Edward Szymczuk (22.03.1919 – 12.01.2011)
My dad was not famous.
My dad was no-one special.
My dad had not lived as a movie or rock star.
My dad was not even academic or well read.
My dad was was so much more than any of these, he was after all MY DAD.
My dad as a boy grew up in a Poland, who then became a teacher.
My dad was captured by the Russians in his homeland and carried off into a cold and bitter Siberian camp for no apparent reason other than being a Polish soldier at the outbreak of war.
My dad was released by these very same captors when Russia joined the allies, and then along with hundreds of fellow countrymen, walked that epic journey from Siberia to Palestine, mile after thousand mile, all on foot.
My dad made it to Palestine and fought with a some of his countrymen in an army in exile for the liberation of his beloved home from the Nazi occupation.
My dad trained to became a Paratrooper, fighting for the British and learned the way of war.
My dad swam the cold deadly Rhine at night when asked to do so, to deliver radio communication to his allied brothers in arms.
My dad crawled on his belly up the steep sheer slopes of Monte Casino while all around him were dying, crying and lying, many who had tried and so many who had died, but he was one of the lucky ones to reach the top where he cried.
My dad was given a choice after this war of wars, to return home to await possible death in a country no longer his, or perhaps America to start afresh, but instead chose England who, when all others ignored his country’s plight gave no thought but to come to his country’s aid and go to war against this injustice of Hitler.
My dad met and married his polish wife, in a German town, who herself was just a girl taken from her beloved mother and her Polish roots and had spent her youth and adult years on foreign German soil.
My dad rejoiced when his first son and daughter were born, in a German land now quiet and defeated.
My dad brought his new wife and my elder brother and my elder sister into this new land, this England, this foreign land, for the chance to start afresh.
My dad lived with his wife and children, in a temporary wooden house amongst fellow countryman who had also chosen to stay in this new and free land.
My dad one night cycled to his makeshift home to find it on fire, everything they owned except the ones he loved, perished that night in that fire, a fire I think, scared him more than he would show in the years that followed.
My dad took up work as a coal miner where a house and a wage was assured to feed his young family and coal was given freely to warm their souls.
My dad applied and was given British citizenship, and was proud to hold his head up high in a land he had adopted and loved as his own, though he never forgot his roots.
My dad learned to speak English word by word with a purity and clarity beyond his own expectations, and excelled in this new tongue enough to make him confident enough to write a book (sadly never published) on mathematics and the use of a slide rule in his new learned tongue.
My dad was joyous when I was eventually born, the first in his new homeland, followed a few years later by my younger sister.
My dad cried when his first daughter, my sister was accidentally knocked to the ground by a truck and nearly lost her leg in the local town, who instead spent a lifetime on medication which effected her abilities to lead a normal life like other teenagers in her class.
My dad watched and cried with his wife as they buried his first daughter, my sister, in a ground cold and hard, who had her life taken short by a madman’s blade in an crazy act of murder.
My dad watched and cried as several years later, he buried his wife in that same cemetery next to his daughter in a land he now called his home.
My dad was a proud man and lived alone for many years, getting older and developed a stoop, but said little more than I cannot grumble, when asked if he would like to live his remaining days with one of his sons, politely declined for his wish, you see, was to see his final days in his house he called home.
My dad fell down one day in the kitchen and couldn’t get up, old as he was, he lay until a kind neighbour who always called discovered his plight.
My dad was taken to hospital to try and get him better and possibly return home to his house and friends.
My dad caught pneumonia, becoming frail, so ever frail and lost so much weight he could ill afford to do so.
My dad, it was agreed by consultants and carers that his future should be spent in a nursing home where he could be properly cared for by nurses and staff, in hopes that he would enjoy his limelight years and maybe have a quality of life so justly deserved.
My dad was due to move into his new home, which was ready and waiting with a shiny new TV and a comfortable bed and nurses, were provided for his every need, when in the early hours of the 12th of January 2011 he had a relapse and was rushed into the MAU (Medical Admissions Unit) at the local hospital.
My dad was rushed into a room awaiting my presence as I drove like a madman to the hospital where he lay through the early hours of a winters morning with only the stare of bewildered rabbits along the edge of the road to watch me on my journey.
My dad was waiting, when the doctor attended took me aside and informed me that my dad had only hours left, they could do nothing more but make him comfortable, until his time came.
My dad lay on his bed with eyes half open and unable to speak, I called his name, again and again, and held his thin small hand as his breathing become shallower and shallower. I watched as the seconds and minutes crawled in slow motion, I saw my father stop breathing, once then twice but after the third time he breathed no more.
My dad lay still, never moving, his hand in my hand getting colder and his eyes closed.
My dad was finally at peace I thought and hopefully was looking for the wife and daughter, my sister, he missed, to catch up on tales to be told and life renewed.
My dad died that morning on the 12th of January at 5.16am on a quiet winter’s morning in a small hospital room with only me his son by his side.
My dad will be missed, will be remembered and will never be forgotten, all I hope for, is that I too am lucky enough to have a son or daughter to hold my hand on a cold and quiet morning when all is still and my heart beats no more.
Goodbye Dad
My dad was not famous.
My dad was no-one special.
My dad had not lived as a movie or rock star.
My dad was not even academic or well read.
My dad was was so much more than any of these, he was after all MY DAD.
My dad as a boy grew up in a Poland, who then became a teacher.
My dad was captured by the Russians in his homeland and carried off into a cold and bitter Siberian camp for no apparent reason other than being a Polish soldier at the outbreak of war.
My dad was released by these very same captors when Russia joined the allies, and then along with hundreds of fellow countrymen, walked that epic journey from Siberia to Palestine, mile after thousand mile, all on foot.
My dad made it to Palestine and fought with a some of his countrymen in an army in exile for the liberation of his beloved home from the Nazi occupation.
My dad trained to became a Paratrooper, fighting for the British and learned the way of war.
My dad swam the cold deadly Rhine at night when asked to do so, to deliver radio communication to his allied brothers in arms.
My dad crawled on his belly up the steep sheer slopes of Monte Casino while all around him were dying, crying and lying, many who had tried and so many who had died, but he was one of the lucky ones to reach the top where he cried.
My dad was given a choice after this war of wars, to return home to await possible death in a country no longer his, or perhaps America to start afresh, but instead chose England who, when all others ignored his country’s plight gave no thought but to come to his country’s aid and go to war against this injustice of Hitler.
My dad met and married his polish wife, in a German town, who herself was just a girl taken from her beloved mother and her Polish roots and had spent her youth and adult years on foreign German soil.
My dad rejoiced when his first son and daughter were born, in a German land now quiet and defeated.
My dad brought his new wife and my elder brother and my elder sister into this new land, this England, this foreign land, for the chance to start afresh.
My dad lived with his wife and children, in a temporary wooden house amongst fellow countryman who had also chosen to stay in this new and free land.
My dad one night cycled to his makeshift home to find it on fire, everything they owned except the ones he loved, perished that night in that fire, a fire I think, scared him more than he would show in the years that followed.
My dad took up work as a coal miner where a house and a wage was assured to feed his young family and coal was given freely to warm their souls.
My dad applied and was given British citizenship, and was proud to hold his head up high in a land he had adopted and loved as his own, though he never forgot his roots.
My dad learned to speak English word by word with a purity and clarity beyond his own expectations, and excelled in this new tongue enough to make him confident enough to write a book (sadly never published) on mathematics and the use of a slide rule in his new learned tongue.
My dad was joyous when I was eventually born, the first in his new homeland, followed a few years later by my younger sister.
My dad cried when his first daughter, my sister was accidentally knocked to the ground by a truck and nearly lost her leg in the local town, who instead spent a lifetime on medication which effected her abilities to lead a normal life like other teenagers in her class.
My dad watched and cried with his wife as they buried his first daughter, my sister, in a ground cold and hard, who had her life taken short by a madman’s blade in an crazy act of murder.
My dad watched and cried as several years later, he buried his wife in that same cemetery next to his daughter in a land he now called his home.
My dad was a proud man and lived alone for many years, getting older and developed a stoop, but said little more than I cannot grumble, when asked if he would like to live his remaining days with one of his sons, politely declined for his wish, you see, was to see his final days in his house he called home.
My dad fell down one day in the kitchen and couldn’t get up, old as he was, he lay until a kind neighbour who always called discovered his plight.
My dad was taken to hospital to try and get him better and possibly return home to his house and friends.
My dad caught pneumonia, becoming frail, so ever frail and lost so much weight he could ill afford to do so.
My dad, it was agreed by consultants and carers that his future should be spent in a nursing home where he could be properly cared for by nurses and staff, in hopes that he would enjoy his limelight years and maybe have a quality of life so justly deserved.
My dad was due to move into his new home, which was ready and waiting with a shiny new TV and a comfortable bed and nurses, were provided for his every need, when in the early hours of the 12th of January 2011 he had a relapse and was rushed into the MAU (Medical Admissions Unit) at the local hospital.
My dad was rushed into a room awaiting my presence as I drove like a madman to the hospital where he lay through the early hours of a winters morning with only the stare of bewildered rabbits along the edge of the road to watch me on my journey.
My dad was waiting, when the doctor attended took me aside and informed me that my dad had only hours left, they could do nothing more but make him comfortable, until his time came.
My dad lay on his bed with eyes half open and unable to speak, I called his name, again and again, and held his thin small hand as his breathing become shallower and shallower. I watched as the seconds and minutes crawled in slow motion, I saw my father stop breathing, once then twice but after the third time he breathed no more.
My dad lay still, never moving, his hand in my hand getting colder and his eyes closed.
My dad was finally at peace I thought and hopefully was looking for the wife and daughter, my sister, he missed, to catch up on tales to be told and life renewed.
My dad died that morning on the 12th of January at 5.16am on a quiet winter’s morning in a small hospital room with only me his son by his side.
My dad will be missed, will be remembered and will never be forgotten, all I hope for, is that I too am lucky enough to have a son or daughter to hold my hand on a cold and quiet morning when all is still and my heart beats no more.
Goodbye Dad
