What would my Dad have made of ChatGPT?
- Rebecca Morris
- Jun 20
- 4 min read
What would my Dad have made of ChatGPT? That’s a question I’ve been asking myself a lot just lately. Why? Because my Dad, Peter, was an old school journalist. A man who prided himself on crafting sharp copy. He made his career out of writing - all from the heart, all from his own head.
The concept of ChatGPT would have absolutely blown his mind. It would have fascinated him and horrified him in equal measure. He would have felt deeply intimidated by it, like many writers; saddened that his craft was under threat.
He was from the typewriter generation. I remember how traumatic he found it when he had to switch from a manual typewriter to an electronic one. He was horrified by the newfangled technology but begrudgingly began using it.
You can imagine how he felt when he eventually had to make the move to a computer. He shouted and swore at it daily.
I can still hear him tapping away in his office - always up early. Always at his desk by 6.30am with a tea in hand, still in his pyjamas. That was when his brain worked the best, in the early morning after a good night’s sleep.
His office was next to my bedroom and it was a sound I woke to every morning as a teenager. His big fingers hammering on the keyboard as he thrashed out a press release. Always so well written.
Like me, he always wrote about issues he was passionate about - in his case, farming, the countryside and history.
He grew up in the countryside - in Belper, in Derbyshire. A primitive cottage with no heating and a bucket lavatory! He spent his childhood driving on tractors and roaming in fields. The great outdoors was what really made him tick.
Dad died almost 18 years ago when I was 26. Tragically, he died on his 60th birthday. On November 4, 2007, we should have been drinking beer and eating moules frites in Honfleur, Normandy, celebrating. Instead, Mum and I were with him at his bedside in the Macmillan Nightingale Hospice that day, watching him take his final breaths.
He had a couple of skin cancer scares over the years, but had received the all clear on that. Sadly, the cancer had spread to his brain and he died from a secondary brain tumour. We didn’t know he was ill until just six weeks before he died.
The last time I saw him before I knew he was ill was when he dropped me off at Birmingham Airport with my friend, Laurie. I remember Dad and I bickered a little in the car - probably something to do with the journey and the route we were taking.
Still in my mid 20s at the time, I was outwardly mature, yet inwardly so immature. Now in my 40s, and a parent myself, I wish I could go back and, instead of bickering, simply hug him and tell him how much I appreciated the lift and everything he did for me.
Sadly, I’ll never get the chance to talk to him again and tell him about that, as a fully grown adult who now totally sees the bigger picture of life. Back then, I didn’t have any responsibilities, really. The biggest decision I made that day was probably what to wear to the airport.
Throughout our life together, Dad always told me he loved me. And I always told him. He knew. But I still wish I could go back, now armed with my new perspective, and do some things differently.
When I got home after the holiday, he was in bed. Mum said he hadn’t been well and that he’d been getting some words confused. And from that day, horror ensued… ambulances, hospital admissions, discharges, admissions and, within no time at all, the hospice bed, where his life ended.
I’ve been thinking about my Dad more than ever recently, wanting to reconnect with him in any way I can - looking at old photos and reliving moments in my head.
The thing that saddens me most is that I understand my Dad so much now, as an older, wiser adult. And through our shared love of writing - our mutual path from journalism to public relations, I now feel like I have far more in common with him than ever before. I long to tell him how passionate I am about my work, about communicating and how much he inspired me. He would get it all, in a way many other people can’t.
Instead, I’ll keep writing about my Dad, telling my children about their wise and brilliant Grandad Peter and surround myself with photos of him around my house (Mark Wolynn talks about the power of displaying photographs of loved ones who are no longer here to aid emotional healing and reconnection, in his book ‘It didn’t start with you.’ The brain doesn’t know the difference between a face in a photograph and a face in real life).
I’ll keep appreciating the 26 years we had together, thank him for giving me so much love, encouragement and support when I needed it most.
Thank you, Dad, for everything you’ve given me. I’m a “chip off the old block,” as you would have said.
And Dad, you’ll be pleased to know I didn’t use ChatCPT at any point to create this blog. “What’s a blog?” I can hear you saying…. I’ll save that for next time!
