Grief. Chapter 8. Seven Years of Grief

It’s been seven years since my father died. Seven. Years. It seems longer then that. The day he died I was at a friend’s place. I took the phone call from my brother; I didn’t expect it to be ‘the’ phone call. Dad had been dying for so long. It had been months since he was admitted, and we were told it wouldn’t be long before he died. The months in-between contained a dreadful monotony. People would ask how he was, I started to tell them that he wasn’t dead yet. I didn’t mean to be crass or disrespectful. It was hard being reminded that my father was in a hospital waiting for death. Even though we were all waiting for him to die it still came as a shock when it happened.

In truth my father’s essence left long before he did. The cancer and drugs took him before death arrived to pick up the leftovers. The January before he died I picked up and moved towns, further from most of my family then I have ever lived. It meant I couldn’t pop down the road to visit him. My Mum would send me photos of Dad in hospital. Maybe because I wasn’t there every day the photos were shocking. They didn’t look like him. He didn’t look alive. I hated receiving those photos but I didn’t have the heart to tell my Mum to stop sending them.

I’m not who I was seven years ago. Living without parents has become my normal. I’ve accepted it but I hate telling other people because I feel like I must compensate for their reactions. The language I use isn’t soft. My parents haven’t passed or gone or whatever. They’re dead and they’re never coming back. I wish I could tap into the spiritual side I once had. Maybe then I could believe that they were still around somehow. Maybe I could find some resolution to why things were so shit between us while they were alive. Especially with my dad. To have the conversations I never had with him because nether of us could find a way to talk with the other. He couldn’t stand my seemingly radical leftist motivations and I was weighed down by his dominating conservative dictatorship. It was never going to be an easy ride.

Seven years is a long time. Longer then what I expected. It’s been long enough to establish completely new social networks, emotionally heal and become a version of myself that I approve of. The weirdest thing is this grief. It’s still there but it’s not as intrusive. It reminds me of where I’ve come from. Since becoming a parent almost three years ago, I understand more about my mother but less about my father. As I watch my daughter grow, I can understand the need to protect and direct but I cannot comprehend not being able to celebrate a child for who they are. I’d like to ask him. But even if I could I’m not sure the answer would help.