A Tribute to my Late Father, Professor Issy Pilowsky 04.06.1935 – 17.08.2012

My dad loved me and was proud of me. I know this because he said so, when he was first diagnosed with brain cancer twenty-five years ago. He didn’t have to say it, because I knew it anyway, but I’m very glad he did.

Dad was never Professor Issy Pilowsky to me, he was just Dad. I knew about the long letters after his name and the important work he did as a psychiatrist, of course. I had a world stamp collection built up from international correspondence regarding his esteemed work. ‘Prof Pilowsky’ was one of my university lecturers. When Dad spoke to hundreds of unruly first year medical and dental students about the magic of Behavioural Science, an unnatural quiet prevailed. He delivered knowledge in a way that was clear, simple and captivating.

But that was not how I thought of Dad. He was just my dad.

Unusually for the times, almost certainly because of his medical training, Dad was present at my birth, in 1961. My twin sister was born first.

"Ooh, I think there’s another one in there", the midwife said.

"Issy", my mother said, appealing to a higher authority, "Tell them I’m always fat".

And then I was born, the unexpected twin. I still imagine Dad keeping calm and carrying on, as was his manner.

As Dad climbed the career ladder, our family, my mother, Marl, older brother, Paul, twin sister, Lyn, and younger sister, Marion, moved with him; from Cape Town, South Africa, to Sheffield, England, to Sydney, and then finally to Adelaide, South Australia.

As well as English, Dad spoke Afrikaans, Hebrew, Yiddish and a bit of German and Dutch. Wherever we were in the world, we would have instant family, from Jewish and medical tribes, and sometimes both. Dad enjoyed talking to people and working out how he related to them - often literally, through links of location, migration and surnames. My Dad talked to strangers whilst travelling, as many people do, but he would really talk to them. By the end of a train, plane or automobile journey, he would have learnt things about them that they didn’t know they knew themselves.

Whenever Dad talked to me, I felt special, life felt more manageable, and I too, would know myself a bit better. Whether he was explaining the water cycle with pictures drawn in the sand, or describing points of view using different sides of a toy pen, he made learning fun. He taught me how to do cryptic crosswords, and how to go to sleep easily; "Lie on your side, close your eyes, and think about what you’re going to do tomorrow". His bedtime stories were inventive and inspiring – Griselda, the young heroine of his tales, trained as a pilot with the help of her magic pink cloud.

Dad wanted all his children to be doctors. When I got into dental school, I felt I had disappointed him. When he reported regaling colleagues with news of his daughter, the dentist, I knew his pride in me was unconditional. Throughout my career, he supported me in clinical work, teaching, research, writing, publishing and public speaking. When he proudly attended one of my lectures, as I had once attended his, I felt moved and loved.

Dad ran, swam, climbed stairs at work, and tried to eat well. He was a great model and supporter for my own fitness and health endeavours. On the annual 12km Adelaide City Bay Run, Dad decided to wave me off at the starting line. He then joined me in running the whole race, keeping me company to the finish.

When I left Adelaide to live and work in London, I knew I was in Dad’s thoughts. In the early days, suffering from homesickness, I opened a care package from him to find an unsolicited fifty pound note. It wasn’t my birthday.

"What’s this for?" I asked.

"Actions speak louder than words", Dad replied.

Dad loved reading. We joked that Dad could no more avoid a book store than an alcoholic could stay away from a pub. Despite his cerebral bias, however, Dad did learn to play the violin in retirement, well enough to perform a solo rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ on my big day one year.

On his regular visits to London, Dad always found time to listen, and share his tales of life in Sydney. He met my partner, Stuart, and approved. He was especially proud and loving of his grandchildren, including Amy, asking for regular updates and photos.

I miss Dad already, but I carry him in my heart. It goes without saying, but I will say it anyway. I loved my dad and I am proud of him.