Trying again – Swiden’s last gift

Peter Banfield, 75, also fondly known as Swiden, was killed during a confrontation with his mentally ill son, Christopher, 44, on June 12. He was honoured in the eulogy delivered by his youngest daughter, Tanya Dickson at the June 21 funeral at St Charles Borromeo RC Church, Tunapuna. In her eulogy below—which has been edited for length—she responded to the social media furor that erupted after his death.

This won’t be a traditional eulogy. I’m not going to walk you through a detailed birth-to-death timeline—because I can’t. The truth is, I don’t know all the details of my father’s life.

Like many families, ours had its challenges. After living with my father through my early years, our relationship became strained, and we drifted apart for a long time.

But recently, when I began visiting Trinidad with my daughter Zuri, something shifted between us. We started to find common ground, a softer, more tender connection. I got to see a version of my father that felt more open-hearted—more present.

He could never pronounce Zuri’s name correctly, but that didn’t stop him from absolutely spoiling her. And I know it was the same with my brother Canius’ children—Josiah, Kyrie, and Kylian. He lit up with so much joy and love when he spoke about them.

It felt like he was trying, in his own way, to make up for the time he missed with us—Alicia, Christopher, Canius and me. He couldn’t rewrite the past, but he tried to be present for the next generation. And maybe that’s one of the most human things we can do—try again.

If I had to find a word to describe my father’s life, it wouldn’t be ‘provider’ or ‘pharmacist’ or even ‘parent,’ though he was all those things. The word I keep coming back to is ‘caregiver’.

My father had a deep instinct to care for others. It wasn’t always structured or expected, and it didn’t always show up in ways that were easy to understand.

When someone around him was sick, vulnerable, or alone, something in him responded. He showed up—not always in the ways we may have wanted—but in the ways he knew how.

That caregiving spirit, that impulse to ease someone’s suffering, to be of service, to help—especially when people were at their weakest—that was real. That was him.

He cared for so many people in his life: his own mother and my mother’s mother, Aunt Oalita— sometimes, even complete strangers.

As a pharmacist and medical rep, he not only dispensed medication from behind a counter, but he also took it into people’s homes—checking in, advising, comforting.

Recently, he began caring in another way: spiritually. He started helping those who were dying or deeply unwell to reconnect with something greater than themselves. He helped them find peace, when peace felt far away.

But the most painful and important story I have to share today is how he died—while caring for my brother, Christopher, who has lived with severe mental illness for most of his life.

A lot has been said about this. Some have asked why Christopher wasn’t institutionalised. Others have said, “Too many mad people on the streets,” or “He should’ve known better.”

But I want to say something very clearly: many people do not understand what it feels like to be the parent of a mentally ill child. To love someone whose mind you cannot fix.

Christopher was institutionalised for much of his adult life. But I don’t think my father ever made peace with that decision. I believe it broke his heart. I believe he felt like he had abandoned his son.

And so, in true Peter Banfield fashion, he decided to try again. To give care again. To be there in a way he maybe hadn’t been before. He wanted to make up for lost time.

Perhaps some may say that decision was foolish. Maybe it was. But love, especially the unconditional love of a parent, can lead us to make difficult, even dangerous, choices. Love makes us do hard things. It also makes us do illogical things.

But what I see when I look at this tragic end is not a careless man. I see a father who was still trying. I think there’s something powerful in that. Even in his final days, he was still trying.

My siblings—Alicia, Canius, and yes, Christopher—we each had our own relationship with Daddy. He didn’t always show his love in a way we could feel. But he did love us. Deeply. Fiercely. Flawed, but faithful in his own way.

He may not have known how to say ‘I love you’ easily, but he showed it through his expectations, through wanting us to succeed and become independent.

Let’s start taking mental health seriously. Let’s stop saying “he mad” or “she playing mad.” Let’s stop turning away from something just because it makes us uncomfortable. Yes, some people are pretending, but there are so many more who are suffering silently, misunderstood, and alone.

Mental illness has no face. No warning label. It can happen to anyone—after the loss of a job, heartbreak, trauma, or the death of a loved one.

We need more compassion. We need more care. The kind my father gave—not always openly, not always easily—but instinctively, and often through action.

Daddy, you weren’t easy to understand. But you loved. You gave. You tried.

And now, your trying is done.

May you rest in peace, Swiden.