He Tried And I Try Not To Hate Him.My Dad died when I was 13 this is a story only a few people have heard, only those who I think might understand, who will not pity me. He died when I was 13, my sister was 15 and my brother was 10. He was the person I was closest to probably in the world, I never really saw my Mum much and we never really talked about anything meaningful when I did, I don't blame her for this, it was a choice she made. We lived with him in another country and saw her about twice a month for a couple of days. He understood me more than I did, explained why I did the odd things I did, never made me feel bad about myself, always gave me any opportunity he could if he even vaguely thought I might enjoy it or it would benefit me. He was almost both my parents. I think it is very unusual for a girl to have such a close bond with her Dad (or maybe not I don't know).
When I was 12 around Christmas he started having back pains. He had had them before but never this bad. Around march he started loosing feeling in his legs and after a few days he could barely walk on crutches and so finally went into A&E. It turned out that he had a massive tumor in his spine which was compressing his spinal chord. It was caused by a bone marrow cancer Multiple Myeloma. It was unusual for someone his age to get it but nonetheless he did. After he went through chemo and radiation and several rounds of steroids it seemed he was getting better, he could walk almost a mile with only one crutch when only a couple of months before he could barely walk down the hall on a zimmer fr
My birthday came and went he was in and out of hospital a few times with infections. he was fine from about September to November, then he was taken into hospital with another infection. His kidneys started failing and he was finding it hard to breathe sometimes because of pleural effusions in his lungs. I still thought he would be ok a couple of weeks before Christmas my Mum came over and said she was going to stay for a few weeks. My aunts and uncles said nothing. Then I was told my Dad was going to be sent to Dublin after Christmas to get a new treatment involving stem cells. About a week later I came down into the kitchen and was told my Dad might not last that long. That maybe we should give him his Christmas presents now so we did but I still didn't believe he could die. Then he did, the last time I saw him was the 23/12/2007, he died at 3 am 25/12/2007. I still remember the way their faces looked, their voices sounded, the warmth of the fire as I sat in the corner of the room and had everything I believed in shattered, as one of my aunts and uncles told us that he had died that morning Christmas morning, how he had fought so hard to be with us to stay with us to hold on until Christmas. How he had sung that night and asked if Santa had come to us yet and then gone to sleep. From then on I was always fine, I made my brother toast when he felt he couldn't eat, I held my sisters hand as she wept as they shut the coffin lid. I felt I had to be the strong one now as he always had been. I said I needed the toilet when I needed to cry, or pulled the covers above my head so my Mum wouldn't see when she came in to talk to me and turned on the light at night.
I never asked what had happened to him. I listened in on conversations, I pieced together what had happened from booklets in his room. No one told me, I didn't want them to have to relive it, I could see it hurt them all as much as it tore me apart. I finally finished the puzzle about two years after he died this was about a year and a half after we moved back to England to live with my Mum, who to this day our conversations are limited to other peoples lives, philosophy and school nothing about us. I still cry about him, I am still always fine. I have told few people about this but try to help as many as I can not go through things alone by just being a non-judgmental (as possible) sounding wall. I still want to bury my head in the sand at Christmas, every time I hear carols or see decorations.
It will be 5 years this Christmas and I still write letters to him, still cry about him, still wish he was here and still miss him. He was a brilliant man so will agree with me the thousand odd people who turned up to his funeral or wrote letters of condolence. But I can't help be angry with him for denying me the chance to know him.
Please don't pity me though this is not what I want. I just don't want it to be stuck in my head anymore.