Today is the second anniversary of my fathers death.
Of all the things that I have done this is the one that I am most ashamed about.
My father and I had a strange relationship
I suppose it was the typical first son / father thing going on. I knew he loved me and I remember some very happy times as a young child. We grew apart but finally came together in our love of history and at the age of 50 years old got him into reenactment, specifically Jacobite Wars stuff which he absolutely loved. It brought us closer together I think. But as he grew increasingly ill he became increasingly bitter. Knowing what I know now I don’t blame him. Living with a chronic illness isn’t easy. People don’t realise the effort involved in merely getting up everyday. He must have been in constant pain, his mind and body fighting the chronic illnesses he had. I was too selfish, too wrapped up in my own illnesses to think for one moment what he was going through and I expect he was the same. It’s ironic that we both suffered from the same problems and rather than bringing us together it forced us apart.
My selfishness came to a head when we had our last argument over politics. The last definite words I heard my father say as I left the house were ‘Go on, run away like you always do’.
I then stopped talking to him and things came to a head over a complete stranger, a nasty piece of work who was making my life a misery. I then stopped talking to my mum, punishing them and myself. For three months I was unaware that my father had become increasingly worse and I had left my mum and dad to battle it out alone. Not once did I try to contact them and ask how everything was.
The next thing I knew I had a call saying dad was in hospital and it wasn’t looking good. When I arrived I found the nurses around him. He had gone in for an operation to sort out his hernias as they were impacting on his stomach ( he was already on a colostomy bag) and his breathing. They were having trouble keeping him going off the oxygen and I will never forget the look of fear and anguish I saw on his face that day. He looked at me as if pleading me to do something. I am haunted by that image and it’s burned itself into my brain, scarred it, seared all of his pain into my memories. They kept trying to bring him around and we were told to go home and wait. I wish I had stayed at his bedside because the next morning on the way to see him I got the call to say he had gone. I pulled over and screamed, almost wrenching the steering wheel off. I was three months too late in telling him that I loved him.
I had a moment with him at his bedside. It was so strange seeing him lying there as if asleep but not moving. I know it sounds cliché but he finally looked at peace. All the pain had left his face and he was the father I once knew who had made me laugh uncontrollably as a child. Sitting there holding his still warm hand, I remembered that even through all of his trials and all of his pain he could still make us laugh.
I let him down and I let my mum and brother and sister down. I should have been the big brother, the supportive repentant son and been there to help them all. I will regret my failing until my dying day.
My father was a fighter. He never explained how tough it was to live with chronic illnesses. I know how tough he was because I am the same. I too am no coward, I too fight like he did. Like him I allowed my illnesses to define me. I wore my illnesses like a cocoon, an excuse to be angry at everything.
I’m sorry dad, that I let you down when you needed me the most. I’m sorry mum that I wasn’t there to share the burden. I’m sorry to my brother and sister for not being their big brother.
I said that my fathers last words were ‘Run away, like you always do’. In fact as I left that first day, I told him I loved him and through his pain and fear I saw him mouth the words ‘I love you too son’. Please forgive me.
😞