He was my father.
I only found out yesterday, after I was sent a link to an obituary written and published by a charity he volunteered for.
Years of googling and all I ever found was a former pilot who windsurfed. He seems lovely, and has the right name, but he wasn't my father.
Internet searches must be like buses, nothing comes along for years, and then three turn up at once. The charity link that was sent, and two links I've found relating to his passing being noted and marked by his professional peers.
I only have one photo of him
http://tinyurl.com/jg7493r
Today I have found a more precise cause of death. Thank you to the poster here who clarified the type of cancer. It means I have one less thing to try and work out how to do, all while being on the wrong side of the Alps.
My memories are different from many of yours. But still very much tied to his love of flying and identity as a pilot.
My dad used to come home from work for lunch still in his airsuit. With its magic plasticky pads on the legs that he could write on. He was my hero pilot daddy, and I felt sorry for the other kids who "only" had civilians as a father.
I rewrote his avoidance of a German helicopter and having to eject as a James Bond like event that earned me much reflected glory in the playground.
He was the defeated man in a uniform that I clung to like a howling monkey, after having violently refused to be gassed by the dentist. Again. And again. And again. But he still cuddled me while I dribbled all over his epaulettes, in a glassy eyed state.
I remember our gentle, tip toeing, last phone call. When he informed me our grandfather had died. He told me "It's very painful to lose a parent" and I said "I know". Neither one of us wanted to be the one to risk rejection, by asking "can we speak again?" So the call ended. And the silence marched on.
He's my dad. I loved him. He's dead. I want to close the book. But I don't know how. Maybe writing this will help.
-Sarah