During the final days of our father, Simon’s life, my mother, Margaret messaged that he was sleeping peacefully. He really was, but it was just a measure of how desperately ill he was. He was never normally peaceful, more of a whirlwind. He rarely slept, devising implants or surgical procedures well into the night and often flying across continents to help somebody.
Our dad lived by a simple code; do what is right and do your best. He never compromised on this.
He had three big passions, his family, his patients and his trainees; and two smaller passions his garden and rugby. It was only when you mixed these together within two behemoths, the NHS and the University of Liverpool, in a 24 hour day that things became complicated. Only the support of his dedicated team kept him afloat.
He had huge energy, huge strength and approached life head on, living every moment to the full. He suffered fools badly, laziness worse and dishonourable behaviour not at all. Anyone with a spark he encouraged, pushed and supported until their spark grew into a bright flame, he loved seeing people shine.
Simon’s father, my grandfather Alan, worked building submarines in the Naval dockyards at Chatham, eventually dying of mesothelioma from asbestos exposure. His mother, my grandmother Estella, was a shop assistant who struggled mightily to do her best by him. Neither went to university.
Breaking this mould, Dad went up to Oxford aged 16.  He met our mum 45 years ago whilst there, as he started his 3rd year. By all accounts they had a great time, punting on the Cherwell, cycling around, playing hockey and cricket, even riding dodgems at his graduation ball. It’s less clear how much work they did!
They went on carefree holidays around Europe by train for several long summer vacations. Our dad was actually reading the diaries from those long-ago days in his last weeks and re-living the fun.
Simon’s junior hospital jobs required 1 in 2 rotas with 120 hour working weeks and further hours at the whim of the consultant. A brutal introduction to both married life and a medical career.
More times than she cares to remember, Mum had to phone a theatre suite leaving a message saying she was taking one of us to the doctor’s or hospital. Luckily it mostly worked out well, except for one notable occasion when he diagnosed Madeleine’s red spots at breakfast time with “just” German measles, only for her to subsequently swell up and require hospitalisation – in fact it turned out to be Henoch-Schönlein Purpura.
Dad knew he wanted to do surgery from very early on, but it took a while to find his focus and specialise. He went to Nottingham for three years whilst we remained in Oxford. Eight years later he was appointed to the Chair of Orthopaedics in Liverpool. He hoped to develop orthopaedics in all its facets and we would be a family again. He was honoured and daunted to follow in the steps of Hugh Owen Thomas, Sir Reginald Watson-Jones and Sir Robert Jones.
Neston has been our home for the past 24 years. One regret is how long it has taken us to attain honorary scouser status. We are still not sure we qualify, our knowledge of football lets us down, however we are delighted to have been absorbed into the region none the less.
Today is a Monday, that meant theatre at Broadgreen. Not a great day for family contact with Dad. Indeed, family time with him was in shorter supply than we all might have wished. He always pushed himself to his limits, up first for a long working week, rarely lying in bed, gym on a Saturday morning, work on a Sunday morning. Our family’s task, hard as it was, was to set him free to do his job as best he could, not to tie him down with mundane details. But, although short, what a time it was, never boring.
So, what was family life like…? We went on adventures. Our father was so big and strong, brave and adventurous. He was prepared to take on everything. We went punting on any waterway, chased an inordinate number of crabs, around any rocky beach, built sandcastles and dug moats.
Our father, threw us into choppy seas whilst we squealed our heads off and shivered blue with cold. We traipsed through woods, around corners and up hills just to see what was there. We took picnics which were flooded out and we got cold and wet and covered in mud, many times. We camped in France until the Sirocco scoured our skin off and pretty much blew the tent away. We skipped along the top of the Pont du Garde whilst Mum totally panicked below.
Our car was dreadful, packed to the gills. Dad almost always drove whilst mum navigated by map taking us down tiny lanes along the prettiest route, with much loud and tuneless singing, in those long ago days before satnav and ipads.
Eventually, our transport improved and dad discovered a taste for the finer things in life, expensive meals, nice hotels, smart suits and ties, things he had never known before. Socks remained an issue.           As for his toys and gadgets, enough said about that.
He continued to love travelling, regaling us with tall tales of exotic places and meals, crazy taxi drivers and journeys. His enthusiastic 4 wheel driving took us on adventures in remote parts of Australia. He organised a satphone in case we needed rescuing but wasn’t phased by discovering much of Australia isn’t actually covered by satellites.
We played music too, Dad on piano, Phyllida and myself on violin, Madeleine on the flute and Rhiannon on the oboe. At Christmas we would belt out carols very nearly in time and tune.
Our father was always so proud of us. He would try and be strict and sensible, guiding us through school, many exams and choosing university courses… but his wallet was always open...                       He did worry as we went off to university, all of us choosing clinical careers of one sort and another, never quite sure if his name was a help or a hindrance.
He celebrated my description of my job in anaesthetics: to make sure the air went in and out and the blood went round and round but was dismayed by my awful anatomy knowledge, luckily Madeleine could come to the rescue.
In due course boyfriends became husbands and grandchildren appeared and he was able to have his fun all over again, chasing crabs, digging sandcastles, tickling chubby grandchildren. He did so love that, and they did too.
This last two years have been in stark contrast to those hectic hardworking days. From being so strong and positive, striding out, people running to keep up with him, Dad’s health was on a rollercoaster. He became pale and gaunt, sometimes in pain but he never felt sorry for himself. What really miffed him was that he wasn’t finished, he still had shoulders to fix, trainees to train, curriculums, grant applications and papers to write. On top of that there were daughters to nurture, grandchildren to cuddle and trees to plant.
He chose an odd way to deal with it all, treating his illness like the very worst version of bureaucracy, designed to obstruct him doing his job his way. But missing out on us and his grandchildren, he never quite handled.
Despite all of this, Dad’s love of his patients pushed him to attend clinic as often as possible. He also set about understanding his research projects in depth. These included, expression microarray of osteoarthritis and health deprivation data in both Liverpool and Malaysia. He did several working visits to the University of Malaya with a side venture snorkelling at LangkAWi. Three days after his death, we heard that a big grant application submitted, in October with Malaysian colleagues, had been successful. He would have been totally thrilled.
Later into his illness he started telling Mum how cross he was with his situation because he was just beginning to get good at shoulder surgery. My mother wasn’t quite sure what he was on about, everyone knew he was a wonderful surgeon. The issue for him was, that he didn’t know why or how he was so good, but he was beginning to work it out at last. He thought about writing something but didn’t get the chance... I guess it is over to those he trained.
For us, our family, he decided he was well enough to plant the vegetables we are still eating, pick strawberries, walk the Cheviot hills and chain saw logs for one more big Christmas fire. He continued to pop his cheeks and pull funny faces at all grandchildren whenever possible.
We struggle with the huge hole in our lives, we will for a long time to come. Sons-in-law will step in as needed with Simon’s blessing and confidence. Grandchildren will need extra tickling but will hear such stories of their crazy Grandpa that they will wonder whether any of it was real. Oh yes, we had fun as a family. We must celebrate our father’s life and legacy. It just seems hard right now.