To Dad…

It has been two years since you left us. Two years since a huge hole was left in our family.

Mam phoned at 8am on Easter Saturday, 2017.

‘We’ve lost him. He died in his sleep a few hours ago.’

I didn’t understand. You had only been in hospital for a week. I had texted you every night and you had told me that they were getting you sorted out.

I was coming to visit you on Sunday. I couldn’t come during the week. I was too unwell myself. I was trying to get through the week. I was really trying. But the darkness was closing in on me, suffocating me. I was in so much pain and I wanted it to stop. I was ill, Dad, so I couldn’t visit you. I was under the care of the mental health Crisis Team. On Good Friday they called a mental health assessment on me. The psychiatrist and social worker were in the house all day, debating whether or not to section me. They decided to let me stay at home. They knew I needed to be with my boys. I needed to be close to Ned.

I didn’t know how unwell you were. I phoned Mam every day. No one said you were dying. I didn’t know, Dad. I was coming on Sunday but I was too late and I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry that I didn’t see you that week. I’m so sorry that I wasn’t there, to show you that I was holding on, to tell you that you didn’t have to worry about me.

 

I can’t remember much of the year following my little Ned’s death. I have flashes of images in my head, unordered, jumbled.

I remember that every time you visited in the months that followed you went to the cemetery with your strimmer to ‘tidy the grave and have a little chat with Ned.’ That meant so much to me, but I never told you. I didn’t have the words.

Ned was your little grandson who sat in the little wicker chair next to you when we visited, eating Jaffa Cakes before bedtime. Ned was your little grandson who climbed onto your lap and rummaged in your shirt pocket for the remote for the garage door, ‘the zapper’. Ned was your little grandson who performed his shows for you. Ned was your little grandson who adored you, his Taid.

I wish I had sat down with you and spoken about Ned. I wish we had shared memories of him. I wish I had told you how broken I was. But that was our relationship – a quiet one. No lengthy conversations, but a calm quietness. An understanding with no need for words.

I think of my childhood often lately. I remember our Sunday evening walks to the park, playing mini golf and watching people playing on the bowling green. I remember holidays in the caravan, the evenings spent on the ‘teddy machines’ in the arcades. I remember helping you to build a hutch for my pet rabbits, first Snowy and then Smoky. I remember passing your office every day on my way home from Primary School and waving at you through the window and you waving back. I remember following you to the bedroom when you came home from work. You would empty the loose change from your pockets and I would scrabble about for the half pennies and you would laugh. I remember watching scary films with you, thrilling and terrifying.

In every memory I’m smiling. I was a shy child, painfully so. But when I was with you, just you and me, I didn’t need to worry about having to talk. I didn’t need to worry about anything because when I was with you I was safe and I was happy.

That’s how our relationship continued as I became an adult. You never made demands of me. You were just there.

On Good Friday, 2016, the policewoman uttered three words that destroyed me – ‘He’s passed away.’ I remember being on the ground then suddenly scrambling up, searching for my phone. I phoned you. All I could say was, ‘Dad, please come. Ned’s dead.’

A couple of weeks ago I finally opened up a wound that I’ve been carrying around with me since the day you died. I was with my therapist and I finally said the words that have been torturing me:

‘I made my dad ill. He couldn’t deal with the mental illness and grief that have destroyed me. I didn’t visit him in hospital that last week. Dad died because of me.’

‘NO,’ she answered. ‘NO.’

The tears streamed down my face. I couldn’t look at her but her words filled the room.

‘No. You have to listen to me and you have to believe what I say. Your dad died suddenly of secondary cancer. Yes, he may well have been struggling emotionally – he had lost his precious grandson and he knew that his daughter was suffering the most indescribable pain – but it was the cancer that took your dad. Your dad loved you. Your dad cared deeply for you. But the cancer didn’t. The cancer would have taken your dad even if that horrific accident hadn’t happened and you were 100% well and sitting at his bedside.’

And I finally believe her words, Dad. I’m sorry I couldn’t see you during that week when you were in hospital. But none of us knew how quickly you would leave us. You didn’t suffer. You died peacefully in your sleep and I believe that you have gone to look after Ned for me. Wherever you both are, I know that you’re together.

I know because you’ve always been there for me, Dad. Always.