him, but he couldn’t. I said that Dad knew and that I didn’t have any expectations of his behaviour. We all grieve and react in our own way.
Michael and I have been met by grief and death almost from our very beginnings. First, we lost his grandmother (Joyce), then his father (George, a crushing blow for us all), then my grandfather (Mike). Followed by one of his father’s best friends, Alan.
I was so sad that George and my Grandfather Mike would not see us get married.
Then, just months ago we lost Grandad Ted, Michael’s grandfather, which was devastating to my beautiful mother-in-law (also called Elaine), now having lost both of her parents.
Then, we suddenly lost our beloved family friend, Derek. That grief hit me hard and I remember going to Dad’s house and him holding me. He stroked my hair and said he knew how much I felt for the family and he was so sorry.
I had no idea that the next month I’d face losing him – all the things I would’ve wanted to say to him unsaid because I thought he’d come home.
Thankful for my support network
During this time, I’ve been grateful to have a loving, supportive husband; a sister by my side; my wonderful brother-in-law, Rob; my cousin Pam who has been a rock for us; Pam’s husband, Dave, who lost his wonderful father just over a year ago; Grammy; my mother; my baby sister Hannah; Dad’s friends sending well wishes; my friends; and extended family; and especially my paternal aunts and uncles. It’s been horrible for us all.
And this is all before we have lost him.
The wait is torture. The balance of life and death. Of knowing he will go, feeling like he’s half gone without being able to communicate to us, but wanting him for as long as possible and the glimmer of hope that maybe they got it wrong and he will get better after all.
On Saturday afternoon (3rd February), he looked dreadful but the doctor said he was getting better and it flipped like a switch that evening. I hadn’t poured my heart out to him when he could talk.
That day, Michael had wanted to buy him some magazines to cheer him up, which Dad pretended to read although his eyes were giving him trouble. I don’t even know what we talked about. I thought he’d come home. I didn’t hold his hand to tell him all the ways he was a wonderful father. I hugged and kissed him goodbye as usual, but I had this sense of hope that he’d be home soon and I’d have all the time to appreciate him more, to show him how much I adored him. To prioritise seeing him more than our once-per-week visit and our little summer jaunts. But I won’t have more time and that guilt and sadness feels like a granite stone upon my heart.
New reflections
I wrote this today (Wednesday, 28 February) but these are thoughts from my phone notes from ten days ago. All notes have stopped since he died. I hadn’t been able to write a word until today when I had to write a tribute to read at his memorial service. I barely wrote 500 words, which demonstrates brevity for me.
At that time, over twenty days ago, I felt guilty that when I lived under two miles away, under a seven-minute drive, why didn’t I visit him more? Why did Michael and I only visit him once per week? Why was I busy chasing my dreams of writing when I should have chased the dream of being with my father more often? I didn’t know I’d run out of time.
But my friend, Chester, pointed out that it’s useless to feel guilt. Chester noted that my Dad loved me and what parent doesn’t feel joy at their child having their own life?
He said: “If you saw him six times a week, would that change how you feel now? No. You’re allowed to live your life. What child who doesn’t live with their parents sees them every day? At least he led a life that enabled him to be loved by you and others. Unfortunately, there’s no beautiful way to end anything and you’re going to miss him and nothing will ever exactly fill this feeling you have now. You love your dad each hour of the day, whether he’s around you or not and I’m sure he feels the same.”
My Uncle Paul said something along the same lines at the memorial service, too. Not everyone even sees their parents once per week, he said.
Snippets of my father
My Dad was a funny mix. He came from a well-to-do family. He had formal manners, growing up in a house that would “dress for dinner” and he was always well dressed even to sit in his living room with his beloved cat, Kit Kat. When we went out for the day, he often wore a suit. But his political values had long been more of the “hippy” variety, social justice, for the people type of thing.
In a way, I come from a long line of black sheep: my grandfather who was born into wealth who did his own thing; my Grammy who defied expectations of her small-town Illinois life and married an Englishman, living not in Oakdale, but in England for most of her life; my mother who was rebellious; my father too, who rebelled against his formal upbringing and grew his hair and beard long in a time when those actions were frowned upon. He once told Michael and I a story about how he flew to Greece and the authorities turned him away because they didn’t let “hippies” in.
I’d drive my father absolutely crazy with the “Southern” (South Georgia, USA) ways I’d picked up like drinking from a bottle or a can instead of a glass.
Michael and I spent the summer with Dad’s much-loved sister, Sheena, who was a bit of a rebel herself in her youth. We had a delightful time with her and her husband, Nick, with gourmet food and wine pairings, a glimpse perhaps into how my father grew up.
His sisters loved him. They were all raised by their maternal grandmother after their mother died when Dad was only three. He was very private about his childhood and rarely talked about it besides the odd quip about his sisters and Jeanie being the baby and the favourite.
I think my father longed for that sense of family since his father didn’t raise them and I believe had another family later – and his children gave him grounding. Dad and Jean, my sister’s mother, planned to have my sister and he was such a proud and doting father.
There were stories he’d tell over and over like about his dalmatian and another dog, Dusty, who cornered the gas man who had to sit and wait for Dad to return from work. There were stories about his time as a legal assistant, as a Welfare Rights Officer, as a Georgian furniture restorer, and his favourite role: father, raising my sister, Jaelithe.
There are so many stories that I’ve already forgotten the details, only recalling the imprint of the shape. I’ll never hear these stories again. There is never more time.
I searched frantically on my WhatsApp for voice recordings to hear his voice again and cried when I heard it. Jae sent me the video, badly recorded, of his wedding speech to me, and I cried thinking I’d never hear his voice again, never feel his arms around me, never “pop by” his house to visit. Michael and I in the summers would always go on a countryside walk that would end up with a drink at Dad’s house. We can’t do that again either.
My father had the manners of a gentleman. He lived life in the present. Whilst I’ve always chased “more,” he knew the value of “enough.” He was happy to live simply to have time to do what he wanted. He realised the most precious resources are time and love.
A morning in childhood, piling on like kittens
When Jae and I were young, we piled on top of him in the morning after knocking on the door. We’d snuggle with our father and chat away.
A few years ago after a bout in the hospital, I came home with him and he was frail and skeletal. I cuddled him and laid my head on his chest. Sometimes when I’d touch his hand it was painful so maybe this embrace that was more for me than for him. As a child, I was always cuddly and hung on him like a limpet.
If only Jae and I could be transported back to a morning in childhood – like in the film About Time (a favourite of mine and Michael’s) – where we could bask in the simplicity of our love. And visit another moment when he could walk and we’d skip down the street (Jae being so embarrassed she wanted to melt) and Dad just doing it anyway to bring laughter to my face.
The last hug
When he was a little more conscious at the end, I hugged my father lightly so as not to cause him pain. I felt a hand on my arm. I thought it was my sister but it was my Dad. That was the last hug I ever received from him.
“I’m proud to be your daughter”
Pam was with us on many days in the hospital and I whispered to Dad what a wonderful father he was and how I was proud to be his daughter. Pam said she thought he could hear and he had a tear come from his eye. She left us so I could say my farewell to this kind, gentle, and loving man, who means more than I can ever convey.
Dismantling a life
Since our father died, with all the duties we have to do, and my returning to work (my team has been amazing), we have been utterly numb. The heartbreak of dismantling a life weighs on us. It’s sad to pick through the secrets and long-forgotten memories of someone else.
Amongst Dad’s things, we found a press pass for a magazine, letters from when he was a Welfare Rights Office, an Army discharge book and notes where he was medically discharged from the Intelligence Corp, old photos, funny letters, an abandoned novel, typed witty humorous letters, an unsigned will on a disk, a yellowed cover page for a will without the rest of it. We hope we are carrying out his wishes as he’d have liked.
If you’ve ever had to clear someone’s home, it’s exhausting. You get decision fatigue. Even though Dad’s terraced cottage wasn’t filled to the brim, he still has hundreds of items. What does one do with them all? How do you decide what to keep, what to give away, what was special, what was not? I can’t even describe the sadness of taking apart the house we have visited for years.
I’ll forever have unasked questions, forever buried bits, the diaries he said he’d burned. So much lost. But the pervading memory is of love. He was a character, intelligent, humorous, and loving. He was our Dad. I’ll miss him forever but isn’t that the sign of a good life? I loved him so much that I am heartbroken to lose him too soon. I just hope he knew how much I loved him.
Taking on Kit Kat
Everyone who knew and loved Dad knew that he’d want his beloved cat taken care of and after much persuading, I convinced Michael to take him on.
I’m now convinced I can ever have a child with Michael because the level of coddling and research that has gone into taking on a cat is unreal, starting with researching (on YouTube) the best type of litter to use (he went with a corn variety and a tofu variety for A/B testing), the types of food that are best, the letter boxes, scoops, bowls, cat trees, and the list goes on, the worry over if he is settling, if he’s happy. I’m taking time to adjust to the fact that my house no longer feels fully “clean” and there’s cat hair everywhere but I’ve always been a cat lover and it’s been a comfort to take on Kit Kat, knowing he’s a small piece of my father that’s left. I know he misses Dad terribly. They were perfect companions.
To my paid subscribers
I haven’t been writing even though I had already written posts 42 to 53 in January, I won’t resume posting until next week after my Dad’s memorial service. I was in the middle of writing post 54 about Captain Thor before I couldn’t write more.
If you’d like a refund of your monthly subscription fees, please get in touch as I know I’ve not been delivering on posting, which I’m sure you understand. Thank you for your support – thanks to any and all readers for your support.
The story continues…
I still plan to finish my Substack story. Unfortunately, the world doesn’t stop when you lose people. I wish there was a pause button where I could live in my grief, curled up in bed with my novels and audiobooks and TV series like Gilmore Girls and Dawson’s Creek but life doesn’t work that way. I hope I’ll get my energy and productivity back. I hope I won’t forever be wiped out by the sadness brought by losing Derek and my Dad this year. I wish I lived back in an alternate reality when all those people I’ve lost were still alive but that sounds so trite.
Final words
I hope your 2024s have been a bit better, that life is treating you kindly. I feel like I lived in such a happy little bubble and that allowed me to pursue the things I loved: my day job plus freelance plus my own creative writing. And that bubble is leaking. I hope I’ll get a patch-up in time.
Sending love and best wishes to all my readers. Thank you.
Side note: I’m going to post twice in succession. This post and then a transcript of Dad’s memorial service.
These are beautiful memories. I'm so sorry you lost him so unexpectedly. I can only hope that his memory is a comfort to you as time continues to pass. <3