James FitzGerald - Bulletproof Investing

I had to get back to Queensland on the Sunday, but Hannah was planning to stay at Dad's place again that night and work in Melbourne on Monday. Dad must have told me three times that weekend how happy and proud he was that Hannah felt comfortable enough to stay without me. He assured me that he and his partner Maree would look after her. Maree would prepare one of her famous roast dinners!

At 3 am on Sunday I was jarred from a deep sleep by the sound of Dad's doorbell ringing. I hauled myself out of bed and answered the intercom, surprised to see a police officer on the security monitor. Once the officer had confirmed who I was, he asked me to come downstairs; he had something to tell me. The moment I set foot on the landing, the officer hit me with the news.

‘I'm sorry, James, but your father David passed away earlier this morning,’ the police sergeant told me without fanfare.

What? What? I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I was in such a state of shock, I didn't even think to ask the officer how Dad had died. I dropped to my knees, head in hands. I sat. I lay down. I got up. I sat down again. I was trying to process what I had been told, but none of it made any sense.

It would come to light that there was CCTV footage of Dad leaving the pub at 10.30 pm. His body was found just after midnight between the Burnley and Heyington train stations in Melbourne's eastern suburbs. He had been hit by a train. As far as they could tell he had been walking on the railway tracks. That was all they knew at that point. The Victorian forensics team was investigating.

I had a thousand unanswered questions swirling around in my head. What on earth was he doing out there? In the eastern suburbs? That was the opposite direction from where he should have been headed after leaving the pub. How did he even get onto the train tracks? Did he leave the pub with anyone? Was he murdered? Was it suicide? Dark thoughts started popping into my head.

The rest of the morning was a blur. Shortly after receiving the news, I made my way to my cousin Joel's house (he lived a couple of minutes away from Dad). My aunts, uncles and cousins from Melbourne joined me there. Then it suddenly dawned on me: I had to call my sister Simone — who also lived in Melbourne — and break the heart-wrenching news to her. I remember freezing at the thought of that conversation. How do you tell your sister such devastating news? The kind that takes you from being in total control to complete chaos in a split second. It was even worse when she answered the phone.

‘Monie, it's Dad — he's passed away. We're at Joel's house. You need to get here now,’ I told her, stuttering and stammering.

Simone was instantly hysterical.

‘Dead? But he can't be. He's got to walk me down the aisle in November,’ she sobbed.

Her response was simply heart-breaking. Both of my sisters would be denied that simple pleasure, that moment when a proud father gives away his daughter at the altar to the man she loves. And their children would never get to meet their grandpa. All the significant milestones, the treasured relationships, lost forever.

I started crying uncontrollably.

I went on to call Dad's partner, Maree (she was away for the weekend and due to fly back into Melbourne that afternoon), then my mum and my other sister Bridget, and eventually some of Dad's closest mates. My uncle Jimmy would call all of Dad's brothers and sisters. These were among the most horrible phone conversations either of us would ever have.

In the days and weeks that followed, I had time to contemplate the full gravity of Dad's death. One of the reasons for the outpouring of grief stemmed from the sort of person he was. He was a connector, a social conduit who brought together so many different individuals and groups. Dad was the catalyst for countless friendships up and down the east coast of Australia. He had a unique ability to stay in touch with people and took a keen interest in what was going on in their lives. He was passionate, positive and optimistic — the kind of person people gravitate towards.

At the time of his death, plans for his sixtieth birthday party were all but complete. There had been spirited arguments between him and my sisters about the swelling of the guest list. Dad's counter argument was as consistent as it was predictable.

‘But I like them and want to share a beer with them. So, they have to be on the list,’ he would say.

Grief is different for everyone and it doesn't discriminate. I'm also not convinced it ever goes away. Initially, it is overwhelming and consumes your thoughts. You wake up in the morning in pain and you go to bed at night in a similar state. During those darkest early days, I was very fortunate to have the support of two close friends — Dayne and Ethan — both of whom had lost their fathers and experienced what I was now going through. Dayne in particular gave me some very helpful advice.

‘The only person who truly knows what you're feeling right now is you,’ he told me. ‘You'll get through it, and trust me, it does get easier with time. You just need to take it one day at a time.’

He also reassured me it was okay to feel sad.

‘Don't feel ashamed, embarrassed or guilty that you feel sad. Tell people how you're feeling,’ he insisted.

It was this last piece of advice that I found to be most helpful — a reminder of the importance of looking after yourself, even to the point of being a bit selfish. The thinking stemmed from the high number of people affected by Dad's death. If I didn't care for myself first, there was no way I could assist others, emotionally or physically.

‘Don't be afraid to say no,’ Dayne said. ‘At least for a while, act in your own best interests.’

Both Dayne and Ethan sought to save me more pain by reassuring me of the wisdom in sharing your emotions. Traditionally, that's hardly a male strong suit. Often, blokes don't feel comfortable talking about their feelings or opening up about their vulnerabilities, but to do so can be very therapeutic. Dayne was also courageous enough to share with me a cautionary tale of a path that leads to a dead end.

‘You might be tempted by short-term fixes: drugs, alcohol, gambling, that kind of thing,’ he said. ‘Don't go there. It takes away the pain temporarily, but it only makes it harder once that initial relief fades.’

Dayne went into the details of his own experience — and that's his story to tell — but I'm eternally thankful that he was brave and generous enough to share his experience with me.

There's a lot of irony here. We are reluctant to show or share our vulnerabilities. We are instead tempted by short-term fixes to mask our discomfort and insecurities.

It slowly dawned on me that Dayne's experience echoed my dad's. For nearly 30 years, Dad had been reliant on taking two prescription-grade sleeping tablets nightly. That our medical system makes it possible to feed such dependency for three decades blows my mind. I shudder to think how many people are on a similar treadmill. However, that's a discussion for another day.

The harsh truth remains that Dad's biggest anxiety and major source of sleep deprivation emanated from the state of his personal finances. He created his own burden because he measured his self-worth entirely according to his financial station in life. It was a yardstick that would be forever elusive. Occasionally he managed to gain financial control, but it was something he just couldn't hold onto. Then, to compound matters, whenever he was financially down, he was always too proud to share his challenges with others. It was the ultimate catch-22.

Yet, when I think of all the glowing tributes and wonderful stories of his kindness and generosity that were shared at his funeral I realise there wasn't a single mention of how much money he had made or lost. That's not how our lives are judged. It's the impact we have and the contributions we make that provide an infinitely more accurate measure of a person.