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.

I had a dream recently. My dad was dying again. I had three days. Just three days left with him to say goodbye. I couldn't get to him in time and all the grief, the pain of then, came back to me. It always stays with you, but it sinks down deep inside, it becomes hidden. But in your dreams you're defenseless against it. When it returns, when something happens in life to twist you inside, it resurfaces in waking and in dreams.
I'm afraid that I'm destined to lose all those I love. The idea of it overwhelms and terrifies me; to go through all of that again... I'm afraid I won't survive it. But it often seems to me that my hardship in life, my purpose and cross to bear, is sadness and loss. Trying to get through a lifetime of watching and trying to prevent grief.
I know I can't control it. I know I have to put my trust in God. But I don't know how to stay strong and trusting. I am so tired and so afraid.
I want my dad. I'm tired. I feel like I have lived a lifetime of fear and chaos and grief.
It will be his birthday on October 2nd. What am I going to do? Another year without him. Another year of struggle. I want my dad and I want everything to be okay. But God keeps guiding me to struggle. My journey, then, has to be about survival. About remaining strong. I don't feel strong. I feel fragile. My friends and loved ones tell me I'm strong. But necessity gives you know other choice when your world crumbles around you. But each time a new blow hits me, I can feel something inside me being taken away. I don't want to become hardened or bitter. But with an open heart comes more pain. I am a good person. I can't lie or be cruel or hold grudges. I can only love and survive. But I don't know what will be left of me when it's all finished. When my journey ends.

I often stare in wonder at people who live sheltered, blessed lives. They do exist, these people that have never known or felt hardship and loss. I wonder why it seems that their destiny is to escape the things that my destiny continues to show me. I think perhaps I envy them. Or maybe I'm too tired for envy. Maybe I am just a bystander of grief in my own life. I am standing, watching in stunned silence, as it continues to unfold. The never-ending grief.

Our last Christmas together, shortly before the official diagnosis, my mom found him crying in their room. It was Christmas eve.
My dad had always disliked Christmas - the chaos of it I suppose, but more to do with the fact that it reminded him of losing his mother, who died when he was just 21 years old.
He had enjoyed that Christmas in 2012, though. And he had sat there crying alone because he knew it would be his last one. The last Christmas we were all together.
I think about it all less consciously now, less often. But in my dreams I go back to the times when he was alive; turbulent, stressful times. We had a hard time long before the cancer came. But oh God the cancer was the worst. The trauma of watching someone you love slowly deteriorate and die never goes away. We fought so hard.

If I could summarise the most painful moments they would go like this (in chronological order):

- The 17th of December 2012, shortly after my 25th birthday. The day my parents came into my room to tell me that the doctor suspected cancer. God how I sobbed. I knew. Even then I knew. My poor parents.

- The day they cut him in February after the diagnosis. All day at that hospital. Watching him pale and afraid as they took him away for surgery. He held the nurses hand. All the waiting that followed and then seeing him afterwards looking so ill and in so much pain. The longest day of my life. I hated the world that day.

- The day we had to rush him into hospital because the chemotherapy was killing him. No white blood cells left. Not even one.

- The day he had to phone the doctor and plead for methadone because he had run out. That particular doctor viewed drug users with distaste. I remember him - the sort of person who believed a brisk walk could cure depression. What a self-righteous, irritating little man. He's retired now. I'll never forget the way he made my father beg, the way he said that cancer was no excuse. I hex that man. I pray for his enlightenment. Beardy twat.

- The first time dad stopped breathing in his sleep. The terrible death-rattle noise that came from him. The awful grey colour of his face. And then the paramedics who treated him with disdain because of his drug addiction, who told the doctors he had HIV. The hospital staff who left him without water or oxygen.

- The day at the hospital when they told us his lungs were covered. No more pretending or hoping. No more 'we can beat this'. Shadows everywhere. Our disintegrating little family went home together for the last time.

- The last few weeks of his life. He lost the use of his arms. His bowel and bladder functions. The ability to swallow. Watching him wither away. It was such hard work, too. Oh more poor, sweet dad. How it aged you. The pain you were in. Yet I did the same as all the others. I am guilty too. I hid the morphine because you were taking so much to try and ease the pain and I was afraid it would kill you. I thought you wanted it because you were an addict. I judged you too. God help me. I let you down. And such ridiculousness! You were dying of cancer and I was timid with your pain relief in case it killed you! Denial of what was really happening never left me. I just couldn't comprehend what was happening, even though I was living it every day. I told you that you weren't allowed anymore and you lost your temper and shouted at me. You said the pain was too much, the pain in your once strong arms. And I cried then as I'm crying now. I took it all from it's hiding place and made you some rice pudding, the only thing you could swallow. The very next day the doctors started injecting you with dia-morhine. The end was so near and I still didn't realise.

- The morning I found you. The last time I ever saw you. And I thought you'd wake up for me, dad. I really did.


I don't think you'll wake up for me anymore. As time moves by and my life changes I still ache for you and feel such regret that you can't be here to witness all that has changed. I sometimes wonder if I am far away from you now; if in learning to live this new reality without you means that you become a distant memory. I don't want that. But time does ease adjustment, it does provide the distraction of life. For me at least.

Still, the bouts of crying grief still emerge with intensity and when I least expect it. They like to come and remind me that none of it was a film I saw or a story I heard or a bad dream I had; they remind me that the pain was real, the loss is real and both will continue to do so. As I grow older I know I'll miss you more. I wish you could see the woman I'll become. I wish I could have visited you as a forty-something lady to have a chat and make you tea and tell you I love you and still feel like your little girl even though I'd be grey and a little wrinkled.

I wish.

The 26th April 2014 is their wedding anniversary. It would be 28 years. That morning, 28 years ago, they caught the bus together to registry office. They had no money. She wore a smart, grey suit/dress. He wore a mullet haircut and a 1980's 'tache. They were so young. They had a little baby boy and an unborn baby girl. There's a photo of them on the day; she's holding the baby boy and looks beautiful, but tired. He's eating cake and looks sweet. They are relaxed together.

My dad said he didn't propose because as far as he was concerned, they were already married. She said to him when she discovered she was pregnant for the second time, "Shall we get married then?" and he said, "Yes".
She wanted his name. She loved him so much.
It wasn't all loving bliss. I remember plate throwing and dramatic arguments. I remember the price paid for such passion. But more than all of that, I remember him loving her and taking care of her. I remember him putting her first always. His princess. He'd wait for her to come home from work, take off her boots, listen to her chit-chat away, soothe her, stroke her, put her to bed. He'd settle her down and pretend he was coming to sleep too. Then about an hour later he'd sneak out, back into the living room to watch TV. Within no time at all she'd be back to get him: Semi-conscious, indignant and demanding, "WHERE DID YOU GO? COME BACK!" And he always would.
Yes, my dad was always so pleased to see his Jacqueline.
Come and have a rest, my princess. You work too hard.

My parents saved each other. Had they not found one another, I don't know what would have become of them.

My dad was a drug addict. An unhappy, violent young man. My mom was so vulnerable, so damaged, so open to destruction.
I thank God that they found each other. They were given a gift that is rare: an absolute, true, passionate, gentle, unconditional and lasting love. Very few ever know such a love, although so many live in search of it.
Their journey wasn't without strife. They were dysfunctional, damaged, hedonistic people. They had two small children and lived in poverty. It was them against the world. Our home was filled with utter chaos and love.

It's been over a year since my dad's death. I still miss him, still cry for him. But more than anything, I cry for my mom. For her loss. For the fact that they were parted. I watch her now; I see how strong and brave she is, I see how she tries. I know the detriment of her loss and how cruel it was.

I would like to give my dad back to her. I would like to undo their separation. I know that he waits for her in another place. How could he not when he loved her so? But while his journey in this world came to an end, her's carries on, and I know she is lonely for her Peter.
She used to make him promise, when he was alive, long before the cancer came, that he wouldn't leave her behind. And when the end came he was so sorry to break his promise. He knew what would follow and how much she would miss him.
How can I express such a loss? How can I tell the world and make it understand what was taken away from this woman? That I nor any other have ever witnessed such a love. And when he left, they lay in each others arms.

My God, the price we pay for love. What a gift, what a blessing, to be taken away so early, to leave her without him now. If I think on it too much I am filled with grief. I pray to God that he walks with her until my dad comes to take her home with him. I don't doubt it, but I wish I could shelter her from the pain of absence.
How can it be that my dad is dead and my mom is without him? How can one be without the other?
If I could, I would give them back to each other. Their's was such a rare and beautiful love. He loved her so much. There was only her.

Happy New Year

I have always disliked New Year. Even as a child it always represented the end of my favourite season; an absence of warmth, an emphasis of chaos and disorder, and an unidentifiable sadness. January is a cold month. I remember the dread of going back to school, where I was always odd and disliked. I remember the mess and dirt of our home after the festivities and fun; the Christmas decorations gathering dust and no longer looking beautiful as the days slipped by into spring.

This time round the idea of a new year is very different to me. I welcome it. I view it with tender trepidation that is surrounded by a fragile sense of hope. I hope. For me, my faith in God has always equated to hope. When I pray, I hope.

The past two years have left me feeling bruised by life. Now that a new year has begun I am almost shell-shocked with what has happened. So much has happened. So many changes. Sometimes life moves so quickly I feel I can't keep up. Sometimes I want to hide away from it all. And the older I get, the more the pace quickens.

I pray, I hope, that this year will be less turbulent than the last, and the one before that. Everything is still very raw. Perhaps I feel it more so now (an entire year since he died) because the pace is slowing and I am allowed to feel. I am slowly beginning to recover.

Each day I catch a glimpse of my Dad in my mind's eye and see him alive and smiling. It always brings tears and a kind of heartache that takes the wind out of me. Oh, I miss him. I couldn't have anticipated just how much. Remembering him is a joy and a pain all at once. I often wonder when (if ever) I will be able to remember his face without tears smarting in my eyes and a sore swelling in my chest. My Dad would want me to live my life, be happy and joyful. So that is my goal at the end of the horizon. But, of course, it's not that easy. Grief is the testament to our love when faced with loss, so even for his sake, I can't switch it off. But one day I hope the joy of his memory will out-weigh the pain of loss, and I will make him proud.

So this year I pray, I hope, that we will be blessed with peace and calm to soothe our loss and our heartache. I pray, I hope, for strength and guidance as I learn to love who I am in living my life without the grip of fear governing me.

We have endured and now we will overcome. Happy New Year, Dad. I love you more than I even knew.

When the fear governs

Lately I find myself wondering what my dad would think of me now. So much has changed since he left us. So much is irreversible. I worry that he would be ashamed of me. I worry that the person who emerged from this loss will only cause harm.
It’s easy to feel lost inside the turmoil of grief and pain. Sometimes I feel emotionally numb; detached from everything that has happened and everything that is happening. It makes me question myself and my ability to feel. It makes me question my ability to love.

I believe that each person has a spiritual journey throughout their lives that is highly personal. We each have our own cross to bear and our own gifts and attributes that allow us to learn as we live. Then when the day comes that we have learnt all we need for our individual purpose, God calls us back to him. I don’t know what my journey is yet. I watched my dad reach the end of his journey and I’m watching my mom as she perseveres through hers.

I think that if we are governed by our fear, God strips it away by making us face the things we dread; a truly painful process, but one that will eventually make us free. You are free because you are untouchable from the fear that chained you, and with such freedom, you can truly grow.

The truth is I have never felt more alone. For me, grief is both loneliness and fear.
C.S Lewis said “No one ever told me that grief felt so much like fear”.
I want my dad back to take away the fear, to tell me that I’m still the same person I was before even if I don’t feel it, and to tell me I’ll be happy again one day. But I know that I have to look inside myself and at the fear that governs me and wait patiently for the waves to wash over me. I will still be here when it’s gone and I hope that I will be free.

This time last year.

10.11.12
"The hospice nurses came round this morning. They want dad to go into the hospice and have offered us a flat there so we can stay with him. But dad wants to stay at home, so that is what we’re doing. I think what’s important now is that we respect his wishes. Our priority is that he doesn't suffer and has things his way. This year he has been so brave and so strong. But he’s had enough now. He wants to die at home and we will love him and nurse him until his last breath. I feel so blessed and privileged to be able to care for my wonderful, kind, loving father during his last days in this world. He cared for me all my life and I hope now I can care for him with the same love, patience and warmth. For the past few days I have felt so low. I have struggled to be strong. But today I felt differently because I have realised what a blessing it is to be able to be here for my father as he dies. I’m so grateful for that. I am heartbroken that I’m losing him, but today I feel blessed that I am here to take care of him.

He’s deteriorating quickly. Two weeks ago we took him to the hospital for the last time. Dad had fallen down the stairs on the way out and was so weak and frail. He was too shaky to get his words out so I told the Doctors, Jennings and a room full of complete strangers standing there staring at my poor dying dad, that he had had enough, no more investigations, painful procedures, he wanted to go home.

Daddy is getting weaker and frailer with each day. It won’t be long now; a few weeks perhaps. But despite it all his mind and spirit remain the same. He’s still his usual funny, lovely self. On Wednesday it really hit me – how ill he was and how little time there is left. He was so sick and having a really bad night. He was shaking as if he had Parkinson’s (the cancer has spread to his brain now) and looked so, so ill. He was confused and in pain and barely conscious. And I realised how quickly it was happening; he’s already on his journey into the next world. He’s dying and it’s plain to see. I was shocked, even though I knew it already. I began shivering and crying quietly. We didn’t think he’d make it through the night. I realised that this experience, this terrible loss, would be the hardest thing I have ever had to face. I have always thought of myself as a strong person, but for the first time I see that I may not be strong enough to survive this."

Today is my dad's birthday. He would have been fifty-one. This time of year is proving to be hard. So many anniversaries that mark the worst year of my life. His birthday, the day they told us he was going to die, the day he died, his funeral. Nine months since I saw his face, since I heard his voice. Nine months isn't that long a time, but as the end of this terrible year approaches, the reality of never seeing my father again beats like a painful drum in the back of my mind. Oh God what I wouldn't give for his advice, his wisdom, his love. I am lost and confused, trying to guide myself through. I trusted him more than I trust myself. His judgement and his selfless love for me meant he would never steer me wrong. What would he say to me now?

My dad had a hard life. His childhood was cut short and he grew up to be an angry, unhappy young man. It was his love and faith that saved him in the end. He paid the price of his mistakes and he atoned for them in his death. Oh God,he was so selfless in the end. He went through all of the treatment for us. He wanted to rest, to enjoy peace in the time he had left. But he let them cut him, for us. He let them poison him, for us. He let them try to burn the cancer out, for us. In the space of nine months he aged twenty years. Fifty years on this earth.

I miss my dad. Some days are okay; I'm learning to be a grown up, to look after myself. But other days are so hard and all I want is to be a little girl again and climb up next to him for a cuddle and listen to him talk. He always talked to me. Even as a little child he encouraged me to express myself and listened to me. He made my thoughts and opinions feel valued and worthwhile. He gave me my self worth and belief. He told me I deserved to be happy, to be respected, to be valued.

My dad was a flawed human being, but he was a good father to me. Not perfect by any stretch, but he laid the foundations that have made me who I am. He loved me so much! I never doubted it for a moment. I was always so proud to be his daughter. He always meant the world to me.

Happy birthday, dad.

A word for Bethany Conroy, my daughter from heaven.

A letter my Dad left for me...

"My little Bethany when you were born you were my 'little munchkin'. God gave me a handmaiden of the Lord to watch over and what a joy it has been.
I tell you my little baby, never has there been such a wonderful daughter, never has a father known such joy and happiness. Thank you little one.
Bethany, take the world by the scruff of the neck and be busy because you can do whatever you want so take advice from mom and be successful and happy.
Remember my baby you are very precious so the man you choose must be right, but I'll not worry for you are no one's fool.
Praise and serve the Lord with all your heart and soul.
I will watch over you, even though your eyes may not see me. Trust that I can see you. Bethany look after your mom for me.
Live long and grow old. Enjoy life for it is truly a gift from the Lord.
With your loved ones I will wait at the gate to greet you. Be joyous.
Godbless my darling daughter. Love Dad xxxxx"

I'm trying dad, I'm trying xxxx

Written by Peter Conroy 15.10.10

"These are a poor attempt at acknowledging my criminal inadequacies as a father. May God forgive me for I never shall. I take responsibility for my wife's failings for she was a child and I a man.

Selfishness

How could I let my children suffer so?
How can a father be so selfish,
Thoughtless and brutish?
My anger and neglect in their youngest life
scarred them like the sharpest knife.
So small, so afraid, wondering what was today's emotional cascade.
A father's role should be joy not task.
Whatever the reason why, that was not the lot for mine.
I gave them love, only unconditional as long as I had my fill.
When I think of the harm I've done,
I cry for what I've done.
The neglect, the histrionics from me and their mom.
My ignorance so, so blind;
I thought not abandoning them made me decent.
I'm always here, except when I'm not.
Oh my poor, beautiful children,
You endured and still do,
Because of memories residue
For the parenting I failed to do.
Now I see you grown and know I am so unworthy of you.
You are so wonderful; your greatest rage belongs to me.
At your least, you are brighter than the sun.
Godbless you both,
I love you.
From the unworthy one.


IF

If I could be anything, I would be what I had not been for my children.
If I could do anything, I would do all the things I had not done for my children.
I would undo all of the things I did to my children.
If, with my blood, I could wash away the pain I caused my children,
I would bleed every drop for my sins against them.
To die a death of a thousand cuts could not;
Would still betray my children.


Guilty As Charged

Why should I have a peace-filled day
When their pain I may not allay?
Why should I grow old and grey
For the pain I gave I cannot take away?
I see their pain etched into their face;
Why should I know peace or grace?"

The First Day of the End

It was Mid October when we found out the cancer was terminal. Eight months after the official diagnosis. The time is important to me; it highlights how swift and merciless it all was. We barely had time to blink before it was all gone. Before he was all gone.

He had finished his treatment; been given the all clear and was nevertheless getting sicker, smaller, weaker. After the second time he had stopped breathing in his sleep our kind Doctor convinced him to go for an impromptu scan at the hospital. Dad didn't want to go. He was sick of hospitals, of being chopped and burnt and poisoned. But this Doctor was a man he loved and respected, so he agreed.

At the hospital we had to wait a while. It was very busy, with lots of frustrated faces surrounding the walls. Hospitals are unhappy places. People under enormous stress, people desperate, people alone.
We were eventually seen by a young Doctor. He was perfectly nice, but repeatedly tried to make my dad confess to taking too many drugs. Here we go again. Why did they all refuse to believe us when we told them he'd had nothing? By that point he was being fed and watered through a stomach peg. Nil by mouth. In the end dad said he had taken Valium. It wasn't true, but I knew he wanted the young Doctor to stop asking him the same question. They took an X-Ray of his lungs just to be on the safe side. After all, this drug addict had also had cancer.

We waited for a long time. Dad had wanted to go. He'd admitted his crime, now he wanted to go to bed. But we waited: Mother, Father, Daughter, Son.
Eventually the young Doctor came back with another man, a senior Doc. By this point we were giggly and giddy with silly jokes and nonsense. We were a great family. We made each other laugh. I had almost forgotten why we were here. What did they want? When could we get out of here? We said, just tell us what's what here in the waiting room, Docs! We don't mind, we can see your busy. Ignore the vending machines! It's all fine.

They smiled but didn't laugh at our jokes. They removed an angry, waiting family from a room for us to talk. My dad was quiet. We wheeled him in. The daughter of the family glared at me, raising her voice. I'd been there. Poor wretch.

Inside the room we sat and waited. They followed us in and Dad knew. He had always known. They weren't experts in this field, the older Doctor said. But there were shadows all over his lungs. Then he put his arms around my dad and told him he was so sorry to have to be the one to tell him.
Lung Metastasis. No one beats that.

Back in the waiting room we were all crying. Quietly. No more silly jokes. Did the people there notice? We had been so happy before.
Oh God my poor mother. Her love, her friend, her everything.

I went to phone my boyfriend. I doubt I made much sense. I said, "He won't be saved".

In the taxi home we had an irritatingly talkative driver who insisted on telling us how curable cancer was. My mom was rude, told him to shut up. I was glad.

The sun was shinning through the clouds and a little rain. It was an Autumn day, just like today. Just like today. Then on the radio a song was played that will always make me think of that moment.
When I wept. I wept. I wept.

Love Story. By Peter Conroy 23.09.09

"My childhood was short, violent and punctuated by the gentle love of my mother, Mary. She died a few weeks after my 21st birthday. Her life was hard! I mourned for a year. I loved her very much.

I spent my time over the next couple of years drinking, taking drugs and generally being a handful for anyone who crossed me. I was a pleasure seeker (but not with girls). I wasn't sexually active - not for the want of opportunity, but more because I was shy and no girls met with my unrealistic standards. Then, out drinking one night I bumped into two pals of mine - Mickey Follan and Paul Lang. While we were sitting at a table a girl approached. She was the girlfriend of Paul. She was wearing an outfit from the 1950's, had a style of her own and followed no fashion of the day. She had long-ish, jet black hair and her stare pierced me. It made me feel uncomfortable.
This made me feel self-conscious so I made a remark;
Who's the pikey?
I said this to deflect the nervousness she had aroused in me. She looked at me and spoke. My remark did not go unnoticed by her and she quickly made it clear that as well as her obvious beauty she was quick-witted and sharp. More so than me. By the end of the night a seed had been planted in me, with consummate skill. Soon we became acquainted, each meeting leaving me more hungry for her company. I was painfully shy and could only speak to her after a few drinks. Within a very short period of time I was besotted by her; she filled my every waking thought. To feel her body next to mine when we were seated next to each other was like nothing I had ever felt.
One would think that having such feelings towards her would make me steal her away, but I was so unsure of myself. I knew she had feelings for me, but I was very backwards at coming forwards. Even though every part of me longed for her, dreamed of her and worshiped her, I still hadn't made her mine. But she was much braver than me, and much brighter.

It was early night and because the pain of not having her had become unbearable, I had decided to do something about it the very next day. But then, a knock at the door came and there she was. I knew this was the moment my dreams and hopes had come true; my beloved was mine. I had fallen in love with Jacqueline more than a year before and now, finally, we were together.
Each day I would check that it was not a dream; that the most awesomely beautiful woman that God had ever made loved me. That God in all his glory had given me my 'Bathsheba'. Such beauty has not been seen, and I doubt will ever be seen again.

Jacqueline gave me two children, most wonderful. Rory, my first born; strong, gentle and brave. The rare type of man that most people are not fortunate enough to meet. One could only dream of having such a son.
Then Bethany, named by God; full of life, funny and a joy to be near. She is loving, kind, beautiful and funny in ways that endear her to all who know her. Like her mother, her intellect is formidable. She is God's treasure and our beloved daughter.

I have now been married for 25 years to my Jacqueline. I love her more each day if that's possible. I adore her. She is mine forever and ever. Praise be to God.

When I look at pictures of our children, I see in Bethany her mother and in Rory, myself. But my children are far superior to me. They are self-aware at an age when I was still lost. It was only God who put my beloved Jacqueline at my side and made a foolish, unhappy young man, the richest man on earth."

Your very own apocalypse

"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.