'Dad, are you going to die?'

If ever he was ill, he would just say: 'It's just a cold. I'm not going to the doctor's and wasting his time.'

It was 12 years ago that he died, but I still remember it as though it was yesterday.

In 1988, my dad was a steward of at Haydon Wick Working Men's club, and every morning he would do his usual thing . . . sort out the barrels from the night before and make sure every-thing was in order for that day.

This morning, my dad was having problems breathing and every time he lifted that barrel it was getting worse.

Next thing, dad said: 'I need to go to the doctor's. I don't feel 100 per cent.'

It wasn't like my dad. He was always well and would fight it out but not this time.

The next day I went to school as usual and dad was on his way to the doctor's.

But when I got home that evening, I came in and dad wasn't there.

Mum said: "Dad is in the hospital, as when he went to the doctors he had a little bit of liquid on his lung which was giving him problems breathing. He will be OK."

But something was not right. Mum was quiet and looked tired.

I asked: "Is dad going to be all right, mum?" And she said: "Yes Nick. Don't worry. He will be fine."

The next day, dad was still not home and I had to visit him in the hospital.

He had a big bottle on the floor with liquid in, and there was a pipe attached to him. It was horrible.

Dad told me they had to feed the pipe through his skin directly into the lung to drain the liquid out.

He said when this had happened they would pull the pipe out, and it would stitch up on its own like magic.

'Wow', I said. I was 13-years-old and this fascinated me, and I did not know how serious it really was.

Dad was then let out of hospital but had to keep going back every four weeks or so, as the liquid was still forming within his lung.

The next few months were a blur, but the next thing I remember was a Saturday night, when mum and dad were clearing up the glasses after another night at the club.

The phone rang and it was one of the barmaids inviting mum and dad to a party that night.

I heard mum and dad talking about it, and I pleaded for them to go and take me with them. They did and I was excited.

We walked to her house as it was only a few yards away, and we were there for a couple of hours before mum and dad called me and said we were going, because we had to get up in the morning.

Being a typical 13-year-old I sulked, and walked home without mum and dad.

The one thing my dad said to me was: "Come on. Behave. You will know why in a year or so."

Being 13, nothing was ever serious, noth-ing mattered, but this did. What did my dad mean by this?

Thoughts went around and around my head, and when we got home, I lay awake thinking.

Mum and dad were still downstairs talking and I called from my room for my dad to give me a good night kiss.

He came up and knelt by my bed, having a chat, and gave me a kiss good night.

I don't know what made me ask this, but just as he was about to get up, I asked: 'Dad, are you going to die?'

My dad just looked at me and his eyes welled up with tears. 'Yes I am,' he said. 'I have just over one year left.

'The fluid on my lung is caused by when I worked in the railways when I was younger, and there is no cure.'

I thought my world was going to fall apart.

My mum would still be there for me, but what would I do without my dad?

He used to take me horse racing, he used to take me to his allotment to get me out of my mum's hair. What was I going to do?

My mum was really good and was a rock for me, and things carried on as they had over the last few months.

Dad would go into hospital for a few days every couple of weeks, and then we moved as dad was no longer able to work.

On Friday April 6, 1990, dad was sat on the sofa in the new house, and had problems breathing.

Mum called the ambulance and we took him to hospital, and the next day I went to my nan's house in Salisbury and kept in contact with mum via the telephone.

On the Sunday night, I called Mum about 9pm and could not get a response.

I then rang my neighbours, and they told me the hospital was busy, so mum was looking after dad.

But something did not seem quite right and I worried about what was happening.

Mum called and told me dad was fine and she would call me in the morning.

At 7am on Monday, I woke to find my nan calling me downstairs, which I found odd because it was so early.

I was then told that my dad had passed away that morning, and it felt as though my whole world had fallen apart.