He'd been sick for most of my life, the moments of health were all too short, interspersed between long months of illness; it took a toll upon all of us. Sometimes he was too weak to get out of bed and my mother tended to his needs. I remember seeing the pain contort his handsome face when he thought I couldn't see; usually he would put on a brave face for his little girl. I did though, see it; I'd poke my head around the door frame and watch with sad eyes and a broken heart when pain washed over him in waves robbing him of his senses at times. I heard them talking sometimes, intimate moments of love and loss, and about the future; a future that did not include him.
I didn't understand how sick he was, not really. I was far too young. I'd seen my dad in pain often enough to know it wasn't a happy situation but didn't know what the future was at that point. I held on to the moments in which he was not in pain, when he poured his love into me like a dad should be able to. In those moments life seemed normal; the perspective of a five year old I suppose.
My dad was as large as life, six foot two inches of strength, laughter, bad jokes he thought were funny, cuddles, a water skiing maniac, diligent worker, a man who would turn his hand to anything, dependable and a man who provided for his family no matter what. He was the most amazing man I knew, all little girls probably think that about their dads, but to me he was everything. He protected me, his mere presence made me feel safe, but when I was in his arms I felt that nothing could hurt me, nothing seemed more right, I loved him with every fibre of my being and knowing he was there made me feel that nothing could ever go wrong.
But, of course, it did. Cancer.
The periods of wellness became less and less as the years passed and my mother and I spent more time in hospital visiting him. As I grew so did my awareness of what was happening and it made me fearful but deepened the meaning of my time with him; the smallest moments had profound meaning.
Looking back now, I see that he was wasting away before my eyes, a little more gaunt, thinner, less energy. The light in his eyes faded a little more with each passing month. But as a child of almost eleven I didn't see it; I refused to, or didn't know how to look past my ideal image of the man I called dad. He was, quite simply the most magnificent person I knew. But time passed and things progressed slowly, but inexorably, despite treatments and against all hope.
I was at school one day a week after he'd been admitted to hospital when I was called to the principals office. Your uncle is coming to pick you up, you need to go to the hospital, they'd told me, and I felt tears rise immediately. I remember walking to the school office to wait for my uncle, dad's brother, and how my hands shook. I think I had never felt such dread.
Later, standing by dad's bed holding his hand, I looked upon a frail man, a shadow of his former self, whose eyes betrayed the pain he felt but also held so very much love for me. It broke my heart, something I'd not known could happen over and over, it does though, and it hurts each time. I ignored the hoses the nurses had put into him and the beeping of machines pulled close around his bed. I even ignored the tears that streamed down his face; I just held his frail hand and looked at him, my own tears falling down my cheeks unchecked. I didn't speak for a long time, I couldn't. Now I know why, I was afraid of the words.
It's ok dad, I'll be ok.
His lip quivered as I spoke and his head moved so lightly left and right on the pillow, eyes never left mine. His hand moved slightly within mine and I pressed tighter. He couldn't speak, but his eyes said everything - He refused to leave me, couldn't leave me.
He had held on to life, stubbornly refusing to fall, just for me, but it was a fight he was not able to sustain. He fought, as if by sheer force of will he could defeat the insidious disease that had dominated his life and mine.
He told me once that he would love me forever, that he would protect me forever, and even in this weakened state he refused to fail me. I started crying, not for me but for the pain I knew he felt, physical and emotional. I cried because my heart was broken, because I wanted my dad to stay, but had to let him go. I cried because he would take most of me with him.
Earlier my mother had told me I had to say good bye to my dad, that he had to go. I don't know how she found the courage, but now, years later it makes sense. She was, and is, stoic and that day I learned what it means to have strength and courage. She didn't cry, just wiped my tears away with a thumb, hugged me, and said, go now, and I walked into the room.
I love you dad. Please, don't be in pain anymore. I will be ok and want you to be ok too. You will always be my dad, I will love you my whole life but please, don't be in pain anymore.
I could say no more. I just cried.
I don't remember much after that. I was crying so hard. I don't know how I let go of his hand; sometimes, even now, I feel it in my own and it haunts me. It was the last time I saw my dad. He slipped away a few hours later and with him went a large part of me.
He was thirty three years old, I was eleven.
Life was difficult from then. It was fractured, broken, and no matter how hard we tried it didn't work properly as there was a piece missing.
Strangely, people drifted away, my parents friends. Other than family, most of which were several hours away, only a tiny handful endured. That hurt my mum though she never said it. Twelve months later my mother and I were virtually alone and financially struggling. The life insurance policy my dad had wasn't much, they were not wealthy people to start with, and my mother had to find work, whatever she could. We made ends meet, but there was precious little left over and life was meagre; we were together though, and I'd promised my dad I'd be ok, so I had to be.
A few years later I began an apprenticeship and started work in the beauty industry. I remember the pride I felt, as a fifteen year old, receiving my first pay packet. I took it home and gave it to my mother who had worked tirelessly to put me through trade school, buying my equipment and books and transporting me around. I felt I owed it to her.
I want you to have this mum, I'd said with pride. She cried.
My mother refused the money, so I insisted we go for a meal somewhere, the first dinner out we'd had in a very long time. I remember what she said to me that evening, I'll not repeat it here, but I remind myself of it every day when I feel like giving up or when life seems difficult. She is a remarkable woman and I feel fortunate to have her in my life.
It has been many years since I was that eleven year old girl who told my father it was ok for him to leave me.
I didn't want to say those words and didn't know at the time how they'd haunt me, but he'd raised me to be brave, stand and face adversity and to be open and honest.
Life has been difficult; it wasn't easy up to that point but after dad passed away life became incredibly difficult. I endured though, we endured, my mum and I. Since then, so many wonderful things have happened, amazing things, so much so that sometimes I scarcely believe they could be true, that life could be so bright. Of course, life isn't always that way and the opposite has happened too. I learned that lesson early.
Not a day goes by in which I don't think of my dad. I wish he could have seen me grow into a woman, that I could have seen his smile when I succeeded or hear his wisdom when I didn't. I wish I could have shared my life with him as I'd thought I would when I was a young girl. But life had other plans and I tragically lost a central figure, a pillar of strength, who was snatched away.
Even now, when I achieve I want him to see. When I fail, I need his advice. When I doubt, I need his reassurance and when I love I want to be able to give it to him. But Love and loss sometimes come together in the worst ways.
It sounds almost unreal now, the knowledge that in those brief eleven years I lived a lifetime with my dad and that he has affected my life so profoundly to this day. I cry sometimes, at night; I feel empty or that pieces of me are missing; it's a wretched feeling. It's at those times I remind myself what he told me right before he went into hospital that last time though. It's private and I'll not share it, but those words cradle me, nurture me and make me feel he is here, with me still.
This is a true story loosely describing the love I have for my father and the circumstances around losing him to cancer when I was a child. It's painful, but writing these words are also healing; they bring him closer to me and that's a good feeling.
I have written this for the #weekend-engagement concept week one hundred and three. You can find the writing prompt suggestions here or pinned to THE WEEKEND community page.
Becca 💗
If there is an image in this post I took it myself or someone took it of me, for me