Brian Hamilton (1950~2022)

*My dad and myself at my nephew’s wedding earlier this year.*

To me he was pappa H. To others he was Bri or Hammo. But most of all, I knew him best as dad.

The past few weeks have been so hard since he passed away. I keep trying to find the words, the right words, to tell people what he meant to me, to tell his story, but I find that no matter what I put they’re not the right words. There’s always something missing, something important that’s lacking.

So here I am, trying again.

My dad meant the world to me. As boys we look to our fathers for direction and I was no different. My dad was a miner who loved Sunderland FC and tinkering around with his car and I was…… pretty much the opposite of that. But we shared some common moments that would shape me for many years.

Like most kids in the seventies my dad took me to the cinema to see “Star Wars”, a film that would start my journey into geekdom. The were others too that we shared like “Tron”, “Raiders of the Lost Ark” and “The Empire Strikes Back”. We’d watch Godzilla films of TV and old Hammer horror films. When you could start renting videos we’d discover others such as “Escape From New York”, “The Thing”, “Mad Max” and so many more.

*Family Times – my sister Susan, dad and myself*

I would listen to the albums he had lying around the house. There may not have been many but the quality of them were beyond compare. It was here that I learned the grit of The Who, the storytelling skills of Lindisfarne, the pomp of Queen and the musical muscle of Bad Company. The big one though was The Rolling Stones. His copy of “Hot Rocks” was played often. In fact, I finally ordered my own copy on vinyl just a few weeks ago, and I still get the same giddy thrill from it now as I did back then.

Despite a shared love of music he didn’t get to see me play properly until a few years ago. I was always something that confused me, so much so that it created a little bit of fiction in me. Like all sons I wanted his approval and blessing and I’d search for it for years. I finally got it when I started playing acoustic gigs on my own. I managed to get him to come to a show by using it as a fund raiser for the alzhiemers group he’d attend after his diagnosis of the condition.

He was diagnosed with early onset alzhiemers some ten years ago, something that would shape his latter years. Although he came from a community and generation that didn’t talk about things, my dad decided he would talk about this. I can’t begin to describe the feeling of hearing him talk about having suicidal thoughts after his initial diagnosis to his determination to educate and inform people. Alzhiemers wasn’t a death sentence to him, it was a reason to start living. He’d be interviewed in the press, he’d make public speeches to generate awareness, he’d mentor the newly diagnosed to show them that things were possible.

His approach to dealing with his alzhiemers is something that encouraged me in recognising my ongoing struggles with my own mental health. By encouraging me to talk about it I’ve been able to help others. This empowerment had helped foster a sense of community and support with others in a way that is a direct reflection of him. I will always be thankful to have him show me that sometimes the best way to tackle things is by taking away the power out can hold over you.

To be honest if you didn’t know he had it you wouldn’t have guessed. He still drove his car, he still took my stepmam for shopping and he’d still love to go to Sunderland football matches where being part of a crowd helped him. He’d also spend some time volunteering at Beamish Museum, an example of living history that he relished. There he could tinker with things and build chicken coops (side note, it amused him no end that one of the chickens was named Marie in a public vote, the name of my mam).

He still had a good relationship with my mam and stepdad. After they split up in the mid eighties they would still be friendly with each other. He’d help out fixing things at our new house as well as helping out wherever he could. He would be invited and attend family events which always caused some confusion to some. My parents just wanted to make sure that there was no animosity between them that could effect us in any way.

He was incredibly proud of his past as a miner. He would still try and get to the Miner’s Gala in Durham whenever he could. On the hearth of his home he has my grandad’s old Davey Lamp, something I have tattooed on the back of my left hand with the inscription “2024” which was his old pit number when he was younger.

In the end it wasn’t the alzhiemers that took him away from us, something we’re thankful for as it meant he got to keep his dignity something he’d worry about losing. Instead we were robbed of him by cancer. He was diagnosed with this just a few short months ago. I don’t think we really came to terms with it properly before he left us with covid speeding the situation on (only my dad could conrtact the virus for the first time after the pandemic of the last few years started to dwindle away).

The last couple of weeks has seen a lot of sadness. Grief is our way of saying we wanted and needed more time with our loved ones who are gone from our lives. What I wouldn’t give now for one more coffee or a pint of Stones over a game of pool together. Our hearts have been warmed though by the many stories we have of him. Some are sad, some are moving and others have made us laugh. All of them have shown us the depth of love people had for him which gives us a sense of pride in the legacy that remains.

I was lucky to have a final treasured moment with him just a short while ago. I’d been to visit and just before I left I remembered to tell him that I’d been able to play my first acoustic gig in four years to help celebrate a friend’s birthday. He grinned a huge lopsided grin (a great in itself as he didn’t have his false teeth in), hugged me hard and told me “when you’re doing better you make me feel better”. These simple words have helped me so much in the past few weeks. They’ve given me peace, comfort and solace, things I feel incredibly lucky to feel I’m these sad times.

Nothing I can say will help ease my pain. Nothing will help those moments when I sit here missing you. Time will act as a salve for the hurt, making it a little easier to live with. I don’t know where you are now but I do know that there’s a huge part of you living in my heart. I hope I can live up to your example. I hope I can help keep your legacy alive. I got that if you’re looking down on us you see the outpouring of love that’s meant for you and smile.

Goodnight Papa H, rest well. I’ll see you at some point further down my road so I can tell you one more time that I love you. I’m gong to miss you so much xxx