Читать книгу Up - Ben Fogle, Ben Fogle - Страница 7

Dear Ludo and Iona,

Life is about the journey not the destination.

Live it brightly. Live it brilliantly and live it wisely. Don’t waste it. Not one single day.

Add life to your days not days to your life.

Dream.

Dare.

Do.

Live for the now, not the then.

Be spontaneous.

Smile.

Go with your heart. Instinct is often right.

Take criticism on the chin and use it usefully.

Life is there to complete, not to compete. Although it will sometimes feel like a competition, don’t get swept up by it. It’s not a race.

Be magnanimous in victory and graceful in defeat.

Be humble and try not to grumble.

Confide. Don’t divide.

Reach don’t preach.

Be caring and considerate.

Be principled but open-minded enough to be pragmatic.

Try and be the shepherd not the sheep.

Remember, you aren’t just a face in the crowd. You’re unique.

Despite a planet of seven billion. There is no one else like you.

Your personality will be shaped and moulded by the company you keep and the experiences you have.

Be comfortable with who you are. Don’t try and be what others want or expect you to be.

Listen, be curious and learn.

Wealth is all about how YOU interpret it. Money will not buy you happiness nor love.

Experiences WILL make you richer.

Travel will broaden your mind.

People will judge you, but don’t let that judgement define you.

Don’t let failure defeat you.

Insecurity will creep up on you throughout life, try not to listen to it.

Be confident, never arrogant.

Give.

Share.

People will be outrageous and provocative. Try not to be outraged or provoked.

Don’t live life through a screen. Live it for bikes and hikes, not likes and swipes.

Routine is far more dangerous than risk.

Some days you will feel a little down. The highs and lows are human nature.

Your life should be filled with light and shade, it is these ups and downs that remind us what is important in life.

Fortune really does favour the brave.

Be brave.

Take risks.

Live your life.

Smile.

And don’t forget to look UP.

Love Daddy

Ring ring … ring ring … ring ring …

It’s 4 am and I’m in a hotel room in Toronto, Canada. I’m here for my grandmother’s 100th birthday. Her 100th birthday! I still marvel at that. I cancelled everything to be here for this, including leaving my family in Austria.

I hate calls in the night. They make me nervous. They are almost always bad. No one calls with good news at 4 am. Maybe it’s a wrong number. My heart is pounding.

‘It’s Dad,’ says the voice on the line. He’s in the room next door. Why is he calling me?

‘Marina has lost the baby.’

I struggle to comprehend what he is telling me. I only left Marina yesterday, eight months pregnant and healthy, while I flew to Canada.

And why is he telling me this? I look at my mobile. It’s switched off.

‘It’s not good, she might not make it either, you’ve got to get back.’

My world imploded. It’s funny how we never realise how happy and lucky we are until it’s gone. I had the perfect, happy life and in that single phone call I saw the happiness disappear. It was like a little bomb going off in my life.

Not only had I lost a baby that I had been longing to meet, but I also faced the reality of losing my beloved wife, Marina. My soul mate, my best friend and the mother to my children.

I wasn’t ready to become a widower.

The next 12 hours are a bit of a blur. By the time I had thrown on some clothes, Dad had booked me a plane ticket to London. I raced to the airport and was on a flight by 6 am.

It was the worst flight of my life. And I’ve had some bad flights.

For eight long hours, I would have no contact with the outside world. I sat in my seat and imagined what was happening. My sister-in-law, Chiara, warned me in a call before my flight that Marina was bleeding so profusely that she might not make it. Please God, don’t take her from me. I am not a religious person, but here I was, 30,000 feet up, calling on the heavens to hear my prayers.

I sat there with tears streaming down my face. How could I cope? I couldn’t imagine life without Marina, the lynchpin of our family. The fun and the happiness. The glue. She was the family. We would be lost without her. The children, what about the children? What did they know? Ludo was four and Iona three. How would I tell them? How could I tell them?

My happy life flashed before my eyes during that endless flight. Our wedding in Portugal, the honeymoon in the Outer Hebrides, the family holidays, dancing in the kitchen. How could life ever be happy again? How could I go up from here?

As the plane touched down at Heathrow, I turned on my phone. How I was dreading this moment. Rain drizzled down the oval plane window as I called Chiara, who was still a further 1,000 miles away in Austria.

‘She’s still in intensive care … but they have stopped the bleeding … she’s going to live.’

I burst into tears and jumped into a taxi to Luton where I caught a flight to Salzburg in Austria. Those 12 hours were like a foggy nightmare. It was like I was living someone else’s life. This was the kind of thing that only happened to other people, not us.

In Salzburg, I can remember the shafts of bright light streaming through the hospital windows as I walked up the white corridor. I walked into a large room bathed in Alpine summer sunshine, net curtains blowing in the gentle breeze from the open windows. I could just make out the mountains in the distance. It was ethereal. Beautiful and calming.

In the middle of the room was a bed surrounded by nurses in starched white uniforms, their smiles dazzling. White. Bright. Warm.

I walked over to the bed. Marina’s blonde hair spilt over the pillow, her face was drained of colour. Everything was white. Clinical, but calm and soothing.

I held her hand and she opened her eyes. She smiled. I love her smile, it’s so beautiful. It’s infectious. Tears rolled down my cheeks. She looked at me and squeezed my hand.

‘Do you want to meet him?’

Him. My baby was a boy. We had deliberately not found out his sex. Marina wanted to have a surprise, something to look forward to at the end of labour. A boy, another little boy. A son.

Wait. What does she mean, meet him? I knew he had been stillborn.

‘I think we should meet him to say goodbye.’

I like to think of myself as a pretty stable, well-prepared individual, little surprises me and I am rarely flummoxed. ‘Expect the unexpected’ has always been my mantra; but now, here, in this faraway hospital in a strange land, I was being invited to meet and to hold my dead son.

One of the nurses appeared with a baby blanket. She held it in her arms gently and walked through the shafts of sunlight. My heart raced. Nothing, I mean nothing in my life had prepared me for this.

She handed me the little bundle. I cupped him in my arms and peered at his little face. He was so beautiful. He looked like he was asleep.

‘What shall we call him?’ Marina smiled.

‘I think we should call him Willem.’ Tears splashed onto his little cheeks.

Here was a little boy I had longed to meet but would never get to know. For eight months, I had imagined a complete family of five. Suddenly, those dreams had been shattered.

It can be difficult for those who haven’t experienced this unique form of bereavement to understand how painful it can be, to lose someone you never knew, but I felt like I was suffocating.

I stared at little Willem and made a resolution there and then that I would live the rest of my life for the two of us, that I would relish every day. I would always smile. I would live it to its full. For little Willem, I would live my life even more brightly, seizing the moments and the opportunities and pursuing my dreams.

Little did I know it, but in that dreadful moment of tragedy and disappointment was the germ of a journey that would turn my life around and lead me up to the top of the world.

Up.

‘Always look Up,’ my late grandmother used to say. It was good advice. It is too easy to go through life looking down.

It is almost a symptom of modern society, to look down, both physically and metaphorically. Travel on the commuter train, bus or tube each morning and they are full of people looking down. Down at their phones, their newspapers, their feet, anywhere but up, for fear of making eye contact. Walk along most streets and they are full of people looking down at their phones, their feet, the pavement.

It is like we have evolved into a downward-looking species.

I remember once on a visit to New York, a taxi driver pointed out that he could always spot a tourist because they were the ones looking up. That observation is so symbolic. You see, to New Yorkers, those magnificent vertiginous skyscrapers were just another part of their landscape. Complacency meant they never looked up and admired the city that others flocked to.

Can you imagine how much we miss out on by looking down? Those chance encounters, opportunities and sights. To my mind, we have become an increasingly pessimistic, negative and angry society. We have become suspicious of success. Social media and the press will often pick on the negative, downward-facing stories and opinions.

Where is the Up? The positivity, the optimism and the celebration? I’m sure if more people looked up and smiled, we would be in a happier world.

If there is one thing I encourage my children to do, it is to smile. Not in a needless, fake kind of way, but in a positive karma kind of way. A smile has a natural way of lightening and lifting the head.

Take a look around you. Downward-facing frowns? Lift your head and smile.