Gregg Covers Sport

As we venture deeper into the winter months, the nights get longer, the weather gets colder, and for many of us struggling with grief and mental health issues, it can feel as though the world around us quietens but the voices we carry inside get amplified. Memories come to mind easier in the prolonged silence that winter can bring, and the pressure to feel ‘festive’ can be exhausting, leaving you to feel more guilty than grateful.

But the slower pace of life that winter ushers in, whilst sometimes feeling like time itself has slowed around our pain, also gives us time to reflect, rest, and speak honestly about loss. That’s what I am here to do. This is going to be a very personal, honest, and reflective piece about my own journey with grief, and how the festive period can feel more lonely than celebratory. Whilst this may be therapeutic for me, to express thoughts and feelings I usually choose to keep inside, I hope it can provide some comfort to those feeling the same way at this time of year, to remind you that it is okay to not be okay, and how important it is to recognise when you are struggling.

What has prompted me to write this now? Well here comes the first of many moments of honesty there will be throughout this piece. I have noticed this year I am struggling more than I usually am, especially when it comes to getting into the Christmas spirit. My tree only went up on December 23rd, and I brought it down less than a week later on December 29th.

Now my struggles this year in particular may be in part due to the tragic passing of my close friend Myles Miller recently, someone I have known for well over a decade, and someone who I had the pleasure of calling a teammate for three seasons at Sevenoaks PFC. His loss has been felt deeply by a lot of people, not least his family, and it has been yet another painful reminder of just how short life can be.

But I have been thinking about writing this for a while because this year, for perhaps the first time, I have realised how important it is for me to finally take my own advice. I take pride in being there for anyone and everyone, whether that be as a shoulder to cry on or as a person to vent to, but very rarely will I fully open up about how I’m feeling. How hypocritical of me I know, but today that changes.

The Moment Childhood Ended

When Mum was initially diagnosed with Ovarian cancer in 2013, I was 12, Amy just 10. I vividly remember sitting on the sofa with Mum one evening, fire raging in the log burner, and asking “but you aren’t going to die, right?”. Such a heavy question for anyone to ask a loved one, let alone a 12-year-old to his mother.

Mum faced her battle with dignity and incredible strength, and despite how immensely draining chemotherapy can be both physically and mentally, she never used it as an excuse, or let it stop her from getting as much out of life as she could. She is, and always be, my inspiration in everything I do in life.

Sadly, despite her determination and resilience, we were told her cancer was terminal in October 2016. Now, one thing to know about me is that I very rarely cry, and that is definitely a trait I got from my Dad, who never once cried in front of Amy and I. I hadn’t cried at all throughout Mum’s battle, wanting to be the strong older brother for Amy to rely on. I’d bottled it up for three years, but hearing the news she was going to die was the moment the proverbial cork popped. I cried and wailed sat on her hospital bed, making all sorts of promises about my future.

I can’t begin to tell you how difficult and painful it is to watch cancer slowly strip away everything from a person you love, especially as a child. We were forced to grow up quicker than we should have, and it robbed us of so many more happy memories with Mum.

Mum moved into the Rowans Hospice in Portsmouth, and I could honestly fill this entire post praising the work they do. They looked after her with such compassion and care, and their ‘Meerkat Service’ for children was a lifesaver for Amy and I. They supported us through every stage, mixing with other people our age going through similar situations and emotions, it made us feel like we weren’t alone, and gave us a safe space to talk about how we were feeling.

Mum’s one wish was to make it to Christmas Day, and such was her mental fortitude, we did get to see her on Christmas morning. It was a very bittersweet for us, because whilst we were very happy and lucky to get spend one final Christmas with her, she was a shell of the person we knew and loved so dearly, unable to speak or see.

She passed away later that afternoon.

When we got the news, there was an obvious overwhelming sense of sadness, but there was also some semblance of relief that she wasn’t in pain anymore, she could rest.

Coping in the in-between years

Over the next few months and years I chose to simply try and move forward as best I could, pushing any thoughts down and behind me (healthy I know!). I chose to focus on the future, rather than look back and deal with what I was feeling.

I wanted again to be the strong older brother, being there to help Amy whenever she needed it. I strongly believe it was the job of the men in the family to be the pillars of strength. In a way I do still believe this, but I know now that strength comes in many different forms. It takes incredible strength to admit when you’re not okay, to open up when you may not feel like it.

I have no clue how Dad managed following Mums death. He not only had to deal with his own grief having lost his soulmate, but he also had to help his two young children navigate the loss of their mother, something that was especially difficult for Amy to deal with.

Every memory you make after you’ve lost a loved one feels a little less special, as you know there’s someone missing from the experience, someone who should be there enjoying the moments with you. Whether it be family holidays to Jordan and Australia, or my England debut and Euros win in Finland in 2019, these are incredibly happy memories that are tinged with sadness because she wasn’t there to share in the experience.

Not once did I consider getting individual counselling, something I look back on with regret, especially with what we were to go through later on.

Grieving all over again

Flash forward to New Years Day 2023, a day that should be filled with excitement at the blank canvas of a year that lays in front of you, revelling in the wonder of the opportunities that could be in store for you.

It was just myself, Dad, and his partner at home. Dad had gone out for a run in the afternoon, and almost immediately after I heard him come back in, there was a massive thud. Dad’s partner came downstairs to see what had happened, and I opened my bedroom door, casually yelling out if everything was okay. That’s when she yelled “Gregg call 999, he’s having a heart attack.” At that point my body went into autopilot, everything was a surreal blur. I rang 999 for an ambulance, handed my phone over so she could receive CPR instructions, and then practically burst through the back doors into the garden to yell until my voice gave out for any of our neighbours to help get the defib located at the shops at bottom of the hill.

The ambulance got to us within six minutes, an incredible response time, but as they worked away desperately trying to save his life, something within me knew he was gone. I sat in the garden, head in my hands, just repeating “this isn’t happening”. It felt like a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from, I was numb.

I took the responsibility of ringing Danielle, my older sister on my Dad’s side, telling her to get to the hospital as soon as possible. Amy was back in her flat in Brighton, and her godmother went to break the news in person and bring her to the hospital. As difficult as it was to go through, I’m eternally grateful that neither of them were there to experience it. I’ll never forget the haunting sounds of dad fighting for his breath, or me pleading with him to fight, for as long as I live.

We followed the ambulance to the hospital, and in a weird twist of fate the route we took ended up taking us right past the Rowans Hospice. I can’t describe the feeling in that moment, but it felt like a sign from the world that they were going to be reunited.

It’s such a strange feeling sitting at the bedside of a loved one who has passed away. At first I didn’t think I could go into the hospital room and see him, I didn’t want that image in my head, but I knew that if I didn’t I’d regret it for the rest of my life. We all said it didn’t feel real, like at any moment he was going to sit up and go “boo, I got you all.”

My main worry the entire time was Amy, wanting to know she was going to be okay. When she got to the hospital we had a long hug, and she whispered in my ear “we’ll be okay, we’ve got through this once, we can do it again.” Her strength stunned me. Whilst she was right that we had some sense of how to cope, it was also different. With Mum we had known she was going to pass, and whilst it was no less saddening or difficult, in some regards we had gone through or had begun to go through the stages of grief before she had passed. With Dad there was no warning, no preparing, there was shock, here one minute and gone the next.

We all took individual moments to go in and say goodbye before we left. I just sat there staring at him, again not quite believing it was actually happening. I plucked up the strength to reach out and grab his hand, telling him I loved him and thanking him for everything he’d done for me and us. It’s probably the toughest thing I have ever had to do. That was when the tears started to fall, as it started to sink in that he was gone.

The Aftermath

Christmas Day this year was the 9th anniversary of Mum’s passing, and New Year’s Day tomorrow will mark 3 years since Dad left us. They say time is the great healer of grief, but it truly does never get easier. Both dates are now examples of what I call ‘reminder days’, whether it be birthdays, death anniversaries, or special occasions such as Mother’s or Father’s Day, they are days that serve to remind you who is no longer here.

This time of year is always incredibly tough, not least because of the anniversaries of their passings. It’s a time when you see families coming together, an abundance of love and compassion in the air, yet sometimes it can leave you feeling hollow, lonely, and guilty for not feeling as celebratory as others around you.

Powerchair Football was always something Dad and I did together, and he was a massive part of the sport across the globe in his own right. The first Premiership weekend back after he passed was the toughest one I’ve ever had, because it felt so wrong that he wasn’t there. That feeling has followed me, and will always follow me, wherever I go, whether it be a World Cup in Sydney or Disability Cup Finals at St George’s Park. When I finally won my first Premiership title back in June, it felt like the culmination of everything they had done, I just wish they could’ve been there to celebrate it with me.

What I will say is that the support of the entire Powerchair Football community was invaluable in helping me cope, and I will always be thankful to everyone for that.

Since moving to Middlesbrough a little over a year ago, all of my friends have done everything they can to help me settle, and they go above and beyond to make sure I feel involved and not alone, especially at this time of year, and there are no words to sum up just how grateful I am for that.

A few months ago I had the incredible honour of being a groomsman at my best mates wedding. It was a fantastic occasion and I couldn’t have been happier as we celebrated their love and commitment to one another. However, I couldn’t help feeling a little sad thinking about the future. Should either Amy or I get married, neither of our parents will be there. She won’t have her father walk her down the aisle to give her away, he won’t be there to give a speech as father of the bride, nor will there be a father daughter dance.

I think that’s one of the parts that is most difficult to deal with when it comes to grief. That sense of injustice at future moments that have now been robbed from you and people that are yet to come. As I said at his funeral, Dad was the best grandad to my nieces. He came alive whenever they were round, never failing to amaze and entertain them. Mum was so caring, and was brilliant with young children, becoming a teaching assistant at my pre-school and then my junior school. It hurts that, if I’m ever lucky enough to have children of my own, they won’t get to experience that love and warmth. They’ve lost two grandparents they never knew, it’s very unfair.

One thing grief does is remind you just how precious life is, how tomorrow is never promised, and that you should make the most of every day. I have thrown myself into everything life has offered me in the last few years, in order to honour my parents, doing everything I can to make them proud. Whether it be graduating with a first in my masters, commentating live on TNT Sports, travelling the world, or commentating on both a World Cup in Australia and a European Championships in Italy, everything I do is with my Mum and Dad at the forefront of my mind.

Though they’re no longer here, their impact and influence lives on. I carry them with me wherever I go. I use Dads wallet, I wear his watch whenever I go out, I wear his shoes whenever I put on a suit. My music taste is a combination of theirs. I often find myself listening to the songs that remind me of them, or watching their favourite movies.

Despite the heartache and grief, I have always considered myself incredibly fortunate to have grown up in the family I did. I had two parents who loved each other immensely, who never let me feel limited by my disability, who wanted me to have the exact same opportunities as my peers. They put in so much time, sacrificed a lot, and worked so hard to give Amy and myself the best childhood they possibly could. There are countless happy memories of what became yearly trips to Playa Blanca in Lanzarote, and one day I hope to take my future family to the same spots we frequented as kids.

Amy and I were discussing life, love, and grief the other week, and she said something so profound that has stuck with me ever since.

“The fact that mum and Dad passed when they did means we realised young that no matter how much you love someone, things still end. But the important thing is that we also learnt that just because things end, it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t love people. We’ve loved and lost before and we’re still willing to love again and that’s what you should cling to.”

I’ve always tried my best to stay as positive as I can, recognising that as awful as it has been, there are always people who have had it worse. This isn’t to diminish my own grief as that isn’t healthy, but rather to recognise that I know Mum and Dad would want me to get the most out of life I can, as they did with each other. I always say if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry, but if you need to cry then let it out.

If you’ve made it all the way through this, firstly fair play! Secondly, thank you for taking the time to read my journey through grief. If you’ve also lost someone, always remember there is no instruction manual on how to grieve, everyone does it in their own way. Give yourself time and patience, there’s no time limit on grief, only you truly know how you feel. You’ll have people around you who love and care about you and your well-being, they’ll be your support network if and when you need them.

It is through love that the people we lose live on in our hearts.

I hope you all had a very merry Christmas, and I wish you nothing but love, happiness, and prosperity as we head into 2026.

Gregg.