You Were Meant To ‘Plumb It’ Not Plummet!

My father is always busy. He’s the sort that has to be doing something all the time. I used to resent this. I used to be jealous that he was too busy to give me some attention, that there was always something else that took priority. I was also feeling a little guilty too I think, because I could very easily find excuses to do nothing. I’d sleep all day or fritter away hours on frippery and frolics. I harboured these feelings of resentment and guilt for many years and then one day I had an epiphany. I realised why my father ‘is’ the way he ‘is’ and why my feelings in this regard are immaterial and that I should cherish every moment that dad is still around no matter how he chooses to spend them.

When I was about seven years old my father fell from the roof of our house. Now, if we’d lived in a bungalow this wouldn’t have been such a serious thing. As it happened we lived in a two storey semi-detached (two houses under one roof) at that time; which means he fell a total of about 20 feet (about 6.5 meters).

When it happened we weren’t around. My mother had taken myself, and my younger brother and sister on one of her fortnightly weekend visits to our grandparents, about 90 miles (almost two hours drive away) in Highcliffe near to Bournemouth on the south coast of England.

Dad, ever mindful of the needs of his family, had been installing ‘modern’ central heating for the first time. This was 1972 and up until then we’d heated the house by using a coal-fire in the winter. I can just about remember the coalman coming to fill up the coal bunkers at the rear of the garage. Although I was quite young, sometimes my mother would ask me to fill the coal scuttle and I’d have to venture outside and use the coal scoop to shovel coal into an old copper scuttle and struggle back to the house with it full to the brim.

My father was almost finished installing central heating when he fell. I know this because at the time of the accident he was about to insert a flue liner into the chimney. This is the part that enables all the hot gases from the central heating boiler to escape into the atmosphere. He was working alone which is never advisable when there are ladders and heights involved. At the very least he should have had someone else there to help stabilise the ladder as he climbed up onto the roof, but of course being my independent and over-confident father; he didn’t.

He had struggled up the ladder carrying the flue liner which was wrapped around his torso and one shoulder. Getting up onto the roof he’d then walked carefully up the roof tiles towards the chimney. Once the chimney was in reach he’d grabbed hold of one of the bricks that formed the top of the chimney to pull him further towards the apex from where he’d be able to work, legs astride the ridge tiles. The mortar around that brick must’ve been loose and the brick couldn’t take the strain he’d put upon it. That brick gave way and at that precise moment the future for my family became completely uncertain.

The shock and impetus caused him to lose his balance and he then tumbled down the steep roof tiles and clear off the roof to the garden below. Several neighbours stated that they heard a massive thump when he hit the ground. My father is a big man, much like myself, and it was later confirmed by the doctors that this was one of the factors which subsequently saved his life. Had he been a smaller man he might not have made it.
What happened next is uncertain. My father was thankfully unconscious, so he can’t remember, but one of the neighbours must have telephoned for an ambulance and my father was eventually taken to the local hospital. I have no idea how my mother was informed but somehow she received a telephone call in Highcliffe and then drove like the proverbial ‘bat out of hell’ to the hospital.

I have a vague recollection of that journey. My mother’s car at the time was a dark green Morris Traveller with a meagre 1000cc engine, but I can remember that nobody could overtake her in her haste to get to my father. She had her foot down the whole way home.

My father was in a very bad way. He’d crushed a couple of vertebrae, smashed up his pelvis and his left hand and wrist (which had, thank goodness, broken his fall) were completely mangled. He was lucky to be alive and also lucky not to be paralysed. When I was finally allowed to visit him, which wasn’t for several days afterwards, all I can remember seeing were lots of white bandages swathing him and several wires and weights from the traction system. He wasn’t very coherent though; pumped full of pain killers and tranquillisers most likely. I remember having a joy in my heart that he was still alive and, at the same time, being terribly worried that he might have to stay in hospital forever. It wasn’t easy for a seven year old to comprehend what was going on but obviously I’d picked up on the vibes from my mum and other family members and their concern was palpable.

My father was in hospital for many, many weeks. He had several operations to fix his pelvis and vertebrae and yet more micro-surgery to try to give him a functional left hand. How my mother coped with three kids and all the added stress and worry alone during that time I’ll never know. The only bonus was that it wasn't quite winter yet and thank goodness we didn’t need the central heating system as it was still fairly mild.

Eventually my father made a full recovery and after several months convalescence including a family holiday in Morocco he returned to work. To this day he still bears the scars, both mental and physical, from that incident. It was several years before he could use his left hand properly except for just his forefinger and thumb and he still has a fear of ladders. Yet these are the only things you might notice today to betray that course of events so long ago now.

I personally don’t remember that time as being particularly stressful or a hardship in any way. My mother managed admirably and with the help of friends, relatives and neighbours we all seemed to pull through. I don’t dare to think what may have happened had things gone differently that day. If the neighbours hadn’t heard the thump or the ambulance hadn’t arrived on time or my father was a smaller more feeble man. Maybe my brother, sister and I would have grown up without a father and we wouldn’t have enjoyed the many years and good times we’ve had together since. Perhaps dad is also aware of that too, and that is why he chooses to fill every moment with the things that he deems important. When you come that close to having it all taken away, I think everything takes on a greater value and becomes more urgent.

It got me thinking recently about how everything can change in an instant and that we should truly live each day as if it were our last because we never really know that it won’t be. In the matter of a fleeting moment circumstances can be changed forever and the ripples can radiate out to affect the lives of others in ways that we can’t imagine. A momentary lapse of concentration could change your own and others lives irredeemably forever. It is so important to remain fully aware in each moment. To wholly appreciate every second we are alive and to use that time wisely. Not to become distracted by the ‘what ifs’ of the future or the ‘whys’ of the past. The past cannot be changed and the future cannot be known. If we can remain completely focussed on each single moment and concentrate on getting that right then the future will naturally take care of itself.

We are so complacent about time. We procrastinate here and dawdle there. We allow ourselves to become distracted by folly and fritter hours away in torpor in front of computers and TV screens. We are so extravagant with time in the belief that we always have decades in reserve. We live constantly with the feeling that there’s invariably tomorrow, that there perpetually will be more time. But what if there isn’t? What if we knew exactly how much we had left, would we remain so wasteful and so oblivious to it? I have now resolved to become more mindful that each moment is precious and that I should treat it that way…..just like my dad.

Carpe diem!