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.