On his wedding day, Tim Sullivan’s much-loved dad suddenly fell and died on what should have been the happiest of days. But what he discovered has impacted his life
It was all set to be one of the happiest days of my life, 9 September 1989. I was getting married. Everything leading up to the date had gone smoothly. The wedding was taking place in a small church, St Teilo’s in Bishopston Valley on the Gower peninsula. About 130 friends and family had made the trip down to South Wales. After the ceremony, Rachel and I were going to process up the hill from the church to the reception at my in-laws’ home, led by a small jazz band and followed by our guests. But as we left the church, my father suddenly collapsed and died in my arms. He was 65, exactly the age I am now as I write this.
It’s a clear memory of that moment. An event that shaped both the subject matter and style of the subsequent writing I did throughout my career. An instance that illustrated how sad events frequently transpire during the sweetest and most unexpected moments.
As he fell to the ground the air was expelled from his lungs with a fatal wheeze. He seemed to deflate like a punctured tyre. His lips flapping together in a valedictory raspberry to the world. I started to give him CPR, our morning suits and tails suddenly incongruous in the moment. I remember thinking two things. First, “No, this can’t be happening. Not today.
Please don’t make me the guy whose dad died at his wedding.” In a morning suit on a damp lane outside a small Welsh church. I turned to look for Rachel and swatted something away from my face. I thought it was a fly, but discovered it was a rosary bead. My two elderly great aunts were standing over me and Dad, praying furiously for his soul. Seriously? I thought. He’s barely stopped breathing. My beautiful wife, in her extraordinary silk wedding dress, was looking on, tears flowing down her cheeks in a tidal wave of black mascara. She looked like a bride out of a Tim Burton movie.
Outside a little Welsh church, in a rainy alley wearing a morning suit. I slapped something away from my face and turned to search for Rachel. I saw that it was a rosary bead after initially believing it to be a bug. My dad and I had my two old great aunts standing over us, fervently praying for his soul. Really? I pondered. His respiration had scarcely ceased. My stunning spouse, adorned in an exquisite silk bridal gown, was observing, tears cascading down her cheeks like a torrent of black mascara.