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.
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