Seeing all the wonderful messages and tributes to my Dad has been a great comfort over the last few weeks. Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to send such heartfelt condolences. I've been meaning to post my own message on this page for a while. I know many people (+2,000) were able to view the funeral on the live stream, but I thought I would post my eulogy here as well for anyone who wasn't able to.
How do you begin to describe a man like my Dad, who achieved so much, helped so many people, gave everything he had in living life to its fullest, and still had so much left to do?
When I was thinking about how to do this, I started on the 4th of January, the day after he died. While the grief was at its freshest, I was overwhelmed by the messages and tributes so many people paid to him that day, and in the days since. He was trending on twitter, which means my Dad was one of the things the country was talking about. You could leave it there as a testament to the impact he had. I think it must be the modern equivalent of a community in collective mourning; and this community came from across the world, from the people who were fortunate to have known him. The respect for him was obvious, but what was also clear from the hundreds if not thousands of messages was the love people had for him, which is hard to put into words. I wanted to read two of those messages, which I think speak to who he was, a man who treated everyone with the same kindness, whether they were lifelong friends or new acquaintances:
Robert Lewis wrote:
"Donal was a friend an ally to me for nearly 30 years. It hit me like a physical punch when I heard the news that he was no longer with us. Donal was special; no matter how important he became, he never became self-important. He was just a great guy who had a positive effect on all those who had the privilege to know him. Many will miss his massive contribution to the world of renal medicine, but the lucky ones will also remember and miss his company at the conference hotel bar in the early hours. Thanks for everything, pal. May I pass on my deepest sympathy to Donal’s family. Thank you for sharing some of him with us.”
The second is from Matthew Graham-Brown:
“I was introduced to Donal at an Association of Renal Industry meeting in 2013 where (as a baby registrar) I felt a little out of my depth. Donal's reputation as one of the leaders of our specialty preceded him and I was a bit daunted when he came over to chat. Any fears I had were completely misplaced and we ended up sitting down for dinner and talking all evening about all number of things. Like so many have reflected he was interested in people, helping to build them up and helping them to succeed. Donal had no reason to remember me from that first meeting, but he always did and he always made time to catch-up, check-in and invariably impart some wisdom.”
I don’t think any of us outside of his professional life - and perhaps even those closest to him professionally - really knew how much he was involved in, how much good he had done. In thinking about his life, though, I’m reminded of the ‘little windows’ we had onto ‘Donal the doctor’.
There were the times when we’d be on our way back from somewhere - perhaps the football - and he’d say “I just need to pop into the hospital quickly”. We knew this meant at least a couple of hours sitting in his office while he did what he needed to do. That was an example of his dedication; or perhaps he was just keen for us to become experts at playing minesweeper on his office computer.
When we were young, we always found it funny listening to him dictate his letters, and played around imitating him, always with the regular sign-off ‘kind regards myself’.
I remember whenever anyone had a medical problem, he’d sort out - at the drop of a hat - an appointment with another doctor, who was invariably a world leader in their field. Although, if you ever asked him for medical advice at home you always got the same answer: “have a bath for yourself”…or if the ailment happened to be in your foot or ankle he’d say: “I don’t know, I never got below the knee in medical school!”
I remember as well the times we’d take one of his colleagues to watch United if we had a spare ticket, and chatting over a beer at half-time. Without fail, each colleague would also have a ‘little window’ onto ‘Donal the Man Utd fan’, and following some choice language directed at opposition players they’d say to me as we were leaving - ‘he’s very different at work you know.’
For me, the little window onto ‘Donal the doctor’ I had that most speaks to the man described in the many tributes was when we were at my secondary school - it must have been a parents evening or something. We were walking through the corridor and bumped into one of my classmates, Ozzie, and his parents. It turned out Ozzie was one of my Dad’s patients, and I remember seeing the way he talked to them as people - not patients. My mum told me recently that he always disliked the phrase ‘kidney patients’, preferring to say ‘people with kidney disease’, because their illness should not define them. Some time after that chance meeting, Ozzie died when he was 17. I remember seeing the sadness, the grief in my Dad - that he cared so much for his patients, the people he was trying to help.
So while we may have not have known the detail of all the things he did, and the things people have been remembering, the way his character has been described is certainly something I’ve been able to recognise, and I feel incredibly privileged to have had a front row seat to the life of such an amazing man.
As the tributes I read out make clear, he was an incredibly humble man. We didn’t have many deep and meaningful chats, but I remember one a couple of years ago - in a pub in London after watching the United game, obviously - and he said to me that all he’d ever wanted to do was to help people and make a difference. He’d be proud of the things he achieved and the overwhelming tributes, but that’s not the reason he worked so hard.
And he carried that hard work and incredible determination into everything he did. He decided to run the New York marathon in 2004, even though - in all fairness - he probably wasn’t what you’d call ‘an athlete’. On one of his training runs he forgot to take a water bottle - but he just kept going, for 22 miles, and looked seriously ill when he got back! Continuing with the ‘Donal the determined athlete’ theme - he used to take me and my brother Daniel cycling in the Alps every summer, adding to his list of achievements the conquering of many Grand Cols including Mont Ventoux, Le Tourmalet and Alpes d’Huez - twice. As my uncle Ged said to me, he was a lunatic who pushed everything to the extremes, and we loved him for it.
Cycling wasn’t the only passion he was able to explore on those trips to France…funnily enough we always happened to stay within spitting distance of some extremely nice restaurants with excellent wine. I’ve lost count of the number of amazing meals out he treated us all to: where most people would be happy with a trip to Cafe Rouge, he’d book a Michelin starred restaurant like when we went to La Manoir outside Oxford for my sister Kathryn’s 20th birthday - because, why not! He loved his cheeses as well, a passion he liked to share with everyone, especially his Grandson, Patrick. And of course, you can’t enjoy a nice cheeseboard without a nice glass of red wine - preferably a Pinot Noir. Anyone who saw him after a big family meal would also have seen another talent that he was famous for…falling asleep in a chair, head back, snoring softly, still with a glass of red wine in his hand tilting so it looked like it was about to spill - but it never did, and if you tried to take it off him the grip would tighten.
He was so at home during those family meals, hosting and entertaining, talking about the latest political developments or with the grandchildren about what they were learning at school. Naturally the meals were often at Christmas or birthdays, when he would have bought people the most amazing and thoughtful presents - as well as a book, of course, chosen carefully with the person in mind. His generosity of spirit, thinking of others and always giving his time for people, was something evident from when we were young. He’d go off on one of his trips, and - even though by the sounds of it he was the life and soul of any conference - he’d always come back with a suitcase full of presents for us, and more recently for the grandchildren as well.
I never knew whether his love of travelling came before his career took him all over the world, or was was a by-product of that. Either way, I remember him as someone whose thirst for visiting new places, seeking out new experiences, and understanding people across the world was never ending. He was so keen for us all to experience that with him as well, to make sure our horizons were expanded to the extreme, whether that was taking his children on some of his business trips, booking amazing holidays to Canada or Japan, or on hearing that Patrick was learning about the Titanic deciding to take us to Belfast for the weekend to see the Titanic museum and the city. Again, doing things to the extreme.
As well as his kindness, his fierce intellect, his wisdom, and his humour, we often had cause to say that he was absolutely crazy, and would wonder what his colleagues would think if they could see him. There’s too many of these memories to share in one go, and for lots of them you probably had to be there to appreciate the humour, whether that was insisting on asking a waitress for a pitcher of water when she thought he was asking for a picture, picking people up by their ears - including his ageing mother - or deliberately winding up my cousins’ dogs by opening the door and barking at them - which got him a nasty gash on his leg from a dog bite. There’s a good reason Orla, his granddaughter, referred to him as Crazy Grandad.
To the grandchildren - Orla, Isobel, Sam, and Patrick - I wanted to say that though it is unfair you have lost your grandad and won’t get to play spies, be crazy, or benefit from his advice as you grow up, you are so lucky to have known him and the memories and his wisdom will stay with you. He loved you all so much, and was incredibly proud to be your Grandad, and to help shape you into the wonderful people you are.
I wanted to finish by saying something specifically to my Mum. Of all his passions and all the things he loved, you were always at the centre of it. He adored you and you should cherish the memories, whether that is amazing holidays, being bought beautiful jewellery, or him ruffling your hair saying ‘wiggy wiggy wiggy.’ You shared so much happiness; if we can have half of the happiness the two of you shared, we’ll be incredibly lucky. I know it feels like life without Donal will be a life without that happiness, but we’re all here to make sure there are many more happy memories. That’s what Donal would want us to do.