The Gene Pool



Not that sort of Jean Pool.....

Fascinating stuff this. Why do we do the things we do, like the stuff we like, look the way we look? It's something I often ponder about, too much time on my hands? Definitely.

So are we who we are because of our inherited genes, or are we influenced and swayed as we go through life?



See any similarities? Me neither.

This is so fascinating for me as I was adopted from the day dot. I'm not genetically linked to my family at all. This is clearly evident via general appearance. I peaked at a woeful 5'8", my brothers and father are all well over over 6'. I've dark brown skin, they're bordering on pasty white. This has led to some very interesting conversations over the years, primarily whilst trying to woo members of the opposite sex, and to enforce the fact that we are indeed brothers, not lovers. My kids on the otherhand, have huge visual similarities to me and their mum. No need for any Jezza Kyle DNA tests there then.?

A few here though

Not surprisingly, we tend to look like our gene donors. Where it gets really interesting is when we move onto a person's character and personality. I love football, my brothers and dad don't. My son does. My parents were avid tennis players, therefore my budding football career became a tennis one. I still play tennis now. I'm mad about cars, but was always alone with that passion as a kid. In fact I was regularly berated by my dad for spending 'ridiculous sums' on motors. Both my boys love cars, and have petrol running through their veins (not diesel...)

I'd like to think I have decent manners, that runs through the family. My dad was a gentleman, opened doors, served the ladies first, with impeccable grace. I'm hoping my children will be the same. That could be genetic, I'll never know, but it was certainly instilled in me from an early age.

The real twist came a few years ago. When you have a family of your own it's natural to wonder how your children will turn out. To understand this completely there was a huge piece of my genetic jigsaw missing, details of my biological parents. I set off on the quest to find out more, not that it had ever been hidden from me, but I was now very curious. I acquired my adoption papers which included detailed profiles of my natural mother and father. Wow. It all made sense now. He stood at a lofty 5'4", she 4'11". For me to get to 5'8" was quite an achievement. Father was Indian (I knew that already), mother was white caucasian. Father's passions were listed as cars and football. He had a small collection of classic vehicles, and had been close to a career as a professional footballer. He was deemed to be a bit of a 'lad'. Apparently something of a womaniser. Fair enough. They were both in the medical profession - I pass out at the sight of blood, in fact I fainted at my first son's birth!

Interesting stuff I hope you'll agree. My conclusion? I've yet to come to a satisfactory one. I guess genes shape you physically, and give you a handful of personal traits. But your life influences truly shape you into the person you are.

Life and Death

"'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all", Alfred Tennyson wisely said many years ago. And how right he was. I deem myself quite fortunate as death never had a huge effect on me until well into adulthood, my existence was always graced with abundant life. Until 2006, when my Mum passed away, then in 2008 my Dad swiftly followed. My fond memories vastly outweigh the immense pain of the loss, although at the time it didn't seem so.

My Mum was incredible. As a toddler it was just the two of us. My Dad worked overseas a lot and my siblings were in full time education. Our days consisted of 3 activities; me dutifully following her around the house whilst she carried out the daily chores, being steered through Tesco in a damned uncomfortable trolley, or rolling down the grassy bank at the tennis club whilst she had some well deserved 'me time'. It was her sense of humour that got me the most though. Her favourite story, which she told superbly (practice makes perfect) was from the summer of 1972. We were embarking on the family summer holiday to an hotel in Wales. Mum, Dad, 15 year old son, daughter of 13 and youngest son of 6. The entourage also included a 16 year old Spanish au pair, the daughter of one of my dad's work associates. A month prior to the departure I arrived on the scene via the adoption agency, a half-caste little bundle of joy (oh how things change). One week before lift off, a teenage Japanese boy was added to the tribe, courtesy of another of Dads' work associates. The family saloon car was dumped in favour of a Transit minibus, and off we went. Ariving at the hotel, Dad did the checking in, Mum gathered the troops together in a quiet corner. A very well-to-do lady approached Mum and exclaimed loudly, "Oh my dear, what a wide and varied family you have!" My mum's reply, "Yes madam, it's down to my husband. You see he works abroad a lot!" You couldn't make that stuff up. Fond memories indeed.

The phone call came on a Saturday evening in mid September. Sitting at home all settled for an evening in front of the TV, the phone rang. I answered, it was my Dad.
"You're home then?"
"Erm,well yes,"
"Are you sitting down?"
"What's up Dad?"
"Nothing, is everyone there?"
"Yes, what's up Dad?"
"Have you got a drink?"
"Jesus Dad, what's up?"
"Your Mum's got cancer, there's nothing we can do and she's got 12 months maximum."
"Right, I'll just get that drink.." I was back at the phone in seconds and Mum was on the other end.
"I'm sorry we had to tell you on the phone lovey but we've not seen you in a while." The second killer blow of the evening.
"Erm, right. Are you ok?" What a stupid thing to say.
"Of course I am love. I'm fine. I will be for a while. Treatment starts in a few weeks, I'd really like to see the kids before then because I can't see them when it's started".
"No problem, we'll see you tomorrow morning".

That was that then. I had 12 months to come to terms with it, and they were a difficult 12 months. For the first 6 she was fine, a bit tired as you'd expect. Then the treatment stopped and the decline began. Dad had taken the decision that she would remain at home for the duration. I visited at least once a week and as time went on she became more and more fragile and finally bed ridden. On my visits I'd sit by her bed, show her photo's of the children and talk about what was going in our lives. She just listened and smiled. Then one day for some reason, I mentioned that the chairs from the kitchen table were falling apart. This became our main topic of the coming weeks, the rapid demise of my kitchen chairs - retrospectively quite ironic.
I arrived for what turned out to be my final visit. Dad opened the door with the solemn words, "make the most of this one, I think it's gonna be the last." Shit. I knew it was coming but I didn't want to hear it. I went into her bedroom. She must have weighed less that 5 stone. She'd been in that bed for two months. I couldn't help but look on in pity for a split moment. Then I sat down and poured my heart out. I told her how proud I was, how privilged I felt that she'd chosen me, how much we all loved her. She listened and smiled faintly. I leant over to give her my final ever kiss and cuddle, as my cheek rested against hers she mustered some strength and whispered in my ear, "get your father to write you a cheque for some new kitchen chairs. I love you all". Caring and comedy to the very, very end. Incredible. She died that night. It was a real mixed bag of emotions. I think I'd grieved already, and I was actually relieved to a certain extent. But I had a huge void in my life, which will never be filled.

My relationship with my Dad moved to new levels after my Mum had died. We became great friends. I've had enormous respect all my life for my Dad, but we always had a 'Father/Son' relationship. Not any more. We had lots of one on one time. We'd go walking, go for a beer. Talk about cars, football, even women. He admitted one day that when I was a teenager he and Mum used to take my cigarettes and hide them in the meter cupboard. "I know", I told him, "I used to take them out and leave the empty packets in there!" We laughed like idiots. He came on two summer holidays with us, both to Anglesey, he was done with flying. The last one was in August 2008. He ran around the beach playing frisby and cricket with his grandkids like he was a teenager. 6 weeks later he was dead. There's the big difference, I had warning with my Mum. I didn't with my Dad. I never got the chance to say the things I wanted to. He took himself into hospital with a bad chest and never came out. I went to see him the first day he was in, to be told I was a bleeding idiot and to stop fussing. Within the week he was in intensive care. We dropped everything. My sister, my two brothers and I went to be by his side. Remarkably he was getting better. My sister remained at Dad's house, the boys went back to work. I was in a meeting the next day in Oxford when my sister rang. I took the call, "He's taken a turn for the worse, they want to induce him into a coma." Shit, again. "Right, I'm coming now, don't go anywhere, I'll be 2 hours maximum." A crazy ride that one and I'll never forget it. I picked her up at midday, and we went to the hospital. Hospital signage is challenging at the best of times, but in situations like this it drove me insane, trying to find his location. 
We gave the permission to place him in a comatose state, the idea being that machines would take over his body, allowing his lungs to recover. I have to take my hat off to the people that work there. Each day I visited a previously filled bed was empty. I couldn't do that.
There was a small amount of hope, but the doctors had made it very clear, it was very small. After 5 days we were told that he was now being totally sustained by equipment and it was time to switch off. All very matter of fact, but how else could it be? We agreed to it and I left swiftly. As I drove home a song came on the radio, Wires by Athlete. The words summed up perfectly my last few days.

I was nearly home when the hospital phoned. That was it. Parentless. Shit, shit, shit. I went to the pub, raised a glass to the two most incredible, influential people in my life and went home.

Not a day goes by that I don't think about them. I'm happy to admit I struggled for a long time. I actually felt let down by them somewhat stupidly. After some nagging from a then very close friend, I went to see a psychiatrist. I liked to think of myself as Shropshire's Charlie Sheen. It worked, I still miss them, but more than anything I cherish those wonderful times we had together.

The wonderful life of parents and parenting...

It's fair to say I have absolutely no professional qualifications on this topic. I have however been parented and for the last 14 years and hopefully for many to come, will be a parent.

It's often quoted that the birth of your first child is the most memorable and proudest day of your life. For me it was, and remains firmly in the top 5. Nothing prepares you for that mystical event, becoming a parent, being responsible for a living, breathing dot. Aside from the obvious, the biggest change in my life was my relationship with my parents. We finally seemed to have a common interest, a shared goal and ambition; the welfare of your offspring. All of a sudden I had this new found respect. They went through this.... 4 times. It started me thinking, how was I parented? Am I going to do it the same way? What will I do differently?

In my eyes parents fall into two distinct categories; the cool and the uncool. The 'cool' parents seemingly let their kids do anything, the 'uncool' parents don't. I fell firmly into the latter category. I understand why, protection of your own flesh and blood is a natural way to behave. No parent would want their children to come to any harm. None of my 'cool' friends did come to any harm. They learnt from their mistakes and had very different relationships with their folks. I however spent many nights in my bedroom wishing I was somewhere else. Evidently this results in rebellion, lies, deceit and ultimately awful decision making.

I made the worst decision of my life at the tender age of 13. Recently promoted to the back seat of the 469 school bus home, I was offered my first taste of tobacco. Not wanting to lose my prestigious seat, and with eyes of expectation burning into my skull, I tentatively accepted. What the hell! A golden opportunity to make a fool of myself, please don't let me puke!  I took the smallest of drags, coughed and spluttered, looked around at all the faces of peer pressure and wheezed, "It's alright that, mind if I have another drag?" The reality was that it was awful, like sticking my head in a coal fire and sucking. But that was it. 27 years later I still do it. I've stopped and started, but always end up back with my nicotine fuelled companion.

With that experience firmly planted in my memory, the decision was made. I'm gonna be a 'cool' parent. I like to think I probably am. I have conversations with my kids I'd never have dreamt of having with my folks. They tell me stuff that I'd have kept quiet. I want our relationship to be an open forum. I want to feel that when they're in trouble they can let me in and I can help them out.

During the summer, whilst sitting in the garden making the most of a rare glimpse of sun, I was sipping a cold beer and smoking a cigarette. My eldest child, 13, asked the killer question, "Can I try your cigarette Dad?" The moment of truth. I thought back to the 469, the peer pressure that influenced my decision and the life long regret. "Course you can mate". Thirty seconds later he was running around the garden coughing, spluttering and puking. "Flippin 'eck Dad, why do you do that? It's minging!" "I know it is, that's why I let you try it. So when your 'cool' mates offer you one, you can tell them 'I smoke Marlboro's with my Dad and they're minging, so I won't bother thanks'".

My final say on the matter. I was recently having a chat with one of my kids who was evidently unhappy. After a little cajoling they imparted the whole story. A few phone calls, one face to face conversation later and problem fixed. That readers, is the proudest moment of my life.