September 16, 2012 | 63 notes

To many, Tony Nicklinson was the public face of the modern-day right-to- die movement. He led the legal battle to secure his death via voluntary euthanasia, and was the locked-in man who dribbled, cried and convulsed on live television, begging the courts to let a doctor end his life. He tweeted his 50,000 followers, giving the flesh of a personality to the idea of the man many would read about, helping them to understand the indignities of his condition with honesty and good humour. He was admired by many, feared by some.

But he was so much more than that – he was my dad.

When I was a child, he was the man who gently brushed my hair before bed, the one who taught me how to ride a bike and patiently helped me with my homework. In later years, he comforted me when my teenage boyfriend broke my heart; he taught me basic driving skills, and helped me with my university applications. Post-stroke, I combed his hair, wiped the dribble from his mouth, and pushed him in his wheelchair. I know he cried with pain and pride when I bought my first car, and graduated from university without him there. In the last few months, we emailed each other our news in gangster speak, because we found it amusing – and, before all of this, we used to laugh so much together.

Tony Nicklinson: my dad, my hero

(Source: gu.com)

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