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.

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."

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.