Father's Day falls on my birthday this year. One week later, it will be exactly ten years since my dad died. A whole decade. It still catches me off guard - even writing this article only one line in and I have found myself with a lump in my throat.
My dad died very unexpectedly, having a heart attack whilst playing football. It was a horribly traumatic experience. I was very close with my dad and we spent a lot of time together, mostly in some way or another related to football or cricket. My dad was also my outsourced moral compass, helping me navigate my career as a lawyer and knock me into shape when needed.
When my dad died, I inherited things I did not know my father had possessed – not assets, but obligations! I took over as the chairman of my football club (a role my dad had held for many decades), I helped organise and ultimately sell my dad’s business and most unexpectedly I became the voice of reason in my family (not that my mum or sister would agree with that statement!). I had long been a lawyer advising clients on how to deal with their businesses, families, estates and alike, but I had never really looked closer to home.
How we deal with grief
The Jewish traditions around death are something I found very comforting and familiar. The funeral taking place as quickly as possible (in our case within 36 hours). The Shiva lasting 7 days where family, friends and the community surrounded around us, waited on us hand and foot, cooked, cleaned and cared for us. The period of mourning lasting 30 days where not shaving and being generally “unkempt” is a physical sign of intense grief. The mourning prayers being recited for almost a year and the memorial prayer on the anniversary of the death each year. I found comfort in tradition, but then the traditions ran out.
Once a year has gone by, everyone expects you to be fine and just get on with your life. To be honest, they expect that after a few months. But seldom is that the case for the person grieving.
A friend of my dad’s told me grief was like a beautiful painting hung in your house. At first there are prints of the painting in every single room, on every single wall and you can’t fail to see it every minute of every day. After a while, the prints are taken down and the original hangs proudly in the living room to be seen multiple times a day. As more time passes, the painting is moved to a spare bedroom and is seen every so often. As the years roll by the painting is moved into the loft room storage and only seen a few times a year when you’re searching for something or getting the suitcases down for a holiday. Each time you see the painting, the emotions you feel are of the same intensity as the first time you saw it, all that changes with time is the frequency you see the painting.
Ten years down the line, the painting isn’t quite in the loft room yet, but the intensity certainly hasn’t diminished.
What I know now
I spend much of my working life advising clients on succession planning, orderly and tax-efficient transfers of assets and businesses and passing down responsibilities from one generation to the next. The irony is not lost on me that, when my dad died, we were not as prepared as we should have been.
Whilst it was not “as bad” as it could have been, my dad had not updated his will for a number of years. His will included tax planning that was outdated and had to be unwound, his executors were historic and I doubt reflected his wishes at the point of his death. Fortunately, my mum, sister and I were able to resolve all these issues between us very easily as we are a close knit family, but what if we hadn’t? Would my dad have wanted his family to fall out over his lack of planning?
If there is one piece of professional wisdom I have drawn from personal loss, it is that succession planning is not morbid. It is an act of love. It is the final piece of good parenting by making sure that your departure causes as little chaos as possible for the people you leave behind.
Ten Years On
My dad would have been bemused to find himself the subject of a newsletter article. He was a private man in the best sense; generous with his time, sparing with his words, and allergic to self-promotion. But I write this because Father's Day, for those of us with an empty chair at the table, can be a lonely business.
If reading this encourages even one person to pick up the phone and have the succession planning conversation they have been putting off (or even to just ring their family to check in), then my dad would have approved.
