Like father, (un)like son

When I was a little boy, I wanted to be just like my father. I even copied his mannerisms and gestures, his particular way of whistling a tune, his quirky turns of phrase. I wanted to grow up big and strong like him, wear a suit and tie, smoke cigars and drive a nice, shiny Audi. Then I became a teenager, and my dad suddenly became the enemy. He was no longer my boyhood hero, but my ideological opposite. We clashed over music, politics, exam results and whether the lawn needed mowing. I swore I would never end up like him, that I would grow up to be more tolerant and easy-going, that I'd accept my own kids' taste in music, and that I'd keep wearing my hair long and my denims faded even into old age.

Now that I'm into my 40s, I no longer hate my dad - in fact, I love him to bits, and I'd be devastated if he died. I know this because last year my dad was in hospital, and I was faced with the disturbing possibility that he might not live to see his 70th birthday. Watching my big, strong daddy lying helpless in a hospital bed, tubes and catheters hooked up to his frail frame, was a profoundly unnerving experience, and it scared the hell out of me. I realised with a sinking feeling that I might well end up just like my dad, whether I want to or not. That pale, drawn, elderly man grimacing in pain - that was me in 30 years' time. I felt like calling for a nurse there and then.

Happily, my dad recovered from his gall bladder operation, although the experience left him looking older and thinner. Around the same time as th e operation, he had a heart scare, and so the family was called together to discuss the possibility of his having an angiogram. All my dad's brothers had died of heart attacks; none of them had had their tickers checked, and so my father felt that an angiogram would warn him of any possibility of heart trouble. He looked pointedly at me: "You should watch your heart too - this could run in the family". A chill ran down my spine.

The angiogram showed that, yes, my dad had heart trouble but, with exercise, healthy eating, reduced drinking and regular prescription tablets, there was no reason he should suffer the same fate as his brothers. Last week, looking greatly rejuvenated, he celebrated his 70th birthday, and we drank a toast to our precious dad, delighted that he was still in this world and in our lives. As I raised my own glass, however, I seriously wondered if I had a hope in hell of reaching 70. Shit, I thought, the way I've been living the past 20 years, I probably won't even make it to 50.

Of course, I've already been diagnosed with hypochondria by my friends and family, so I'm probably worrying too much. But I'm still uncertain about my future, and my dad's illness has somewhat undermined my confidence. Recently, I was sitting in the pub with some friends, knocking back the lager and puffing away at the fags, when discussion came round to what you could call the "generation health gap". We observed that our dads had given up smoking by the time they reached 30, yet here we were, still hooked on the demon weed. We also noted that, for our dads, nightclubbing, party-going and general debauchery slowed down soon after they got married in their early 20s, while we were still enjoying full-on Bacchanalian bliss even though we were old enough to know better. We came to the inescapable conclusion that, by the time we got to our dads' age (if at all), we would be well and truly wrecked. Then we lit cigarettes, ordered another round and discussed whether to go to Renards or Lillies later on.

This Christmas, my sister's family got a giant atlas-encyclopaedia, which gave Ireland's average life-expectancy as around 76. That's a pretty good average, especially since the Swedes and the Swiss are given around 79, while Mediterranean countries are up to about 80 (it's all that olive oil and fish, I suppose). So there's no reason for me to doubt my longevity, provided I eat well, take regular exercise and live a healthy lifestyle. Oops.

My own life hasn't gone quite according to my dad's plan - or to mine. I was supposed to follow in his footsteps and become a jeweller. Every summer, I would work in his factory, making tea, running errands, packing jewellery display cases and learning to cast gold and silver. When I left school, I started working for him full-time, but often rebelled, quitting my job and then going back when things in the big bad world didn't work out. When I became an adult, I acted like a rebellious teenager, anything to avoid becoming like my dad. I smoked because he quit, I took drugs because he never did, and I went on the dole because he worked all his life. I was a spoilt, middle-class, immature brat but - I reassured myself - at least I wasn't a bit like my dad.

Every day, though, I begin to resemble my father more and more, and I've inherited some of his physical and personality traits. My hair has thinned a lot - although thankfully I haven't gone bald yet, and I'm sometimes susceptible to work stress and burnout. My dad was a major stress-bunny in his day, and when he threw a wobbly at us for some perceived crime or other, he'd clutch his chest and accuse us of trying to give him a heart attack. I often wonder if this is where I got my own fear of heart attacks. Sometimes, when I wake up with a hangover from another night out on the town, I look in the mirror and see my dear old dad looking back at me, a look of tired bemusement in his eyes.

Forget the sins of the father - it's the sins you committed in your 20s and 30s which will determine your health and well-being in your 40s and 50s. Having just emerged from a 20-year period of partying, I'm dreading to see what will befall me over the next 20 years. Will I get asthma or emphysema from the smokes, or will it be bowel and colon cancer from the stress? Will it be a heart attack or a stroke, or will I just worry myself to death? These were the thoughts that invaded my mind while I visited my father in hospital - that I was going to end up just like him, only worse.

I don't want to be like my dad, lying in a hospital bed, pale and gaunt. I want to be like the parental superhero I knew as a child, the strong, protective daddy who towered above me like a colossal gladiator, who picked me up with the strength of Hercules, and who made me feel safe from harm. But if I want to be that superhuman role model, I'm going to have to change my lifestyle a little. After all, if I eventually get it together to have kids of my own, and they look up at their dishevelled dad, dressed ridiculously in denims and trainers, and wheezing with the effort of picking them up, I don't want them shaking their heads and going, I never, ever, want to be like him.

As for my own father, I've discovered that he wasn't so different from me after all. In his day, he was a bit of a man-about-town, and he even used to write a column, Courtney's Corner, in an Irish-American newspaper. He was talented, artistic, charming and entertaining (I, of course, possess all those traits, with added modesty) and he could also be a bit of a rebel.

Although he didn't smoke, he wasn't exactly a paragon of healthy living; but at least he had the excuse that people didn't know better back then. I'm learning to appreciate the good things about my dad, and to leave behind the old conflicts which put barriers between us. I'm looking forward to him being around for a few more years, so we can enjoy each others' company, chat about things, visit flea markets and antique shops together, and take walks by the harbour. In one respect at least, I want to be just like him when I get older. I want to be still alive.

manoverboard@irish-times.ie