Memories of Mandy Flanagan’s late husband Paul fill the house they used to share. Pictures of him as a floppy-haired schoolboy, a handsome teenage rugby star, a newlywed, and a devoted dad, adorn the walls and window ledges of their country cottage.
But Paul, a teacher, who died of cancer at the age of 45 in November 2009, passionately believed his children, Thomas and Lucy — just five and one-and-half years old at the time — should have more than fading photographs to remember him by.
‘There was nothing more important to Paul than being the best father he could be,’ says Mandy, 44.
‘When he knew he was dying, there was no time for self-pity. He became absolutely focused on doing whatever he could to continue being a good dad to them throughout the years, even though he wouldn’t be here in person.’
He wrote them letters, filmed DVD messages, bought future birthday presents, and even filled a large chest with his favourite books.
‘Each book is accompanied by a note to Thomas and Lucy explaining why Paul loved it, and how much he hopes they will too when they’re old enough to read it,’ explains Mandy.
But perhaps Paul’s greatest gift to his wife and children was a document titled ‘On finding fulfilment’, which Mandy discovered on his laptop, by chance last month.
‘I opened it and, with tears rolling down my cheeks, I discovered his bullet-pointed code to living a good and happy life,’ says Mandy.
‘The list of 28 instructions for living a good life contained no empty platitudes; each one completely reflects the way that Paul lived his own life.
‘He was wise and brave and decent to the core, but I could never have found the words to sum him up so perfectly as he has himself.
'I can’t tell you what a comfort it is to know that our children will grow up with a real understanding of what made Paul, Paul.’
She adds: ‘It would have been our tenth wedding anniversary this year, and while we didn’t have a perfect marriage — lots of love and laughs, but lots of arguments too — I realised when I read his words that, when it came to the stuff that really matters in life, we were absolutely united.’
Addressing his children, who were too young to comprehend the tragedy that was unfolding, Paul writes: ‘In these last few weeks, following my terminal diagnosis, I have searched my soul and heart to find ways in which I can reach out to you as you grow up.
‘I’ve been thinking about the matters in life that are important, and the values and aspirations that make people happy and successful. In my view, and you may well have your own ideas by now, the formula is pretty simple.
‘The three most important virtues are: Loyalty, integrity and moral courage. If you aspire, friends will respect you, employers will retain you, and your father will be immensely proud of you.
‘I am therefore giving you several pieces of advice. These are the principles on which I have tried to build my life and they are exactly those that I would have encouraged you to embrace, had I been able to.
‘I love you very much. Never forget that.’
What follows is an extraordinary list of rules, which could enable us all to live better lives. It encompasses everything from the importance of table manners to the perils of gossiping and everything in between.
‘And it’s just so Paul!’ laughs Mandy today.
‘It makes me cry but it really makes me smile too.
‘He was an old-fashioned school-master and utterly meticulous when it came to manners. I’m obsessive over the kids’ “pleases and thank yous” because I know that Paul never let them get away with it.’
Mandy reads aloud from the list: ‘Be punctual … Show moral courage … Never, ever let a friend down … Well, that was Paul. He was maddeningly early for everything. He spoke up for what he felt was right, no matter how unpopular it might have made him. And I have never met anyone so loyal to their friends.
‘He also wrote that they should never give up, and he certainly never did. He fought so bravely, so courageously, right to the end.’
Paul was first diagnosed with skin cancer in 2004. A birthmark on his chest had become malignant, and was swiftly removed in November that year, when their son Thomas was just a few months old.
In January 2008, after years of regular check-ups, he was given the all-clear, when Mandy was expecting Lucy.
‘He was such a positive person, but he never allowed himself to believe that the cancer had been dealt with,’ says Mandy.
That May, a swelling appeared under Paul’s arm and specialists quickly confirmed his worst fears. The cancer had spread to the lymph glands in his arms, and was detected in his neck soon after. Surgery and radiotherapy did little to halt its progress. And, in March 2009, scans showed that the cancer had spread to his brain and his condition was terminal.
‘He never pitied himself,’ says Mandy. ‘The diagnosis, and perhaps the drugs he was on, triggered a sort of mania. He suddenly had so much energy. While I lay awake upstairs worrying, Paul would work through the nights, determined to get his affairs in order.’
He meticulously organised the family finances, arranged his own funeral, and even bought his own memorial bench for the grounds of Reigate Grammar School, where he had taught economics since 2003. He also set up a cricket team for all of his friends, who now play annual memorial matches to raise money for the Melanoma Foundation.
Over the weeks, piles of shoeboxes full of paperwork, hand-written letters and DVD messages for his family and friends took over the dining room.
And as his health deteriorated, Paul insisted that he and Mandy went shopping for Thomas and Lucy’s 18th and 21st birthday presents.
‘I wonder how we got through those days, but there’s a strange kind of adrenaline that just keeps you going,’ says Mandy.
‘You just want to do whatever feels right. We went to a jewellers in Spitalfields market in London to buy Lucy an eternity ring for her 21st.
‘When the woman at the counter asked: “Is it the right size?”, Paul and I just looked blankly at each other. “We don’t know,” I said.
‘She looked at Paul and saw how desperately ill he was. Then all three of us looked at Lucy sitting in her pushchair, completely oblivious to it all.’
Lucy was christened last summer. As a result, she has one godmother and nine godfathers — each a close friend of her father’s.
‘He wanted his friends to have a permanent tie to his family, I think,’ says Mandy. ‘And if Lucy couldn’t have her father, a fantastic team of godfathers was the very least she deserved.’
By the time Paul died — at home, eight months after his terminal diagnosis — Mandy felt certain that he would rest peacefully in the knowledge that he had left the best legacy that any father could.
‘When some people are told they have just a few months to live, they decide their life won’t be complete until they’ve bungee-jumped off Sydney Harbour Bridge or seen the Grand Canyon. But that wasn’t Paul. All that was important to him was right here.
‘He lived and died by his own rules, and I know he had found his own fulfilment.’
No comments:
Post a Comment