Ten Years

Today marks the ten-year anniversary of my dad’s death.

As I grow nearer to forty, I realise, with increasing frequency, just how young he was when he died. 

It’s easy to feel robbed; dad spent his 49th year on Earth battling aggressive, stage 4 head and neck cancer. It was nine months from his diagnosis to his death. 

I can never truly express how harrowing that time was for us. 

Watching someone you love succumb to all the horror of cancer is devastating. The impact of it all lasts long after they die. I still feel it, particularly at this time of year. Whenever it hits me, it smarts as deeply as it did in those early days. 

But healing is possible in grief. First, however, you must allow yourself to grieve. And that involves letting yourself feel the pain - the loss, the sadness, the fear, the anger, the loneliness. 

Grieving is not an easy thing to do. It requires enormous strength and fortitude. 

Most people will try to run from it in some way or another. I did. Because, aside from the fact that it isn’t socially acceptable to grieve (and people are forever saying things like, “You’ve got to move on!” or, “They’d want you to get on with life and be happy!” or, “You’re still young, you can love again!”) our human instinct is the remove ourselves from whatever causes us pain. 

So, I ran from my grief. 

The results were almost catastrophic; I did all the things that you shouldn’t do when you’re grieving – the big life changes, the new relationships, the using things to numb the pain… In my quest not to feel what I was feeling, I lost the ability to be authentic. By trying to silence my grief, I silenced myself. 

In the end, I was a wreck. 

I had mistreated myself and allowed others to do the same. I became a skilled liar. I lied to everyone, including myself. I was telling the world that I was fine. I was not. 

It took nothing less than miraculous intervention for me to stop running and lying and numbing myself. In the end, I unintentionally overdosed on drugs I’d been prescribed for endometriosis. 

When I realised what I had done, I called to Christ to save me. My prayer was answered. 

The kind doctors in A & E couldn’t explain it, but I was alive and, aside from some kidney damage, I was unscathed. It was a miracle, and it gave me my moment of clarity; If I continued to run, I was going to die.

Recovery meant learning to be honest. No more lies. No more pretending that I was fine. No more running from grief. I finally had to admit that I was not ok, that losing my dad had broken my heart, traumatized, and devastated me, and that I felt bad all the time. I was deeply depressed and battled with debilitating anxiety. 

One important thing that I discovered, was that grief waits. It hurt like hell. Of course, it did - I loved him. And his death had changed everything – my life, my relationships, my family, me. I had to grieve the loss of it all and ride each wave of desolation and sadness. I had to cry. A lot. I wish I’d done it sooner; I wish I’d allowed myself to cry. I wish I had known that it was ok to cry every day if you need to. 

After I cried for almost a year, and went to therapy, and moved, like a slug in salt, through all the painful memories and sadness and tears, I learned that the waves of grief, no matter how powerful or overwhelming, do eventually pass. And each time you let yourself feel, each time you process a feeling, a moment, a memory, each time you let yourself cry, you are a little more renewed, a little stronger, a little more healed. 

And then, finally, I found a truth that changed everything; I discovered that behind all the pain, the grief, behind the tragedy of losing my beloved, beautiful dad, there was a bright light that had not been stolen away by the darkness of cancer and death: Love. 

His love. 

My love. 

Our love. 

Death hadn’t changed any of it; just as I love him every bit as much as I did when I could laugh with him, or look into his eyes, or hold his hand, the love he has for me remains unchanged, too. 

Love really is eternal. 

And ten years on from my father’s death, I feel his unchanged love for me, every single day, just as I feel the love of God, and the love of my mama. 

In the end, it was all that love that got me through, and I write this as a contented, peaceful, grateful person, who is far happier than the bereaved 25-year-old who lost her dad ten years ago, ever thought possible. 

So, if you are mourning, please don’t lose hope. And I pray that you find the love waiting for you beneath your grief. 

God bless you and thank you for reading xx

Six Years

Dad died six years today. We are still learning to live in this world without him, still learning how to be a family without him. I took him for granted, even though I loved him so very much. I didn’t realise - despite knowing that he was home, that he was safety - when he died not only would our lives change, but our family, too. It seems naïve not to have expected it; the loss of our family as we knew it. He was always there. I don’t remember ever being away from him. And more than a father, a husband, he was a dear friend to each of us. When he left us, the family dynamic that had always been, was no more. Six years on and we are still learning, still trying, still tender from the blow.
I am so grateful for the life I have. I have been saved time and time again. I am so grateful for my mother, my home, my brother, my friends, the children I love, my cats and all of the blessings God has seen fit to give me. But life without my dad, in the flesh, can sometimes feel less. It isn’t ingratitude, just the way it is. A life without dad could only be less. He brought so much to my life; such joy, such wisdom, such laughter and kindness. He wasn’t perfect, and he made so many mistakes. But his goodness far outweighed the bad. And if I could have him back I would go through it all again with him.
But after six years without him, for the first time, I am also grateful that he died and didn’t have to suffer anymore. When people say, just after you have lost someone to a terrible, devastating illness, that you should take comfort in the fact that they are no longer suffering, it provokes pain and anger; you don’t want to hear philosophy. The words feel empty and meaningless, even if they are not. You are drowning in your grief, your pain, your heartbreak at ever having to watch them suffer and die. The fact that they are finally dead and the suffering has stopped brings you no comfort. The fact remains that they did suffer, they did die, and you were powerless to stop it. Your injury is deep and cuts you to your soul. You cannot bring them back, and you cannot undo what they went through. Such words never help and produce nothing but frustration and resentment towards the well-intended, ignorant speaker, even if they are someone you love and even if what they are saying is true.
As it turns out, it is a truth that you have to come to understand and believe in your own time. I didn’t think I would ever find comfort in it. But now, six years since he died, as I think of all that he went through, on his life, and in those cruel nine months, I am finally comforted that it ended, that his suffering stopped, and that his spirit became free from his poor, sick body.
‘They are just suits that we wear’ he always told me. And he was right. When I found him, his body without his spirit, despite the pain and heartbreak, I could see with my own eyes, that what he had told me was true. He is free now, and one day we will know that same freedom. But until then we carry on, learning to live without his suit, and reminding ourselves that his spirit, his love, is still surrounding us, day and night. It’s not the same, never could be, never would be, but just as we carry on, we carry his love and our love, and have faith that whatever might happen tomorrow, that love will carry us through the good times and the bad.
I love you my daddy. Forever. Forever.

A Brief History of Our Time

Many moons ago, when my big brother and I were a couple of semi-malnourished, feral kids in school, we were pulled into some sort of obligatory, tedious assembly/'workshop' along with our equally malnourished and feral peers.
After the usual re-hash of a video and speech about heroes, and what a hero is, all of the students were asked to name who their hero was and why.
Now, my brother and I were what you might consider to be 'odd' children; we were mentally and emotionally precocious after seeing and living through things that most children do not, as well as having very intelligent, loving, but equally mad parents who never talked down to us, or made their language/environment 'baby-friendly' (I recall with great clarity having 'The Crying Game' as one of my most favourtie films at the age of seven).
As such, neither of us were very popular, much less understood by other children, or our teachers for that matter. We didn't talk like most children. We didn't behave like most children. We didn't live like most children.
But we were children, which is why the following makes me feel even more proud.
So, back to the event in question.
One child at a time, the heroes of our generations were thrown into the air, along with that smell only schools carry.
David Beckham. Baby Spice. Baby Spice. Mr Blobby. Princess Diana. David Beckham. David Beckham. Baby Spice. Britney Spears. David Beckham. Robbie Williams. Leonardo DiCaprio. David Beckham.
I recall, to my nine year-old shame, being too embarrassed to tell the hall and everyone in it who my hero was, for fear of the inevitable name-calling and certain public humiliation. So I opted for the safe option and told everyone that my hero was Baby Spice, who I couldn't have given less of a shit about. She was my least favourite Spice Girl.
In fact, my dad always referred to her as 'Poison Spice' because we both agreed that she had a deeply malicious-looking, spiteful face common with pretty blondes who behave in an infantalised way, but who are, most-likely, evil.
The saddest thing was that I didn't even have the courage to say the name of a different Spice Girl that I might have liked more (Ginger Obvs) for fear of adding yet another factor that made me different to the other children who I was so desperate to make like me, or at the very least, dislike me a little less.
Instead, I remember disliking my own self a lot more and feeling ashamed and pretty pathetic upon hearing my squeaky, brummie voice mumble 'Baby Spice', and then, being unable to think of any legitimate reason why that could be, mumbled an enormous lie that she was 'a good singer'.

The reason for my shame was also related to the fact that while I stuttered and lied, my brothers lovely, green watchful eyes were staring at me as I chatted absolute shit. Rory knew. He KNEW.
My brother had an annoying tendency to always read my mind, and, for the most part, know me better than I often knew myself. I felt a wave of disappointment on his behalf.
My brother was always smarter than me, wittier than me, more truthful than me, kinder than me, braver than me, and had far more integrity than me.
I was a chronic liar and a massive thief as a child.
And Rory had spent the majority of our early childhood having to keep me alive.

Red-faced and remorseful, I sank into my chair and waited for the repetition of Baby and Beckham to stop so that I could go back to my lesson and pretend to learn in peace.
Rory's turn arrived.
I knew who he was going to say.
In fact anyone who knew him would have, but precocious, odd children rarely have many friends while they inevitably have to wait for other children to catch up.
So, as I had anticipated, my brother's response was met with shocked, but clearly elated and bewildered smiles from the teachers in the room, and a ripple of murmurs, laughs, mean words and 'who's that?'s from the other children.
Rory had loved Stephen Hawking as soon as he was able read and write.And I believe that, despite being a child, was at that point trying to read his book, 'A Brief History of Time'.

I was sickened as I heard the words 'retard', 'cripple', 'mong' and 'spaz' falling from innocent lips that were already being raised to hate and echo across the hall.
Some of them told him to shut up and said he was stupid - how can someone that ugly, who can't even walk be a hero?
You see, some of the children knew what Stephen Hawking looked like - if they knew him at all - but none of them knew who he was or what he had done.
The teacher's were all able to utilize their rudimentary skill of selective hearing, but nevertheless, they were keen. And impressed. They probed and listened, their heads cocked to one side, with thoughtful, relieved smiles playing on their coffee-saturated lips.
I remember the enormous pride that I felt; my big brother was always right, and always knew what was right, and always tried to do the right thing. I wished and internally yearned to have my own opportunity for public disclosure to be undone, so that I might have been braver and stronger and clever enough to think of a genuine hero, like my brother had.
Rory's hero changed the narrative, and for the remainder of the assembly, Beckham and Baby were put to one side; Anne Frank, Martin Luther-King and Nelson Mandella all made an appearance (although ultimately Beckham came out on top).
But I was stuck with Baby Spice. And it made no difference to my status - I was still as much of an outcast as my brother.
The difference was, regardless of what other people thought about him, Rory always remained genuine and true to who he was. It would take me a long time before I was ever able to say the same for myself.
Rory Conroy - Maverick in the making since 1985.
#RIPStephenHawking
#ABriefHistoryofTime
#ABriefHistoryofourtime
#Myhero

Him at Christmas

My father didn't learn to read or write properly until he left school.
Each year, as far back as I can recall, from December 1st we would all sit down together each evening and take it in turns to read 'A Christmas Carol'.
Only my daddy lacked enough confidence with such a rich, expansive and challenging text. So, for the most part, he would simply sit with us and listen quietly.
When he did read, it was always brief; sometimes he would stammer or become confused, or embarrassed by losing his place etc.
But in the later years, the very last years, he eventually taught himself to read.
He began to devour language and words - the sillier or more bizarre the better. He told me it was just like Frank McCourt's description - they were like jewels in his mouth.
our last Christmas together, when we knew he was ill, but had no way to ever comprehend what was to come and shatter our lives, he sat and read the lovely Christmas book with us. And it was a joy.
And he wouldn't stop.
He wouldn't take turns.
He just kept on reading like a little child in school who has mastered something they feel so proud of, so happy about, that through no malice at all, they refuse to share with the other children or allow them to join in.
We all watched my dad read with absolute pride and delight.
Each time he came to the end of a paragraph, or the beginning of a character's line designated to someone else (because we naturally shared out roles, with my funny brother, when we were small, always adamant that he WOULD be the ghost of Christmas future and point away with all of his six year old might, before remembering that his was the ghost who did not utter a single word throughout the entire book), who had been patiently waiting their turn to read, we could only silently cry with laughter as he rushed quickly into the next sentence, the next paragraph, the next page, to try and prevent his new found experience of joy being stopped.
And I recall looking at my mother and brother with laughter in our green, grey and blue eyes to the point of crying with the endearing funniness of it all, while trying to gently remind him of when it was time for another one of us to read.
But for the most part, none of us had the heart to do it.
So we just listened and watched and loved him. Always.
What a love, what a sweetheart 💖
Mrs Conroy, you chose my father well.
❤️💙💚💛💜

“In my Father’s house there are many rooms.”

Recently I saw a dear friend and we discussed the journey of life.

Examining the impact and purpose of loss, I explained my beliefs; each one of us is here to find enlightenment. Until we reach that individual consciousness that entwines our spirit and our mind, we are re-born. The lessons we each must learn do not come easy and a combination of our own paths and God’s good grace determine our outcome. Ultimately we are always faced with the same choice: live and learn or permit ignorance and die.

I am an old soul. I have been here many times before and I am weary now.

I hope and pray that in this lifetime I will reach my own enlightenment.

I don’t recall a time where I wasn’t in some form of pain. My earliest memories are shrouded in grief. And although I feel so blessed each and every day, I do not wish to go through it all again.

Poverty and trauma always leave a mark. I feel older than my years.

I often look around me and see my fellow beings living with such energy and physical strength. For a long time I envied them; coming to terms with my own physical limitations has been a sad experience. But now I have reached a point of acceptance, I applaud these people that embody what I cannot. Parents strong enough to survive the physical demands of producing and maintaining life in this frantic society that we live in, the ambitious extroverts who fill each day with activity and engagements, the people who aren’t marred by fatigue or frailty.

Now, I admire them.

But in the reconciliation with my own abilities and attributes, I am grateful that I am able to contemplate and develop my mind and soul.

I watched my dad prepare for his death long before he was diagnosed with cancer.
I was lucky to have an example of that man who realised the value of the spirit, of thought and introspection. My father was not a rich man, nor was his later life filled with action or vitality. But he was able to watch and see. He demonstrated to me the need for reflection in the path to our purpose.

I’m watching my mother begin her journey. She is beginning to understand what she must do. Each individual’s enlightenment is painful in the beginning; we must see ourselves clearly and the mirror can be sharp in its clarity.

We both are starting to let each other go. It is the way it has to be in order for us each to move into the next room. And when her time comes, I know I will feel calm beneath my tears because at long last she will have peace.
The chaos of her mind will finally ease.

I take joy in life, despite my scars and fatigue. I look to God to see me through. He provides all I need and has filled my life, however hurtful, with love and warmth.

Father's Day

I felt today coming all week.
Two years ago to this day I lay on the floor at my mother's home and howled. But you didn't come as I truly believed you would.
I have had terrible dreams all week. Dreams of death, dreams of fear, dreams of trying to protect. I couldn't protect you, Dad. My beloved father.

I try not to think of your pain anymore, but I still see my mother's. She is so brave, dad. So brave. What will I do when her turn come? Oh this life is so full of pain. I wish that I could've taken yours away. I wish I could take hers away.

You were a good man. You were loved. I don't think that you always knew these truths. Whatever wrongs you did in your life, you atoned for. Oh my dad, I miss your voice.
I was privileged to care for you as you died, but I wish it wasn't so.

I had a dream where all that happened overwhelmed me and I ran away from it all, ran back in time to before. But then I realised that it would happen all over again and I couldn't bear it.

Father's day always fills me with grief. It's just a day like any other. But I feel envious of others who didn't lose you. Our little world fell apart, you see. When we lost you. We are still re-building. It's true what they say; life goes on. But you never get over it. I lost something so sweet when I lost you. It will never come back. The ache for it will always remain. But I thank God for it, and for the gifts he has given since. You always knew God and so do I. What a beautiful love. When I cared for you and held you in the very same way you did when I was a tiny child. I would not be so selfish to bring you back again if I had the power. I know that you are free, that the pain of life you suffered is gone. Still, of course it hurts without you. But I know you are waiting and watching and loving. I hope I make you proud. I hope I find peace. I hope mom feels your love every day. I hope Rory knows how much you loved him. He is such a good man, dad. He is the best of you. He is your gift to this world.

Sometimes I feel so tired, but life brings me joy. You brought me joy, dad. You still do.

Happy Father's Day from your daughter xx

Make me a channel of your peace.
Death is my greatest fear. The loss of those I love. Having only had the death of my wonderful father to relate to, I fear experiencing that pain again.
Watching my dad die nearly tore me apart. No one explains the way grief can strip you down to your most vulnerable; how the pain of a loss can leave you tattered and on the brink of survival. Perhaps I underestimate myself and my own strength, but I feel that I barely survived losing my dad.
I lost over a stone in weight. Then I became bulimic - the purging allowed me to feel momentarily that I was ridding myself of the awful sick monster of grief that had nestle in my stomach and sought to pull me apart. I became dependent on drugs; oh yes my biggest shame, the very thing that would devastate my dad. But he wasn't there. He wasn't there anymore.

I am no longer bulimic or an addict. I never regained the weight that I had lost. I feel much older than my years. I become tired easily. But despite the sporadic, back-and-forth of the grieving process that still goes on, I have adjusted to life after loss. To life after trauma.

But wait, there's more. Anticipatory grief still remains. I know my mother will die. And others too.
So I stand like a tiny ship ravaged by a storm, but still there, if a little shaken. I lost my sail, my anchor. And I know another storm will come. How will I withstand it when it does?

My anchor, my sail, must be God. There is nothing else left for me to cling to when I weather the new storm. I will lose a piece of myself with each loss. So I pray that underneath all I am is God. Faith. The only thing greater than death and grief. I pray that when I cannot stand and am stripped to my nothingness, God will be there underneath my bones.
"it was then that I carried you."

Make me a channel of your peace. Make me your instrument. I cannot do it alone.