16 years ago today, my dad died. He had skin cancer, a malignant melanoma. I dont know exactly how long he was ill for before he died as him and my mum decided to keep it from me and my brother as long as they could.
I wish they hadn't but I understand that they were trying to protect us. But it was something that we couldn't be protected from in the end.
I don't recall being told, I just remember realising at some point that Dad was sick. Not manflu, or a long term illness that he would eventually shake off but actually, properly sick.
I only have a few memories from around that time, he was in bed a lot. I went and sat with him and we talked like we used to. I sat on his bed (he slept on the left, like I do now.) and we talked. I picked up his hand and held it in mine. Realising how much skinnier it was than my little 14 year old hand. There were little brown marks on it, like age spots but my Dad was only 40. I traced each one with my thumb as I started to understand what they were, what they meant. I took a deep breath, and knew even then that I couldn't waste my time with him by crying. So we still talked. I spoke to him like it was normal. Told him about my day at school, how good I was at reading, just like he was. We talked about my horse-riding, how much I loved it. He tried so hard to talk normally back to me, but he could see how much I was struggling to keep calm so he said he was tired and needed to sleep. I left him to get some rest.
My next memory was after he had gone to the hospital. The Marie Curie Centre. I refused to see him. I didn't want to forget the way he was, the way he had been all my life.
My mum persuaded me to go. I reluctantly agreed. We walked into his room and there was my dad but about 20 years older. He was like a shell. So incredibly thin, his skin looked like paper, like he might break if he moved. My brother tried to speak, he tried so hard but I could see it was killing him coz it was killing me too. I locked myself in the bathroom because I didn't want my Dad to see me cry. I stayed in there for 5 minutes and I cried like I had never cried before. Then after 5 minutes I stopped, just like that. I cleaned my face and I took a deep breath and I went back to my Dads room and sat on his bed. I took hold of his hand and I talked. I told him everything that I could think of and then when I realised that he couldnt speak anymore, I answered for him too. We sort of conversed, I talked and talked and he answered with his eyes, little squeezes to my hand. I have no idea how long I sat there. It might have been 10 minutes, it might have been an hour but I noticed how exhausted he had become so I wrapped it up with an 'I love you.' He mouthed the words back to me. We left then, one last glance back towards him as he lay back and closed his eyes.
I never saw him again.
He died that night.
I am so grateful that I went that one last time.
I don't remember what he looked like lying in that hospital bed and I am thankful for that because all that was left of my Dad was in his eyes. But his eyes were so full of pain that in a way, I was relieved. He was out of pain, and he never deserved any pain.
I loved you then and I love you now just as much, maybe more.
I will never get over the fact that your grandchildren will never meet you, you will never walk me down the aisle. But I know you are watching and I hope that you can be proud of me one day. As proud as I am of you.
I miss you. I will never, ever forget you Dad.
I love you, R.I.P. xx
- Posted from TB.
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