Vanessa White

still going

Tuesday 20th Oct great walk with my sister .. on paths I haven't been on .. only been here 25 years Share

spotting curlews for my Dad

Tuesday 29th Sep

I’ve signed myself up to walk 62 miles during October to raise money for Dementia UK.

Partly because it’s a cause that is very close to my heart.

And partly because I know myself. If I simply decide that I’m going to walk more, there’s a very good chance I’ll find a hundred other things to do instead. I seem to need a bit of outside accountability. Tell other people I’m doing something and suddenly I have to actually do it!

But there is something much deeper behind this challenge too.

My dad died on New Year’s Eve 2020.

Right in the middle of Covid.

I don’t think I’ve ever really found the words for what that was like.

Everything about death felt different then. There was the fear, the restrictions, the constant uncertainty. There were rules about who could be there and how close you could get. Things that should have been ordinary — sitting with someone, holding their hand, gathering as a family, giving someone a hug when you were falling apart — suddenly weren’t ordinary at all.

There was no real sense of being able to stop the world and grieve.

Life was carrying on outside, even though ours had changed.

And then there was dementia.

Watching someone you love gradually become less like the person you remember is a particular kind of heartbreak. There are losses along the way that nobody really prepares you for. Little things disappear. Memories. Conversations. Familiarity. And sometimes you find yourself grieving someone who is still sitting in front of you.

By the time Dad died, there had already been so many little deaths.

And then he was actually gone.

New Year’s Eve feels like such a strange day for a death. Everyone else was talking about new beginnings, celebrations and looking forward to the year ahead. And I was trying to take in the fact that my dad had died.

There was something very lonely about that.

Dad loved being outside. He loved his garden. He could potter away happily, noticing things, tending things, being outdoors. He could also spend an extraordinary amount of time waiting for a glimpse of an elusive curlew.

I think about that quite a lot. His curlew rests on my arm in ink.

The patience of it. The watching. The being prepared to wait for something you might or might not see.

So walking 62 miles feels strangely fitting.

I’ll be outside. I’ll have time to think. I’ll notice things. I’ll probably talk to Dad in my head. And hopefully, somewhere along the way, there’ll be a curlew.

There will definitely be tired legs.

And probably some moaning.

But I want to do this because I can.

Because I have the freedom to put my boots on and walk out of the door.

And because if I can turn something that feels difficult for me into something that might make life a little easier for another family living with dementia, then it feels worth doing.

So, Dad, this one’s for you.

62 miles in October. One foot in front of the other.

And if you’d like to sponsor me, I’d be incredibly grateful.

Every donation will be part of those miles. 💜

 

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