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.
Tuesday, 3 March 2015
Friday, 19 September 2014
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.
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.
Sunday, 17 August 2014
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.
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.
Friday, 25 April 2014
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 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.
Sunday, 9 March 2014
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.
Thursday, 2 January 2014
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.
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.
Sunday, 3 November 2013
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.
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.
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