Love me do

PLEASE NOTE this is probably the most 'lame' thing I've ever written, if you don't want to read about my dead dad and how much I love my family then don't read it! I don't want anyone thinking I'm writing this for sympathy because I certainly am not. If I wanted sympathy I would go and cry in the street, not over the internet. THANX

My father died 11 years ago on Friday. Which in itself is fucking bizarre. He was 56 years old, and had suffered cancer for most of the 9 years I had been alive so far. I knew him as a hilarious, but serious man (or what I can remember of him). Obviously, I have been terribly sad about losing him since he died, but only recently have I really started to understand what he was about, just how badly he suffered, and why I'm such a miserable bitch now I'm a pseudo-grownup.

My beloved Taid (Welsh, for grandfather) passed away recently. Of course, this has been incredibly sad in itself; but it's led me to think far more about my father, in a way I never have before. I do not understand death or grieving. Never have. As a child, when I lost my dad, I don't think I was old enough to process such complex such emotions; obviously now that I have gained a few years, I realise the meaning of these things, but I still don't feel capable to process them. My Taid only died a month or so ago, and I'm quite sure that it still hasn't fully affected me yet. Hopefully I won't do the same things I'm doing now ten years into the future, but only time can tell (I suppose). The sudden reality of his death forced me to remember what happened with my own father, which is why I'm writing this now. Sort of.

I felt, on the day that my Taid passed, like I had lost my father all over again. Watching my mother and aunts lament the loss of their wonderful dad reminded me that my own was absent, which although it may sound silly, had never really occurred to me before. I have never thought about all the things I haven't had, and will never have, because I don't have a dad. Obviously his death bothered me, much so during my horrendously angsty and stereotypical younger teenage years, but I had never really considered what it meant. I simply knew that I was sad that he wasn't here. Which in itself, is senseless, because I could barely remember what he was like. Now, I think far more about what it's going to be like growing up without him. I will never get to enjoy getting pissed around the kitchen table with my parents and family the same way my mother and aunts did with their mother and father; when I supposedly walk down the aisle, I will have no-one there to be saddened by giving his daughter away; I will never get to speak to him about his many hobbies, such as his love for music; I will never be influenced by his decisions, thoughts, or feelings. These may seem like fairly petty things to be sad about, but they are all new to me. I've recently taken up looking through every single photograph I can find in my house, which include my family in the 70s before their lives were enriched (ruined) by children, my mum and aunties when they were little, myself and my brother and sister when we were little, and various others. I've looked quickly through pictures before, but never really cared much for staring at them for hours. Now I stare at every picture and absorb it. I want to put them under my pillow at night in some hope that the memories will permeate my brain. Until now I have never sat alone crying for my father, asking him to come back for a day so we can have a chat. Ever. Finally the very real prospect of him being forever absent is kicking in, and I'll tell you that it's quite saddening.

I know it's absolutely pointless to sit and wish for a dead person to come back, but it's almost like it's been delayed for eleven years. I feel very, very childish at the moment, almost wanting to cling to my mother and for her to drag me around and take care of me. When I start getting all silly about my dad, I have to battle the instinct to go and get into her bed so she can calm me down (if I don't learn these things now, then when…). I went through several years of absolutely hating her guts, which I feel endless remorse for now. Undoubtedly, she caused me a lot of upset in previous years; but I never considered that she looked after two teenagers and a child whist also nursing her dying husband every day, and doing a nursing degree. I think that's a fairly impressive feat for anyone. I will hopefully never understand how it feels to lose your partner of nearly thirty years, but I can imagine from seeing my Mamgu (Welsh for grandmother) after my Taid's death, that it is probably the worst fucking thing that can happen to anyone. She found a new partner fairly quickly after my dad passed away, which at the time didn't bother me, but the dissatisfaction reared it's ugly head when I hit about 13. Sometimes I still get angry about it, but all I have to do is think about my father after he had radiotherapy when he had no hair, and the anger fades away fairly quickly. I found a letter the other day that she wrote to him after he died, and I don't think I've ever read anything so sad in my life. I don't know how much she thinks about him now; she doesn't cry anymore, as far as I know. But with my new perspectives, I can't particularly blame her for how she dealt with it. She's told me that the year after she died was the worst of her life, that she could barely get out of bed, and didn't work for the duration. I can't fathom how she managed to hide this from me at the time. My memories from the time are the same as any happy child. She reckons I've blocked out all the horrible stuff, which wouldn't be a surprise. Only recently have I started having these vague trickling memories of all the horrible things that went on leading up to, and after my dad's death, which I'm sort of grateful for, as at least now I'm slightly more able to deal with them. I think they've been locked in my head, waiting for the right time to surface, eating away at my life without me even realising.

I looked at some photographs today of my mum and dad on holiday in '78 (I think). They look so happy, that it would make any couple jealous. I am so glad that they had such a wonderful time together. It gives me similar feelings when I look at pictures of my Mamgu and Taid together; they were so in love, right up till the end. My darling Mamgu said to us after Taid passed that she was still in love with him, and liked him very much (even after 60 years of marriage). In every photograph they are pictured together, they are giving each other a look, or an ever-so-slight gesture that you would see unless you were looking for it, which completely restores my faith in love and companionship (I have never been one to believe that love lasts or even exists). I can only hope that I experience similar things.

When I was going through aforementioned angsty teenage-hood, I didn't care much for anyone in my family. Obviously I didn't hate anyone (except my mother) but I never really spared them a second thought. I suppose that's a normal part of being a teenager, although god fucking knows why. I can't help but see them now as a group of absolutely angelic carers and nurturers. It's probably a bit over the top as of recently, but they all deserve it. I have a wonderful family of incredibly strong people who have all overcome huge tribulations throughout their lives. One of my aunties cares for her partner who is wheelchair bound with MS, along with her very energetic son; the other has never had children (as she can't) and cared for her husband after he had a huge operation on his back, which left him almost entirely immobile for a long time. My Mamgu and Taid have overseen all of this, and have always, always been there for all of us, unflinching, and absolutely stalwart. My Taid was completely unjudgemental and seemed to offer solace simply with a cuddle or an apt smile. They are all truly wonderful people, and I'm slightly disappointed that I've never taken time to really appreciate them as PEOPLE before, as opposed to just 'the family'. I am unbelievably grateful for their presence throughout my childhood, and how much they supported my mum. It is down to all of them that I have such fond memories of being a child, and that I was not present for most of the more gruesome parts of my father's illness and death.

I barely even realised my father was ill. Really. I remember them sitting me and my brother and sister down and telling us he had secondary cancer, which as a 6-year-old at the time, meant absolutely fuck-all to me. I can't remember anything changing, but apparently the biggest change happened when I was much younger (when he was first diagnosed with cancer). I was only two years old, although I do have memories of being with him in hospital. He had a bright blue cast on his arm, and he looked fucking PISSED. My mother and Mamgu have told me that he was never really the same as he was before then, whichh is entirely understandable, although I think it is the worst heartbreak I could ever experience; to know that my father was only a shadow of his former self for his remaining 6 years literally makes me feel like I've been horrendously and callously dumped by the love of my life, whilst having everything I know taken away from me, and made to feel as though it is a lie. Obviously it isn't, as he was still attentive, but after watching family videos of us before he was diagnosed the first time round brings it to light. He has a different look in his eye, which is also now apparent in pictures taken after that time. It's very slight, but his smile was never quite the same. You may think "they're only photographs" but there is a difference in him which is quite unexplainable, almost like someone's taken a layer off the top.

I feel guilty now for being such a miserable bitch for the past ten years. Obviously losing a parent is shit, but I reckon it's just a BIT worse to have cancer and die. My father, who was proudly independent, strong, and wilful, lost everything. He withered over a period of four years, fighting every single minute. Even after the cancer had spread to his brain, and he was completely dependent on my mother and district cancer nurses, when he was lying on his deathbed, absolutely weakened, unable to move or form sentences, he was trying to force words out of his mouth. I will never, ever forget what that sounded like. When the doctors gave him ten days to live, my mother slept downstairs with him every night, sure that it would be his last night. I remember one particular evening where she had said to us she was absolutely certain he would be leaving us that night, and he stayed on for another two days. He was a fighter, not a depressed bastard, and I'm sure he'd be furious that I'm such a misery-guts (in fact, my mother has told me he'd probably say 'Bloody get on with it!). But I'm also fairly sure he would understand why I am sad that he suffered so badly. If I could do anything to remove that suffering, then I would. Nobody deserves that.

Sorry for the highly gay tone of this entry, it's not really for anyone else to read but me. I haven't posted in ages because I'm not really into analysing my life via two-line blog posts anymore, which I'm sure everyone is glad about. My apologies again. This isn't designed to make anyone feel sorry for me AT ALL so please don't if you've actually read it. If you've been unlucky enough to lose someone you love then I hope you are healing. If you haven't, then go and give every single one of your family members a massive snog. Not on the lips. That would be weird.


Look after each other boys, we all miss you terribly X