Racing here, dashing there, distressed, upset, unsettled, distracted and unable to make the most of my time. Here I was again, sprinting to my gate in London’s Gatwick Airport, the final call long since behind me. Missing the flight to Moscow was, in the greater scheme of things, nothing. I wrongly saw it as life and death, for the most stupid of reasons. At the gate passengers were still sitting down, our plane hadn’t even landed from Russia yet. I’d been Ryanair’ed, for the 2nd time on October 7th, 2013, and I’d still not eaten since the night before.
The previous Friday I’d delivered a training course for sports journalists at RIA-Novosti, dropped by the office, then gone to Vnukovo for my afternoon flight to Budapest. I landed and went into the Hungarian capital, excited at a few hours of sightseeing. I back in Ireland that night, collected at the airport by my sister Lisa, with bags of Haribo waiting for me. She knows me too well. We grabbed food at Abrakebabra in Blanchardstown Village, chatted and that night I slept fitfully, Moscow matters weighing heavily on my mind, or a kebab in my stomach. The next morning I drove Blacnhardstown for meeting then on to see Dad in Drogheda.
In January 2013 Dad emerged from an induced coma in which he’d lain since the 30th of November 2012. I’d been home in December 2012 and again April, when he was discharged from hospital and in the Summer. I thought I’d wised up, almost losing him, to what was important in life. I took Dad shopping when, mainly for the trip outside as Lisa had his kitchen well stacked. I nipped out to pick up burgers and chips for our dinner, then we sat down to watch the Munster-Leinster Pro12 rugby match. Dad was not a fan of Dave Kearney, despite his provenance (Louth). Leinster couldn’t get out of 2nd gear in Thomond Park and returned from Limerick with a 19-15 loss. I was distracted by Moscow the whole time and attempted to talk to Dad. There was me, a fit, healthy man whining on to a man recovering from a major heart attack. A man who still needed oxygen to stave off another coronary incident. A man I’d had to catch, hold and carry a month before when he had a cardiac incident while we were visiting his childhood home in the Mills of Louth.
He listened, comforted me and for a few hours after the match we drank tea and talked about life. I was using Mam’s car but she’d said to stay over, Dad asked me to stay over and have breakfast in the morning. We could even go to a Gaelic football match. I was crumbling inside and said I’d hit the road. It was after midnight and the sensible part of me wanted to stay. The loving son wanted to get his head down, go for a nice fried breakfast in the morning, go to a match with him and maybe take a spin out to his sisters. A proper Father-Son Sunday. The selfish, hurting idiot decided to head back to Dunboyne (where Mam and Lisa were living at the time). Dad left me with:
I know you’ll be sick of hearing this from myself and your Mam, but what’s meant for you won’t pass you by.
We hugged at the door, a little tighter and longer than before. I told him I loved him. He told me he loved me. He told me to take care driving home and to give him a message when I got home safe. I promised I would and walked to the car. I looked back as I opened the door, he waved and told me to drive safely. I smiled, promised I would and sat in. Turning the car around he was still at the door. As I drove by he was there, smiling and waving. I wanted to stop, honestly I did. I wanted to pull in, run back and hug him. He looked so alone and more lost than me. I knew I shojdl stay, help him, but I was stuck in my own pain, by choice. I smiled, waved and drove on through Drogheda and out onto the M1 motorway. I pulled onto the gore where the on ramp merges with the main road and took a photo of the Mary McAleese bridge which spans the Boyne River. I cried a little and took a few minutes to compose myself before crossing. I got home, sms’ed Dad right away, he replied with - “Sleep well. Good night. I love you x”. I lay awake all night and met the morning with deep feelings of guilt and dread.
On Monday morning Mam dropped me to Dublin Airport where the check in desks for Ryanair were understaffed and overwhelmed. I eventually dropped my bag and walked the 10kms (almost) to the Ryanair gates. Actually, I was running the whole way. The flight was 7.40am and on all boards it was “Final call”. At the gate people were lined up and staff walking along inspecting bag size, it would be another 10 minutes before we would walk across the foggy tarmac to the plane. I had a window seat and suddenly felt exhausted. I texted Mam and Dad that I was on board and ok, waited for their replies then fell asleep. I awoke 8.22am and we were still in Dublin. They were waiting for fog to clear. Since my flight to Moscow was at 2pm, I wasn’t bothered. I went back asleep.
I woke again just at 9.30am with a worried feeling. I asked my neighbour, some sort of Irish business traveller, were we long in the air. He replied, “40-odd minutes”. I looked out the window and thought we were descending. I asked a cabin crew member where were we landing. She brushed me off so I asked her colleague, “Why are we descending? It’s too early.” She said she’d check. She did and 2 minutes later the captain made an announcement that we were landing shortly in Birmingham Airport due to Gatwick being fogged in. I began calculations. I’d have to get to New Street in the city, then a train to London Euston, then get to Victoria Station for the Gatwick Express. I had money for it, but would I have time. My well planned journey was falling apart before me.
We touched down and I texted Dad - “HELP!”, before detailing what was going on. It was 10am and after some discussion those of us who kept faith with Ryanair were put on buses. I asked the driver how long would it take. In a broad, friendly Brummie accent he answered:
If the traffic is ok and the M25 not insane, we should do it in under 3 hours. Gatwick’s on the South side of London.
With this news Dad was on his laptop checking alternative flights, trip times and the Easyjet site. Gatwick was fogbound so we hoped my onward flight would be delayed. Every 15-20 minutes we exchanged texts. I saw a sign for Luton Airport and messaged Dad, realising that we were on the M1 motorway. He replied that he remembered it well. We’d been there 4 Summers before when he dropped me off on our way back from Croatia. I immediately recalled the trip and how I made it uncomfortable for us both. I believed time was more important to be saved than spent. I had to be in x place at y time and nothing or noone was standing in my way. I sat for some minutes before messaging again:
I’m sorry I didn’t stay on Saturday night. I miss you Dad. x
Time crawled by until he answered. He missed me too. He followed up with:
Sure maybe this is a sign you should relax now and take a break. You’re running yourself into the ground.
I replied with a platitude, my mind was in Moscow. It never left, even when I was enjoying a Budapest evening. Even when I was walking in my home town. Even when I was sitting with Dad watching rugby. Even when I was with Mam and Lisa. Even as I sat on the bus headed south across England. I was mentally in Moscow, physically, wherever.
As we turned off the M25 I had renewed hope dashed as Dad texted that all flights are now leaving and landing on time. My 2.10pm flight to Domodedovo was on schedule. We arrived at Gatwick Airport minutes before 1pm. I copped that we were at the South terminal. I asked the driver was this it? He said, Ryanair flies out of here so here we stop. With no time to waste I picked up my bag and sprinted to the shuttle train, got on and checked the time. 1.11pm. I texted Dad that I was moving between terminals, he replied that I still had time. I leapt, yes, leapt off the train and hared towards check-in. Those waiting in line were decently let this redfaced, sweaty Irishman skip to the front, where I dropped off my bag and was told I’d “Minutes” to get to the gate. I landed in Moscow at 9pm local time and was home after a bus, 2 metros and a 15minute walk, by midnight. I texted Dad thank you and that I loved him. He replied:
Let’s skype tomorrow. Get to sleep. Love, Dad x
My life changed completely that month. I began a move from Moscow, from professional sports, from journalism, from myself. That October-November I seemed to talk every day with Dad. However Skype was a poor replacement for sitting by the fire drinking tea and talking sports. I often think back to how differently I should have behaved and acted that weekend. How I should have taken the time to relax. To actually enjoy the time with my loved ones. I cannot blame the Moscow rhythm, that’s a cop out. I chose to be selfish and under pressure.
9 years to the day on and I ask myself just why was I in such a hurry. Why was I racing back to be beaten up? I remember the response to Corporal Schiess in the movie Zulu after he praised zulus for running 50 miles and fighting at battle at the end of it. Private Jones replied in a Welsh lilt:
Well, there's daft, it is then. I don't see no sense in running to fight a battle.
Jones and my Dad were right. Why did I run into conflict and lose priceless time with my family? I should have stayed in Drogheda that night but didn’t. I should have gone back down on Sunday and taken Dad to a match, but I didn’t. I should have stopped the car, gone back and hugged him one more time. I shojuld have, could have, I didn’t. I live with the regret, partially because I want to beat myself up, partially because I really do regret it. 2 months later Dad passed and I the next time I saw him was in the funeral parlour in Ardee.
Alan, you are a wonderful son and your Dad and I love you with all our heart. You should have no regrets as we always wanted you to walk your own path and we knew you were always there for us. Your Dad will always be with you and guiding you along the way. Start loving yourself as we have always loved you. Love Mam xxxx
I have so many many regrets with my mother and father I think about them from time to time I should’ve spent more time with them but at least when they both died I was there by their side yet I feel I should’ve done more I should’ve taken my dad to Italy to see the grave of his brother Buried at the bottom Monte Cassino His brother died 20 years of age 1943 sixth of December never got to Monte casino to ssee his grave and my mother I should’ve visited her more times at hospital regret but I know both of them are with me locking down and are here on this journey guiding me. thanks Alan