Hello, I Love You.

“Glioblastoma multiforme?” I repeated clueless. The words alone sounded like some devastating spell that only a dark wizard like Voldemort would dare use.

It was a miserable November evening in 2000 and my Mum had just returned from the hospital. Alone. “Your Dad has a brain tumour,” she whispered as she tried desperately to hold herself together. “They say it’s rare and aggressive.” I shook my head in disbelief. Dad was only 53 and full of life but from that moment on, fate had other ideas.

As tumours go, this was ‘The Terminator’. It was a beast that for the next seven months took us all on a roller coaster ride of destruction. Filled with helplessness and rage, I watched my Dad who had a talent for all things mechanical deteriorate rapidly. Simple tasks like entering telephone numbers and using the TV remote became impossible. Unable to express himself, he became increasingly more frustrated and withdrawn.

Seven months later in May 2001, my dad was moved to a hospice. He was dying. There would be no more treatment, just drugs to make sure he was comfortable. “Don’t worry,” reassured the nurses, “he should be feeling euphoric after this cocktail.” I smiled weakly. Dad enjoyed a drink but I’m sure he never anticipated this.

It was early one morning on the 6th of June and I was jolted awake from a vivid dream. I'd dreamt about my dad. He was in the hospital and as usual lying lifeless when suddenly he was upright, alert and wearing a tuxedo! I stooped to hold him, only to discover he was now the size of a small child, weighing no more than a baby…

Instinctively, I knew something was not right. I needed to see my dad. I dragged myself downstairs and bumped into Mum.

“The strangest thing just happened,” she said. “I was out walking the dogs when I felt your Dad firmly take my right hand… It felt so real, I even looked for him and then cursed myself for being so silly because of course, he wasn’t there.”

When the phone rang a few minutes later, I already knew who it was and what they were going to say. My dad had taken a turn for the worse. We dashed to the hospice and sat by his side. I’m certain he sensed us beside him because his awkward breathing eased and he let out one last, long sigh.

For months after, my emotions broke free and rioted: shock, pain, grief and anger but mostly guilt tortured me. I loved my dad so why hadn’t I ever been able to tell him? And now it was too late.

I seriously wondered if I was losing my marbles when I began to ‘see’ Dad, dressed in his oily overalls and trademark khaki green beanie hat. He would lean his bicycle against the wall of the house and listen to my ranting and rambling.

Crazy or not, chatting to Dad felt like the most normal thing in the world – especially when his presence felt so strong.

Then in March later that year, I happened to stumble upon an advert for a Psychic Fayre. I had been to a few before but nothing had aroused my curiosity quite like this one. “We should go along,” I said excitedly to Mum. We oohed and ahhed over the gemstones and crystals and wandered aimlessly amongst the healers and readers.

And then, I stopped.

Sat unobtrusively in the corner was a lady who was drawing. Intrigued, I went to talk to her. “I used to only hear the spirits,” she explained, “but now they show themselves to me and want me to draw them.” She chuckled softly before adding, “I didn’t even know I could draw!”

“Would you mind drawing for me?” I asked.

With each pencil stroke, the features of a face became more pronounced and despite being up-side-down, it looked strangely familiar.

The face and nose were slimmer and a rather solemn expression had replaced the cheery smile I was used to, but then there was the long ears, the crinkled, almond-shaped eyes and that trademark beanie hat -

I swear there is a photograph of my dad in that beanie hat - Somewhere.

I just can't find it.

“That’s my Dad!” I blurted out.

I see it... but is it?

Was this just coincidence?

Had I latched onto a supernatural belief and been unable let it go?

Was the power of suggestion so strong at that psychic fayre that the merest expectation of hearing something about my dad was enough to set my mind whirring?

Was it faulty activity in my brain, and at that time I was simply scrambling around for answers and looking for some sort of meaning in the chaos of death that nothing had properly prepared me for?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

I was, and still am to this day, convinced that the picture the lady drew for me was my dad and it was his way of letting me know that he was 'there'.

Crazy?

I know.

Nearly 20 years later and I still can’t shake off those spooky events and feelings. I still haven't found 'that' photograph. Yet I still find comfort in believing that my dad always is somehow close by, protecting, guiding and urging me and my family on - to keep finding the courage to face our fears and conquer our battles.

And if nothing else, I’ve learnt to open up my heart more.

So Dad, if you really are listening right now… “Hello. I love you.”