I have to write this and I have needed to write it for a long time now. Mum is on holiday at the moment and I’m missing her voice, her presence (even though I live in London now), so I thought there was no better time than the present to write this. I’m doing this for me, for her, and also because sometimes I feel very isolated with my depression – I think the story of my Dad, if people knew, would make others understand a little better how things in your early years have repercussions far beyond the immediate.
I was eight years old when the heart and soul of my family was ripped right out. My path in life altered in an instant. I didn’t know it then, but I know it now. When you’re eight, you don’t imagine the future in the same way you do when you’re a bit older. You think about school, about play, about toys, about your mates, about tea. There were many things I didn’t know back then that I know now. For a start, my dad wasn’t the only heart or soul in my family. When he passed, I thought him irreplaceable. Yet over time, many people have filled that gap in small, big, medium sized chunks. This is a blog post about one of them.
I can’t quite believe it’s been sixteen years since he was taken. I say “taken”, as if someone slipped into our home out of sight and just led him away. It didn’t quite happen like that. It was one moment; his heart just gave out. He was there in the morning, and gone come the afternoon. In a matter of hours, my life was divided: pre-Dad and post-Dad. I sit here writing this and if I’m quiet and still, I can hear the thud of my own heartbeat; a beat which is half his. Most people take it for granted that that little muscle will just keep pumping away until they’re seventy, eighty years old… for most of us, seventy and eighty are ‘good innings’. Dad got to forty-six. People talk of eighteen as young. To me, forty-six is young. For all my moaning about turning twenty-five next month, I am really just as much an infant as I was the day I was born.
I’m not sure if we did something wrong in a past life. I believe in God – and people tell me God works in mysterious ways. At times this can be a comfort. At other times, I want to bludgeon these people to death with their own Bibles. I don’t know why he had to die – if he did have to die. Much less, I don’t know why it had to be our family. Why any family really? At forty-six, you should be looking forward to the future. Seeing your two kids grow up. Working hard, knowing you’re over the halfway point to a glorious retirement. We always think there is more to come, but for my Dad there wasn’t.
To many of you, March 5th is just any other day. For my family, not so much. I imagine my Mum screaming in white hospital corridors. I can see her body sinking down the wall. I can see her crying on my elderly neighbour in the dining room as I open the door. I can see my Aunt pull me away and sit me on the stairs. I can still hear myself ask her where my Dad is, because I’d seen him come home from work that morning, complaining he didn’t feel well. I can see my brother throw his bedclothes across the room. I can see my Aunt standing at the bedroom door to stop us bolting out to God-knows-where. I can still feel the silence and the stillness as my whole world stopped turning.
We buried him the following Wednesday, March 13th. I remember kissing his cold forehead on that Wednesday morning and crying my eyes out in the funeral home. I knew in my little girl’s heart that this was the last time I’d see my Daddy. Even in death, I’d got used to visiting his body every night. It was comforting to me, to be able to see him and talk to him, even though I know his soul and his essence had already gone. My brother never did see him properly in the funeral home – I wonder if he regrets it. My memories of that day are as happy as they are sad. Happy because there were times of laughter that day and it felt like hearing laughter for the first time. Sad because nothing would – could – ever be the same. Mum, my brother and me faced a very uncertain future, one without the one man who we could rely on for safety and security. The provider, the protector, our adored and beloved David. And now I’m crying. I did almost five paragraphs before a tear fell, which I consider good going. It’s still so raw – if you consider forty-six young, then sixteen years is nothing at all.
I don’t think I’ve ever said goodbye to my Dad. I feel I should have done by now. Then again, I don’t believe we ever truly say goodbye. He is half of me, and as long as I am alive, part of him lives. But I am seeking closure; I am now in my mid-20s and the inability to make sense of what happened sixteen years ago is still holding me back. I find it hard to trust men. I find it hard to maintain friendships without an element of paranoia and fear of loss. Jealousy inevitably creeps in as I cling to those I love. It’s not easy, but I am taking direction from my best friend, my Mum. If there can be a hero in this sad story, it is her.
My Mum is tough as old boots. She lost her own father in October, 1995. Dad died the following March. Her mother-in-law died of a broken heart just 2 years later, and mum’s mum passed a year after that. She has also recently lost her niece and god-daughter, also my cousin (2004). Her eldest brother lost his battle with cancer in September 2010. She has suffered from Crohn’s disease, an incurable bowel disorder, for the most part of her life. She has had depression. She has had blood pressure problems. She defeated pneumonia just last year. Mum is not a quitter; she does not give up; every challenge she has faced in her life she has met with great strength and heart. She raised two kids through the single toughest time of her life. Mum could’ve hit rock bottom and stayed there. But for me, for my brother, for herself – she bounced back.
And that’s why this blog post isn’t really about me or my Dad. It’s therapy for me, but really it’s a open letter to Mum. It hasn’t always been plain sailing. Ten years ago, I probably wouldn’t have written this at all. At fourteen, I was a total cow, which had as much to do with my Dad’s absence as it did with hormones. I resented her in many ways; resented her for pushing me to do well at school, resented her for trying to help me (I didn’t need no help, thanks!), resented her for being so stunningly pretty (my own insecurity), resented her advice on clothes and make up, resented her for not being my Dad. I have said terrible things to her. Screamed in her face. Trashed my room. Thrown things at the wall. Ran out the house, leaving her to wonder if I was coming back. I regret it all, and I have said sorry multiple times. The guilt will stick with me for the rest of my life I suspect. But that was an angrier time, and thankfully those times are history, thanks in no small part to Mum herself. She never gave up on me either.
Most parents would have kicked me to the kerb, but she only held me closer and loved me harder. She was no softy – she gave tough love and told me the home truths, and she still does to this day. The greatest thing she ever did other than never give up on me was to help me confront the feelings I had towards my Dad and his death. She recognises that my grief has been holding me back for many years. But not just grief – anger too. Anger not towards her anymore, but anger towards my Dad for leaving me and my family. Anger for not fighting harder in that hospital. Anger for not being here when we were all falling apart. Anger for not being present at some of the most important moments of my life. Anger that he won’t be there when I get married and have children. And I am confronting it now as I type these words.
Mum – you may never read this. I have decided to publish this to my friends, but you’re not on the internet and you probably never will be, knowing the technophobe you are. Maybe I will let you read it, I don’t know. Right now you’re sunning yourself in Italy and I hope you have a glass of wine in your hand and are enjoying every moment of your very-deserved holiday. This is my mum’s first holiday abroad since 2009. After the ups and downs of the last 3 years, no one is owed a holiday more than her.
I’ll finish this here with this final message to Mum. I have not been an easy daughter to raise, but never doubt for one second that you haven’t done a stellar job with your kids. You did the best you could do with the shit hand you were dealt. I promise to you that I will always make you proud – I will overcome my demons (2 weeks, no cigarettes!). I will appreciate every good thing, big or small, that happens in my life. I will give thanks every day that you are in my life and that I had the most loving, caring family any girl could ask for. I will give thanks that I had my Dad even just for eight years – it was worth every moment. And I want you to know that more than anything, I am proud of you. Most people would not get through what you have got through. The word “hero” is used too frequently these days. People like my Mum never get any recognition – they have no statues in their honour, they haven’t fought wars in distant countries, they haven’t won gold medals. But Mum, you are my hero. And I will continue to make you proud of me, starting right here in London, right now. I’ll fail and falter sometimes, like I already have in this past year, but I know you will always have my back, and I’ll always have yours. I love you.
Saturday 1st September, 2012