On 5th October 2014, Andrew Boodhun, my Dad, woke to the silent glow of sunlight leaking through his bedroom curtains; a golden invitation to a lazy Sunday. He'd retired from his 30 year Civil Service job earlier that Spring and had almost begun to remember what lie ins felt like again- his internal alarm clock slowly rewiring itself after 45 years of 6am starts to a more civilised 9am. Mum's side of the bed lay empty- she'd gone to work earlier that morning and had left him sleeping rather than risk waking him with a goodbye kiss. She'd see him when she got home later that night and they'd chat about their days while X Factor played on TV.

Their golden retriever Sam had no time for lie ins (or subtlety) however- Dad would soon be greeted to the sound of Sam's paws gently but persistently tapping against the other side of the bedroom door while grumbling loudly for attention. A golden retriever waiting for a walk is the pass agg equivalent of someone sighing hot breath into the back of your neck in a post office queue...

Dad climbed out of bed and opened the door to be greeted by a wagging tail and slobbered socks (‘Silly boy!’ he would say in his Mauritian/ Northern hybrid accent as he tried to prise the socks from Sam’s mouth). He headed downstairs to make a cup of coffee which he would drink while smoking his usual morning cigarette in the doorway to the garden shed, occasionally telling Sam to be quiet for barking at passing dogs and inspecting his potted flowers with a critical eye to see which ones needed watering that evening. Ten minutes later he took Sam out on their usual route around the neighbourhood; saying hello to familiar dog walkers and enjoying the final balmy hints of summer before Autumn prepared to bluster its way in on crisp winds and wet leaves. 

Once back home Dad made a breakfast of biscuits for Sam and toast for himself; Sam wolfing his own down in seconds before sitting patiently at Dad's feet waiting to catch any projectile scraps of crust that would be thrown his way now and then. 

Dad continued his day as normal; he walked over to the local shopping centre to put bets on some horse races running later that day (a favourite hobby of his), and once back he made a sandwich for lunch (eggs made omelette style with fried onions, curry powder and chilli in between buttered bread). After lunch he spent some time in the front garden planting bulbs for next Spring, again saying hello to the odd passing neighbour, before strolling down to my brother's house in the next street with some strawberries for my two year old niece Ella to eat (her favourite). My brother's wife and my two niece's were out, so instead Dad chatted to my brother about football for a few minutes and left the strawberries on the bench for Ella to eat when she returned later. 

Around 3pm Dad took Sam for one last final walk in the early October sunshine. He strolled down to the field where Sam liked chasing the occasional pigeon, and again waved to a couple of neighbours as he passed. He’d recently bought an MP3 player from Argos (capacity: 50 songs. This was hi tech for dad), and enjoyed listening to Bollywood music on his way round. 

They arrived back home around 3.30pm, and after refilling Sam’s water bowl Dad sat down to watch the horse races he'd bet on earlier that day as Sam lay resting in the kitchen. 

Then around 4pm, sitting in his favourite chair, he died from a cardiac arrest. 

What none of us knew, including Dad, was that he had chronic coronary heart disease. The valve providing blood to his heart was so clogged with plaque that when a torch was shone through it, only a pin prick of light would make it through to the other side. We're told he would have died instantly; his heart would have suddenly stopped beating and he would have lost consciousness almost immediately. Even if someone had been with him to try and help, the chances of him surviving were only 6% outside of hospital. 

Dad walked without losing breath, still ran for busses and by all appearances was a healthy 65 year old. None of us, himself included, had any idea that the 5th October 2014 would be the last day of his life. None of us got the chance to say goodbye. 

It's been almost five years since the day that Dad’s heart stopped beating. Mum is now the one who wakes up to slobbered socks and a grumbling golden retriever. Ella still loves strawberries, but she was too young then to now remember the man who once left a bowl of them on the kitchen bench for her. I make a lot of the Mauritian meals that Dad used to cook and still find myself occasionally thinking to ask him how much of a certain ingredient I need to put in a sauce before realising I can’t. Life goes on, the grief lessens, but the imprint of that person stays with you as you make your way through your own days.  

I'm now having what you could describe as a quarter life crisis (if you're being kind), or a mid life crisis (if you want to be permanently deleted from my friend's list). What does a quarter life crisis look like? 

A HALF MARATHON!!!! 

(weeps)

In four weeks I'll be floundering my way along the Tyne Bridge and hoping to sweatily caress Ant or Dec's palms as I cross the start line for the Great North Run. Those who know me will be aware that the closest I've come to exercise in the last few years has been recreating the dance routine to Stop by the Spice Girls after three ciders. This is a Big. Deal. 

Last week I finished Couch to 5k, which is a 9 week programme. I started it 8 months ago. Sarah Millican guided me through it and called me ‘pet’ a lot. This weekend I ran 10k. I called myself ‘pet’ a lot. My feet hate me. My calves want to be transplanted into someone else’s body. I have never done anything like this before and I'm terrified.  

I'm running for a charity which is close to me heart (excuse the pun); the British Heart Foundation. The BHF has helped halve the number of people dying from heart and circulatory disease in the UK, but every day hundreds of people die like Dad did- their days and lives ending abruptly alone in sitting rooms, surrounded by strangers on public transport or in their sleep. Often there are no goodbyes or last I love you's. No more Sunday lie ins and golden Autumn walks. 

Heart disease kills almost 74,000 people in the UK each year. It's the second highest cause of death after cancer, and so much is still unknown about it. The BHF is doing some fantastic work to help create new treatments and discover new cures. £24 could pay for two hours of research by an early career scientist, so I’m aiming to raise £288; a full 24 hours of research. If I’m lucky enough to get that number up to 48 hours of research, then wow. 72 hours? My ravaged feet and joints will love you all forever. Any amount you can donate would be massively appreciated- £1, £2 or £5, it all goes into the pot and helps in so many ways. 

I miss Dad every day. He was clever, funny and kind. He wasn’t the best at expressing his feelings, but he would often communicate his love through food, and the meals he made me remain some of the best I’ve eaten in my life, I’ve been writing about him and the experience of losing him here if you’d like to know more about him: 

https://griefhistoryofmine.home.blog

I’ll see you at the finish line! If someone could be there waiting with a G&T and 12 Wispa Gold bars that would be great. 

Thanks,

Steve x