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You were lying on the floor when I got there. I thought you were dead. Your eyes were closed, your skin grey and waxy, your face frozen in a grimace.
Then you blinked and gasped, defying that crushing weight on your chest.
"He'll be right," said one of the paramedics as they slid you into the back of the ambulance a few minutes later. I doubted it. I didn't even think you'd make it to the hospital. I should have realised it would take more than a decent heart attack to kill the toughest bastard I've known.
Don't think I've ever told you that, have I? That I consider you tough? You'd probably scoff and point out how often I've seen you weep, or glimpsed fear in your eyes, or heard panic and self-doubt in your voice.
But tough is often the word I think about when I think about you. Not rough or insensitive. You've got your share of anxieties, like everyone. But they've never weakened you. You're tough in the old-fashioned way. Resilient. Durable.
Remember when I asked you to show me around the orphanage in which you grew up? I'd heard many of your stories. Not all of them, of course. You kept the biggest one secret for a long time. But I wanted to walk in your shoes, to discover what it was like for a kid with a stutter and a severe haircut to have no choice but to accept the bluestone walls of that godforsaken place as his home.
I wanted to see the old dining area where that boy you often talked about went through his daily ritual; hunched over the table, eyes darting nervously, gulping down every meal so fast he barely chewed, his spare hand closely guarding his plate, shielding it in case someone tried to steal his food.
I wanted to see where that bandmaster, that priest with a fierce temper, struck you so hard for playing the wrong note on your trumpet that he perforated your ear drum.
I wanted to see the dormitory where you and dozens of other boys slept each night, some heavily, others always listening out for that menacing sound of adult footsteps shuffling their way.
When we visited the orphanage it had turned into a private girl's school. Its principal kindly left us alone to wander its halls. You were confused at first; the renovations had transformed its once stern interior, making it warmer, almost unrecognisable. But you soon found your bearings, pointing out familiar places, even smiling at some of the memories.
And then we came to that door. That door with a lock. God knows how many times it had been repainted and rehinged. But you still knew that door. You remembered how it felt every damned week, year after year, when the orphanage's superintendent took you by the hand and led you through it.
How could you forget the sound of it being locked from the inside? Or how he insisted, before he moved toward you and the abuse began again, that he wanted you to think of him as the father you'd never had?
You stared at that door and began crying. When I asked what was wrong, you shook your head. You'd seen enough, you said. That was all. You wanted to go home.
It took a few more years before you finally revealed the secret behind that door. You'd kept it to yourself for more than half a century. That required a real toughness, too; fighting the shame, trying to blunt the anxieties and drown the memories. Then you had to relive it - again and again - for the lawyers.
So don't go telling me you're not tough. Yeah, I know. You can barely bend over far enough these days to put on your shoes. Your prostate gives you hell. And without those new hearing aids you'd be deaf as a post. But you're still tough because you need to be.
Mum has diabetes and Parkinson's dementia. You're doing everything you can to keep her at home with you and away from full-time care. You get up early so you can prepare breakfast before a nurse arrives. You wash the clothes. Get the groceries. Prepare the evening meal. Make sure she takes her medication before you take yours.
And when I call these days both of you are always on the couch next to each other, her hand in yours, exhausted after battling through another day.
Happy Father's Day, Dad. You tough old bastard.
HAVE YOUR SAY: Does Father's Day mean anything to you? Did you grow up without a father, or did you have one who was a great influence on you? Do we undervalue the role fathers play? Email us: echidna@theechidna.com.au
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IN CASE YOU MISSED IT:
- Australia's consumer watchdog has launched court action against Qantas for allegedly selling tickets to more than 8000 flights the airline had already cancelled. The Australian Competition and Consumer Commission alleges the airline engaged in false, misleading or deceptive conduct following an investigation into Qantas' flight cancellation practices.
- Hamish Blake has been named Australian Father of the Year 2023 as a "dedicated advocate for fellow dads". The famous dad to Sonny and Rudy is also a Gold Logie winner, TV personality, comedian and podcaster.
- Almost one in three are struggling to get by on their current income, leaving them increasingly distressed and disenchanted with the country's direction, an ANU study has found. More than 30 per cent of people are finding it difficult or very difficult to live on their current income, with the financial pain deepest among those 54 years and younger.
THEY SAID IT: "When I was 18 I thought my father was pretty dumb. After a while, when I got to be 21, I was amazed to find out how much he'd learned in three years." - Frank Butler
YOU SAID IT: From politicians in high-vis to old blokes in skinny jeans, from novelty ties to Joe Dirt mullets, fashion crimes are committed daily.
Olivia writes: "Having just returned from Japan and admiring the young, fit and beautifully garbed Japanese, I returned beachside to Oz girls baring their bums with string crack derrieres. Not a good look."
"Geez Echidna, you're really starting to sound like a grumpy old fart," writes Alan. "I'm 72 and very narrow-minded but even I don't go on like you have. Pollies in high-vis is the new 'man of the people' look they wish to portray. It's just another repercussion of the New World that we live in today. Just chill and smell the roses! Put on your boobs apron and chuck another snag on on the barbie."
Jennifer confesses: "In the early 1980s I turned my natural straight hair shoulder length bob into a ghastly poodle perm. Teamed it with a long red off-the-shoulder tunic top gathered into a knot on one hip and skintight black shiny trousers. Ready to go clubbing!"
Rosemary, 75, says she's paying for wearing two-inch stilettos on her feet with stockings every day of her working life. "Always a suit or twinset together with a briefcase. Now paying with nightmare feet."
Stephanie writes: "For me, it's ripped jeans, I just don't get it at all, why pay an exorbitant price for clothes that have holes in them? I have to own up to having a couple of pairs of jeans which are a little frayed and very faded but it's from years of wearing them while working on my property and the thought of heading into town in them, well it just wouldn't happen!"
"Pollies wearing hard hats and high-vis jackets are good for a laugh amongst otherwise generally dismal news," writes Arthur. "Television was in its infancy when I was at university and radio was still supreme. Stiletto heels were banned by the university due to the damage they did to floor coverings. We all wore ties at lectures and practical classes. It never occurred to us to try anything different."
Chas writes: "Another really good one, John, which has left me nothing to add; other than polies in their high-vis, hard hats and hands on hips standing in the middle of similarly attired company executives has always evoked childhood memories of playing cowboys and Indians dressed in my little birthday present Hopalong Cassidy cowboy outfit, clutching my water pistol and feeling like the real deal! The only thing missing were the Indians and the cows."
"Love The Echidna," writes Elizabeth. "If I was rich enough to own a male football club, I would ban tattoos almost completely! I don't see the need to cover themselves in ink. The odd tattoo in memory of a loved one would be the limit."
Sue writes: "Without doubt, my most disliked fashion statement is the Y Generation. I am not talking about an age group here. I am talking about the practice of wearing those, generally baggy, shorts and the underwear that I hope goes with them, so low that the Y shape is easily visible from the rear, with not even the frequently hairy accompaniment disguising it. At this level, the view from the front isn't particularly pleasant either. I find pollies wearing high-vis rather boring. It may have been good publicity once, but that wore out even before Scotty from Marketing tried to cash in on it. My own fashion faux pas? Legion! I caught a lift to a formal dinner at uni on the back of a motor bike and the slit at the back of my dress became significantly higher than it should have, but it was the days of mini skirts and I had skirts which were higher still."