"Another loss is the 'old' you, the person you were before the loss of your loved one occurred, the person you will never be again. Up until now, you didn't know this kind of sadness. You couldn't have even imagined anything could feel this bad. Now that you are inconsolable, it feels like the new 'you' is forever changed, crushed, broken and irreparable. What is left is a new you, a different you, one who will never be the same again or see the world as you once did. A terrible loss of innocence has occurred, only to be replaced by vulnerability, sadness, and a new reality where something like this can happen to you and has happened."
After my dad was diagnosed I went to the cemetery with my boyfriend for an unrelated reason. I looked around at all those loved ones, taken away by death, and I asked him, "Do you think my dad will die?". It was the first time I had asked the question out loud. The first time I had voiced any doubt that he would beat this disease. A bit of surgery, chemo, radiotherapy. Easy as pie. But his answer was, "I don't know, Beth." I was grateful.
I was unprepared for the impact of losing my dad. While he was sick and then when he was dying I could only see so far into what lay ahead; the funeral, my poor mother, trying to return to 'normal'. I didn't realise what it would do to me, how it would shake my very foundations. Turn my little world upside down.
Imagine waking up one day without the sky. It's always been there, the sky. You never question it's existence or longevity. It's the sky. You look out of your window and it's there. You step outside and it's there. You have never imagine life without it being there. You don't know how, so ingrained it is into your consciousness. And imagine that you loved the sky with all your heart, with everything you are. Then one day it's simply gone. You have not just lost that beautiful, tall blue sky. You have lost your life as you knew it. Your very own apocalypse. What you didn't bank on was that you would still be there when it was all over.
Suck it up. You have no control. That life you thought was yours, isn't. The bad things you worry about, the hurt you try to avoid. It doesn't matter. You can't avoid any of it. You have to relinquish control because you never had it to begin with. It was an illusion. You lived in a daydream where you could prevent the bad things from happening. Magical thinking.
When you are thrust into the new reality of grief and loss you are changed too. How could it not be so when everything else is no longer what it once was? I remember my heart hardening as we walked through the hospital corridors; looking at the dying people who would be my dad's mirrored future. I felt nothing but disdain for them. I was not interested in their tragedy. I felt no compassion, no pity. My only concern was my dad. My poor dad.
And after he died, something in me died with him. A nameless part I can't put into words. I can only feel it now that it's gone.
Thursday, 29 August 2013
Tuesday, 27 August 2013
Today I Miss My Dad
One of the most heartbreaking realisations about losing my dad was that the love he had for me, all that he gave me, is gone with him. He loved me more than any man ever will. That isn't to say I won't ever be loved, but a father's unconditional, selfless love and adoration of his child is irreplaceable. I was so scared when he was dying. Who was going to take care of me when he was gone? I felt like a lost child. I searched the faces of people around me, looking for something to fill the void in my heart, to soothe that loss.
It has taken me a long time to realise that I can never re-capture what I have lost.
My dad thought I was wonderful in every single way. He believed in me far more than I ever believed in myself. When he looked at me, he saw perfection; his greatest achievement.
I didn't see what he saw when I looked at myself. I wanted to find another person who could give me what he did and it seemed hopeless.
Now I see things differently. I see that I was so blessed to have such love for my first twenty-six years on earth. I understand that although I will never have it again, I was given enough to learn to see myself the way he did, and in consequence take care of myself the way he took care of me. Many people aren't equipped with such a gift to help them through life.
It is always raw and painful knowing that this man who loved me far above himself is now gone and I am without him as I try to work my way through life. Many times throughout the day I wish he was here still to comfort me, reassure me, tell me it's okay. But when it gets really bad and I feel despair, I ask him to help me. Then as if by magic, I can hear his voice and what he would say to me if he was here with me.
Twenty-six years of his unconditional love means that I already know what his words would be and I can say them to myself when I feel bad. Whenever I do this I feel calm again and comforted. His voice resonates within me. For that I am so grateful.
Losing my dad is teaching me to be strong and finally grow up. I know that life has many more hurt to throw my way and this is the lesson that will teach me how to survive. One day I will lose my beautiful mother, perhaps even my friends and partner.
My dad taught me everything. His last lesson for me is how to endure and overcome the inevitable losses in life, and how to love myself the way he always did.
"I see through these eyes you gave me,
And it's easy to think that maybe you'll be fine, we'll all be fine.
All the nights that you watched us in our sleep
And we never made a peep
And I was safe,
And love is Blue."
Tuesday, 20 August 2013
Your loved one still exists. On the long road you now walk alone, you have unseen companions.
I found my Dad. Even though my mother was wrapped up asleep next to him, holding his hand which was still warm from their love.
I knew I would. I knew the day and the time he would die, the same way I knew he was going to die. Yet despite days of sleeplessness and exhaustion, of watching and praying, when he took his last breath, the whole house slept.
The cancer in his lungs had caused two bouts of severe apnea that had nearly ended his life so the district nurses (whose care and compassion was a true gift from God in those last desperate weeks) gave use a baby monitor so that we could keep a close watch over his breathing as he slept.
The cancer in his lungs and spine meant that he could no longer use his arms. Instead they would shake and jerk about in the strangest way. I would spoon feed him rice pudding and hold his cups of tea and coffee to his lips while he drank. I would stroke his silver hair and kiss him on the forehead. In the days before he died, he cried out, "I want my boy, get me my boy" and my brother would pick him up like a baby and try his best to put him at ease while Dad's body twisted in pain.
On the day he died he was given the Last Rights in the Afternoon. My brother held him up and my dad reminded me of the image of Christ when he was taken down from the cross. His eyes were rolling in his head and his body was jerking, but he was conscious and ate the communion they gave him. It was all at once beautiful and agonizing. I was suddenly so filled with anger at his suffering that I had to leave the room. I had realised that he would be put into a wooden box when it was all finally over. The thought of it made me rage inside.
He lost consciousness that evening, although his body continued to twitch and writhe. His breathing was strained and I sat with him and stroked his forehead like I always did and told him it was okay to rest now. It's okay, Dad. You can let go if you want to. You don't have to fight anymore. Rest now.
At around 8pm I went for a nap. In the final days there is no sense of time or reality. I slept for a while and when I woke up my mother was getting into bed next to Dad. She said he seemed to be breathing better and it looked like he might have a restful night sleep. I was so relieved that I could go back to sleep. I took the baby monitor into my bedroom and slept to the sound of his breathing.
I woke up at 4am. I knew immediately that he was gone. I checked the baby monitor, which was silent. I walked quietly into their bedroom and there he lay; white and bloodless. I never imagined a person's lips could turn so white when they had always been so pink. I touched his forehead and it was cold. Trust him to sneak away into the night as we all slept. It looked like him, but wasn't him. It was like a waxwork model, an empty suit of Peter Conroy. His eyes were open a little and they were dry and glazed like marble. No light or life inside the vessel. A suit he wore. Oh Dad such an awful thing to see you lifeless. It haunts me still.
I woke my Mom as gently as I could. I didn't want to frighten her. She said I was wrong. How could he be dead when she was there the entire time and was still holding his hand, which was still warm. Then she looked at him, his glassy green eyes and she believed me. I woke my brother.
While we waited for the funeral people to come I sat with his body and began to sob. I pleaded with him to wake up. Wake up, Dad. Come back. Please. I don't remember who guided me away when the men came to take him, but I remember my sister-in-law holding onto me while I howled.
I knew I would. I knew the day and the time he would die, the same way I knew he was going to die. Yet despite days of sleeplessness and exhaustion, of watching and praying, when he took his last breath, the whole house slept.
The cancer in his lungs had caused two bouts of severe apnea that had nearly ended his life so the district nurses (whose care and compassion was a true gift from God in those last desperate weeks) gave use a baby monitor so that we could keep a close watch over his breathing as he slept.
The cancer in his lungs and spine meant that he could no longer use his arms. Instead they would shake and jerk about in the strangest way. I would spoon feed him rice pudding and hold his cups of tea and coffee to his lips while he drank. I would stroke his silver hair and kiss him on the forehead. In the days before he died, he cried out, "I want my boy, get me my boy" and my brother would pick him up like a baby and try his best to put him at ease while Dad's body twisted in pain.
On the day he died he was given the Last Rights in the Afternoon. My brother held him up and my dad reminded me of the image of Christ when he was taken down from the cross. His eyes were rolling in his head and his body was jerking, but he was conscious and ate the communion they gave him. It was all at once beautiful and agonizing. I was suddenly so filled with anger at his suffering that I had to leave the room. I had realised that he would be put into a wooden box when it was all finally over. The thought of it made me rage inside.
He lost consciousness that evening, although his body continued to twitch and writhe. His breathing was strained and I sat with him and stroked his forehead like I always did and told him it was okay to rest now. It's okay, Dad. You can let go if you want to. You don't have to fight anymore. Rest now.
At around 8pm I went for a nap. In the final days there is no sense of time or reality. I slept for a while and when I woke up my mother was getting into bed next to Dad. She said he seemed to be breathing better and it looked like he might have a restful night sleep. I was so relieved that I could go back to sleep. I took the baby monitor into my bedroom and slept to the sound of his breathing.
I woke up at 4am. I knew immediately that he was gone. I checked the baby monitor, which was silent. I walked quietly into their bedroom and there he lay; white and bloodless. I never imagined a person's lips could turn so white when they had always been so pink. I touched his forehead and it was cold. Trust him to sneak away into the night as we all slept. It looked like him, but wasn't him. It was like a waxwork model, an empty suit of Peter Conroy. His eyes were open a little and they were dry and glazed like marble. No light or life inside the vessel. A suit he wore. Oh Dad such an awful thing to see you lifeless. It haunts me still.
I woke my Mom as gently as I could. I didn't want to frighten her. She said I was wrong. How could he be dead when she was there the entire time and was still holding his hand, which was still warm. Then she looked at him, his glassy green eyes and she believed me. I woke my brother.
While we waited for the funeral people to come I sat with his body and began to sob. I pleaded with him to wake up. Wake up, Dad. Come back. Please. I don't remember who guided me away when the men came to take him, but I remember my sister-in-law holding onto me while I howled.
Thursday, 15 August 2013
A Bad Experience
When my Dad had finished all of the treatment (aggressive surgery, chemotherapy & radiotherapy) they gave him the all clear. The trouble was, he wasn't getting any better. Everyday he was getting sicker and sicker. They said that is what chemo and radiotherapy does; it strips you bare and leaves you close to death in order to save your life. We didn't know it then, but the cancer had spread to his lungs.
One evening he stopped breathing and my mother found him grey and lifeless in their bed. She called to me. I ran in, looked at him and called an ambulance. While we tried to bring him round and he started to chain stoke. They call it the 'death rattle'. What a terrible sound.
The ambulance came. Three paramedics - two men and a woman. I told them his history as I let them in. As soon as they heard the word 'methadone' they decided he was a junkie. The woman said it must be an OD. They didn't listen when I told them he hadn't had anything that day, he'd been too sick. They assumed that he must have done it in secret. Drug addicts are sneaky.
They injected him with adrenaline and were surprised when nothing happened. He wouldn't wake up. I wanted to scream. They put him on oxygen. Then they put him in a wheel chair and the two men carried him down the stairs with his head banging against the stair rails. In the ambulance they ignored him and us. Sat in the front of the vehicle I cried and told the driver my dad was a good man. He didn't say anything, but he put on the lights and sped up. At the hospital dad came round. He was frightened. He was shaking and his body had gone into withdrawal. There were drunks fighting and the police.
After a long wait they decided to keep him in for oxygen and dehydration. Only they didn't give him oxygen and left him in a bed for 8 hours without even a cup of water by his side. When my mother asked for some water the ward nurse told her to use water from the hot tap at the sink. I eventually found the doctor who had been told by the paramedics that my dad had AIDS.
We found him a wheel chair, called a taxi and took him home.
One evening he stopped breathing and my mother found him grey and lifeless in their bed. She called to me. I ran in, looked at him and called an ambulance. While we tried to bring him round and he started to chain stoke. They call it the 'death rattle'. What a terrible sound.
The ambulance came. Three paramedics - two men and a woman. I told them his history as I let them in. As soon as they heard the word 'methadone' they decided he was a junkie. The woman said it must be an OD. They didn't listen when I told them he hadn't had anything that day, he'd been too sick. They assumed that he must have done it in secret. Drug addicts are sneaky.
They injected him with adrenaline and were surprised when nothing happened. He wouldn't wake up. I wanted to scream. They put him on oxygen. Then they put him in a wheel chair and the two men carried him down the stairs with his head banging against the stair rails. In the ambulance they ignored him and us. Sat in the front of the vehicle I cried and told the driver my dad was a good man. He didn't say anything, but he put on the lights and sped up. At the hospital dad came round. He was frightened. He was shaking and his body had gone into withdrawal. There were drunks fighting and the police.
After a long wait they decided to keep him in for oxygen and dehydration. Only they didn't give him oxygen and left him in a bed for 8 hours without even a cup of water by his side. When my mother asked for some water the ward nurse told her to use water from the hot tap at the sink. I eventually found the doctor who had been told by the paramedics that my dad had AIDS.
We found him a wheel chair, called a taxi and took him home.
Tuesday, 13 August 2013
Which is worst?
2012 and 2013 - The shittest years of my life so far. I think. To be fair, I have probably had some vicious contenders, but nothing has quite been on a par with my Dad dying of cancer.
He was diagnosed in 2012 and died December 5th of that year. So one would assume that 2012 wins in regards to shittest year. It was pretty fucking horrendous. Cancer is a cruel disease. It sneaks up on you and before you know it you're standing by your father's coffin.
But 2013 is the first year of my life without him, and I have since felt despair on a level I never knew existed. I have had my share of sadness in my short life. I thought I knew emptiness and grief, but now I know that anything I experienced before this was just a practice run for what was to come.
Whatever doesn't kill you.
2012 was a long, hard year that ended too quickly. It was the 17th of December when my parents came into my room to tell me the doctor suspected cancer, four days after my 25th birthday. I knew then and there that it was cancer and I knew that it was going to take him. I have always had a voice inside my head that guides me; something that tells me what to expect. My dad called it instinct and that I should always trust it. That voice told me that my dad was going to die.
But you aren't allowed to say things like that when someone is diagnosed with cancer. You have to say positive things to your loved ones and to strangers, too. People don't know what to say. It's awkward and they don't want to make you sad so they say things like, "Recovery has so much to do with staying positive!" or "Cancer is so treatable these days!". And you don't want to make them feel uncomfortable either, so you say things like, "Oh yeah, he's doing really well!" even if he spent the night vomiting or can no longer swallow. People don't want to hear the truth and most of the time, you don't want to acknowledge it.
My mother spent her every waking moment trying to bargain for my dad's life. Even in October, when they told us that the cancer was back and had spread to his lungs and bones, she tried to bargain for a time limit: Okay, let him last till April. Till the New Year. Christmas. At least. Please. Please.
As it turned out, he died on December 5th, eight days before my 26th birthday. We had his funeral on Christmas Eve. It was a beautiful service. He was a beautiful man.
2013 has another four months left so I suppose the verdict is still out. But this year has been monumentally shit. Granted, I no longer have to watch my Dad suffer. I don't have to see him shaking or twitching or hear him cry and apologise. I can sleep again and I don't have to worry about whether the nurses are going to come round and give him pain relief or try to think of a meal that might tempt him to eat even though I know he can't chew because they took his teeth and he's going to die so why do I concern myself with something so trivial which isn't going to save him, Beth. You aren't going to save him. Say your goodbyes, let him go. Can't you see he's tired now?
No, I don't have to go through that in 2013. Now I'm just left with the memories of that terrible time.
2013 has taught me that I am alone. I believe that is the lesson of loss: You are all alone in your grief. You have to ride the waves and have hope that you will eventually overcome. There can be no escape. Grief will wait. It is patient in it's purpose.
In 2012 I had my dad. He was sick and I had to watch him die, but I had him. Now in 2013 I am watching the dominoes fall in the aftermath of losing him. And there are still more to come.
He was diagnosed in 2012 and died December 5th of that year. So one would assume that 2012 wins in regards to shittest year. It was pretty fucking horrendous. Cancer is a cruel disease. It sneaks up on you and before you know it you're standing by your father's coffin.
But 2013 is the first year of my life without him, and I have since felt despair on a level I never knew existed. I have had my share of sadness in my short life. I thought I knew emptiness and grief, but now I know that anything I experienced before this was just a practice run for what was to come.
Whatever doesn't kill you.
2012 was a long, hard year that ended too quickly. It was the 17th of December when my parents came into my room to tell me the doctor suspected cancer, four days after my 25th birthday. I knew then and there that it was cancer and I knew that it was going to take him. I have always had a voice inside my head that guides me; something that tells me what to expect. My dad called it instinct and that I should always trust it. That voice told me that my dad was going to die.
But you aren't allowed to say things like that when someone is diagnosed with cancer. You have to say positive things to your loved ones and to strangers, too. People don't know what to say. It's awkward and they don't want to make you sad so they say things like, "Recovery has so much to do with staying positive!" or "Cancer is so treatable these days!". And you don't want to make them feel uncomfortable either, so you say things like, "Oh yeah, he's doing really well!" even if he spent the night vomiting or can no longer swallow. People don't want to hear the truth and most of the time, you don't want to acknowledge it.
My mother spent her every waking moment trying to bargain for my dad's life. Even in October, when they told us that the cancer was back and had spread to his lungs and bones, she tried to bargain for a time limit: Okay, let him last till April. Till the New Year. Christmas. At least. Please. Please.
As it turned out, he died on December 5th, eight days before my 26th birthday. We had his funeral on Christmas Eve. It was a beautiful service. He was a beautiful man.
2013 has another four months left so I suppose the verdict is still out. But this year has been monumentally shit. Granted, I no longer have to watch my Dad suffer. I don't have to see him shaking or twitching or hear him cry and apologise. I can sleep again and I don't have to worry about whether the nurses are going to come round and give him pain relief or try to think of a meal that might tempt him to eat even though I know he can't chew because they took his teeth and he's going to die so why do I concern myself with something so trivial which isn't going to save him, Beth. You aren't going to save him. Say your goodbyes, let him go. Can't you see he's tired now?
No, I don't have to go through that in 2013. Now I'm just left with the memories of that terrible time.
2013 has taught me that I am alone. I believe that is the lesson of loss: You are all alone in your grief. You have to ride the waves and have hope that you will eventually overcome. There can be no escape. Grief will wait. It is patient in it's purpose.
In 2012 I had my dad. He was sick and I had to watch him die, but I had him. Now in 2013 I am watching the dominoes fall in the aftermath of losing him. And there are still more to come.
Sunday, 11 August 2013
Thoughts After Cancer
April
I keep looking for you in other people and they always disappoint me. It isn't fair, but I can't seem to help it. I feel so uncertain and lost. My emotions are alien to me. I just miss you, Dad. Help me to get through this.
May 2013
I remember this:
You carrying me on your shoulders when my legs were tired. You making me calm when I was sad and afraid. You being silly in the kitchen and making me laugh every single day. You telling me I was beautiful. You in pain and crying because there was nothing that could be done. You holding me in the hospital when I cried because you wouldn't be saved. You fretting about the shitty cat in secret and acting like you didn't care and then falling down the fucking stairs trying to rescue him from the rain. You taking care of mom because you loved her better than anything or anyone on earth. You laughing with Rory in the living room about boy jokes I wasn't allowed to hear. You hiding cakes from the rest of us. You shouting at the TV. You watching football in secret. You singing silly, made-up songs. Them cutting you. You lying there when I found you. You whispering "I love you too" on the monitor. You teaching me to tell the time and tie my shoe laces and telling me to trust my instincts no matter what.
I'd love to see you again, to have a chat, to tell you how much I love you, to ask for your advice, to tell you not to fuss and would you like something to eat, it's no trouble, Dad, I'll have some too if you eat. I miss you.
June 2013
Today I just don't understand.
I don't understand that I will never see him again. That he is gone and never coming back.
I looked at photos of him - his face that I know as well as my own. And I'll never see it again or hear his voice. There's just silence now. I know that if in fifty years time I heard that voice again, I'd know it instantly. The recognition of a part of myself; the constant from each day on my 26 years on earth.
Six months since he died and I'm waking up. Slowly, the reality is becoming real. Everything we went through and what death means.
No one explained it to me. They said, "It's going to be tough". That was the word they all used. "Tough" doesn't cover it. It didn't then and it doesn't now. "Tough" doesn't cover the exhaustion, the suffering, the piss, the shit, the vomit, the pain, the drugs, the tears, the humiliation, the loss of hope and knowing that whatever I did in the end I couldn't save him.
Here we are now. All that hard work. We tried so hard, fought so hard. Prayed so hard. Anything. Everything. It didn't matter, he died anyway.
Oh God anything to ease his pain. Anything to give him a moments peace. Any wrong he did in his life he atoned for in his death. Crying and apologising. It's okay dad. Poor baby, it's alright, we love you.
June 2013
Today it hurt a lot. I made a sound I didn't recognise, like a wail. I called for you over and over. I believed my heart and the pain were so strong that you'd somehow appear regardless of physics and biological matter. How could you not when I needed you so much and you loved me so much?
Will I wake up one day and be fine? I don't see how? Will this mark me forever? You can't forget the pain if you love someone. How long did you mourn for your mother, Dad? A year, you said. I can't see this all being better in another six months. That would mean I am at the half way point and it feels like it's only just begun. I must have been sleeping my way through grief. Now I'm waking up to this unbearable pain and there's no one in the world who can save me from this heartache.
I rang the Samaritans today after you didn't appear. The woman said it was just something I had to go through because of how much I loved him. Unavoidable. No one can stop it. One day at a time, kid. One moment. If you need to cry, just cry.
Happy Fathers Day. I miss you, Dad.
July 2013
It's a shame that our last, precious moments were so frantic and full of pain. They argued in the last two weeks. Those two weeks were the hardest. He deteriorated so quickly. Each day brought a new crisis, a new blow. She was trying so hard to save him against all odds. She fought so hard every single day; so desperate and bargained till the very end. He said he'd be dead soon anyway. As always he was right.
I wish our last year had been more peaceful for him. I wish we had been able to be calm and serene. But we were so afraid. So desperate. We fought with death. What else could we do?
August
Today I talked about the bad times. God I love you, Dad, and all is forgiven, but there were bad times too. Too many drugs. I used to be afraid of you when I was small. You were volatile and unpredictable then. Not like the man you were in the end; calm, gentle, loving. I miss you. I'd take all the anger and fear if it meant seeing you again.
You were flawed, like anyone. Such a selfish, damaged young man. But I loved you so much. So much. Daddy's girl.
I have treated myself carelessly. Now I am trying to be kind to myself. I've never done that before. I am trying to see myself the way you saw me. That is all I can do now.
I keep looking for you in other people and they always disappoint me. It isn't fair, but I can't seem to help it. I feel so uncertain and lost. My emotions are alien to me. I just miss you, Dad. Help me to get through this.
May 2013
I remember this:
You carrying me on your shoulders when my legs were tired. You making me calm when I was sad and afraid. You being silly in the kitchen and making me laugh every single day. You telling me I was beautiful. You in pain and crying because there was nothing that could be done. You holding me in the hospital when I cried because you wouldn't be saved. You fretting about the shitty cat in secret and acting like you didn't care and then falling down the fucking stairs trying to rescue him from the rain. You taking care of mom because you loved her better than anything or anyone on earth. You laughing with Rory in the living room about boy jokes I wasn't allowed to hear. You hiding cakes from the rest of us. You shouting at the TV. You watching football in secret. You singing silly, made-up songs. Them cutting you. You lying there when I found you. You whispering "I love you too" on the monitor. You teaching me to tell the time and tie my shoe laces and telling me to trust my instincts no matter what.
I'd love to see you again, to have a chat, to tell you how much I love you, to ask for your advice, to tell you not to fuss and would you like something to eat, it's no trouble, Dad, I'll have some too if you eat. I miss you.
June 2013
Today I just don't understand.
I don't understand that I will never see him again. That he is gone and never coming back.
I looked at photos of him - his face that I know as well as my own. And I'll never see it again or hear his voice. There's just silence now. I know that if in fifty years time I heard that voice again, I'd know it instantly. The recognition of a part of myself; the constant from each day on my 26 years on earth.
Six months since he died and I'm waking up. Slowly, the reality is becoming real. Everything we went through and what death means.
No one explained it to me. They said, "It's going to be tough". That was the word they all used. "Tough" doesn't cover it. It didn't then and it doesn't now. "Tough" doesn't cover the exhaustion, the suffering, the piss, the shit, the vomit, the pain, the drugs, the tears, the humiliation, the loss of hope and knowing that whatever I did in the end I couldn't save him.
Here we are now. All that hard work. We tried so hard, fought so hard. Prayed so hard. Anything. Everything. It didn't matter, he died anyway.
Oh God anything to ease his pain. Anything to give him a moments peace. Any wrong he did in his life he atoned for in his death. Crying and apologising. It's okay dad. Poor baby, it's alright, we love you.
June 2013
Today it hurt a lot. I made a sound I didn't recognise, like a wail. I called for you over and over. I believed my heart and the pain were so strong that you'd somehow appear regardless of physics and biological matter. How could you not when I needed you so much and you loved me so much?
Will I wake up one day and be fine? I don't see how? Will this mark me forever? You can't forget the pain if you love someone. How long did you mourn for your mother, Dad? A year, you said. I can't see this all being better in another six months. That would mean I am at the half way point and it feels like it's only just begun. I must have been sleeping my way through grief. Now I'm waking up to this unbearable pain and there's no one in the world who can save me from this heartache.
I rang the Samaritans today after you didn't appear. The woman said it was just something I had to go through because of how much I loved him. Unavoidable. No one can stop it. One day at a time, kid. One moment. If you need to cry, just cry.
Happy Fathers Day. I miss you, Dad.
July 2013
It's a shame that our last, precious moments were so frantic and full of pain. They argued in the last two weeks. Those two weeks were the hardest. He deteriorated so quickly. Each day brought a new crisis, a new blow. She was trying so hard to save him against all odds. She fought so hard every single day; so desperate and bargained till the very end. He said he'd be dead soon anyway. As always he was right.
I wish our last year had been more peaceful for him. I wish we had been able to be calm and serene. But we were so afraid. So desperate. We fought with death. What else could we do?
August
Today I talked about the bad times. God I love you, Dad, and all is forgiven, but there were bad times too. Too many drugs. I used to be afraid of you when I was small. You were volatile and unpredictable then. Not like the man you were in the end; calm, gentle, loving. I miss you. I'd take all the anger and fear if it meant seeing you again.
You were flawed, like anyone. Such a selfish, damaged young man. But I loved you so much. So much. Daddy's girl.
I have treated myself carelessly. Now I am trying to be kind to myself. I've never done that before. I am trying to see myself the way you saw me. That is all I can do now.
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