On the day of my dad’s funeral, when I was 13 years old, I was not allowed to go. This was probably a good thing because no doubt I’d have become hysterical and made all the other guests uncomfortable.
However, my aunt took me and my friend Anne to see a film that evening as a ‘treat’. Unfortunately the film chosen was ‘Star Trek: the Wrath of Khan.’
As we all now know, this film includes the tragic and heroic death of Mr Spock, followed by a long and heart-breaking funeral.
Imagine how I felt. I was 13 years old, my dad had been buried that day after a long and desperate battle with leukaemia.
I was too polite and shy to stand up and walk out, and anyway, I’d have been told off by my aunt, or another adult. Even if I’d managed to escape the pain, I may have walked out of the cinema and gone under a bus. I really didn’t care if I lived or died just then.
I was too embarrassed, at age 13 with my adolescence creeping up on me, to cry or show my feelings. And anyway if I’d started crying, I might never have stopped.
So I sat there, silently being tortured, my aunt and friend not realising, until the awful death scene and funeral were over.
How much I’d needed to see a bright, cheery film on the day of my dad’s funeral, to soothe me and possibly cheer me up just a tiny bit.
But Fate in its wisdom decided to play a cruel trick and force me to watch the worst film possible for a 13 year old girl who had just lost her Daddy that day.
Spock, the beloved character. Daddy, my beloved Daddy.
Linked forever on that awful funeral day.