This is a letter to my father who has terminal leukaemia. I use this space to tend to my grief and to immortalise who he is. By writing this I recognise that we will never be able to say everything we wish to say. Death just doesn’t work like that. I hope it brings all those in grief comfort. We are never in this alone.
Dear Dad,
Sixty eight years ago today. The best thing happened. A freckled, blond boy was born, a cheeky smile ingrained on his face. A twinkle in his eyes. Within you, I already existed, the atoms that made you would make me too. I was etched into your story the moment you made it here and in that moment, I was born too. This was where we began, our life came into existence. I still do not know if I believe in God but if there was one, I wonder if this was all part of the plan. Souls birthed together. Fathers, mothers, children. Creating ancestral lineages that have meaning and hope nested within them. How all the nurses must have cooed over such beautiful baby boy. The flecks of blond hair, and the deep blue eyes. And in the 1950’s the first born being a boy was still seen as such a blessing.
In 1956, the snow had fallen so heavily, that the roads had stopped. Grandad had to hike 3 miles through snow drifts to the hospital just to visit you for the first time. The road surrounded by fields, now a snow tunnel, with the mounds reaching tall-almost 6 foot, some would say. Sometimes these scenes from your life are so clear within my mind, you’d think I was there. An auburn haired woman, anxious, exhausted, smiles as her beau dusts off his flat cap, boots still crunchy with snow from the blizzard outside, meeting his son for the first time.
These images do not come from memory or photo. These days I feel as if there is a silvery thread that connects me to every aspect of who you were, like a web weaved by the gods, allowing me to see the passage of time and who we really are. My very own time machine exists within me. It reminds me of a story I once read; a little girl contains the magic and the knowledge of the whole universe within her, she was the secret keeper of her lands. Her previous ancestors were so terrified of what it meant to feel the history of an entire existence they had drunk a potion to ensure they no longer endured the pain, and by default the beauty. In order to save the world in which she lives, she must reverse the potion, and feel again. I feel as if I am her, as if I have lifted all separation between myself and the magic that resides in some kind of universal truth.
For your birthday, we had decided we would go for a meal at the local Italian restaurant. I had already decided on a light lunch of grilled aubergines, hummus and focaccia, something I believed I could get away with despite the gnawing nausea being caused by this day.
A weight has descended on me this last week, like an overwhelming pressure inside my head. There almost seems to be a feeling of duress that I must not spoil this birthday. A birthday we are determined to believe is not your last. My neuroses are on metaphorical steroids this week. I have been convinced that the extreme exhaustion following me like Eeyore was a sign that I had leukaemia too. There has been paranoia that every itchy nose was a flu, that I would be sent packing for carrying. Finally, this morning being sure I would go blind by the end of the day having accidentally sprayed some wild mint toner in my eye. To write about it makes me laugh out loud, how ridiculous considering everything. But thankfully, it also gives me a realisation that they are all just a symptom of the weight of this day, and this time. A deep existential dread that I am being separated from you, and there just isn’t enough time.
However, this morning I needn’t have worried about the hummus. You had woken up with a long forgotten friend. In your early sixties, you struggled with what Churchill had once called his black dog, and you adopted this name too. Your own father died at 63. I was no more than 4. If I am honest I do not remember him. Perhaps if I close my eyes tightly and try my hardest I can smell the faint staleness of his pipe, although I’m never sure if that is anything more than a remanent of a story or an overactive imagination. What I do remember, and is possibly my first ever memory, is you, younger than I am now, opening the door to his old house, a door painted in a grassy green, sobbing in the arms of your mum. I had never seen you cry. Occasions after this would be rare. Once to our surprise at a musical version of Beauty and the Beast in Paris, which you later told us made you think of how much your dad would have loved it. I have never seen you carry grief, it never showed. But now I am awake to the subtleties of it, and like then at 63, you thought your time was up, simply because your dad had died at that age too. Just 5 years later, here we are again. Ironically, some of the doctors believe that the change in your bone marrow could have started then, the very gentle drops in your blood symbolic of Myelodysplastic syndrome, a precursor to some leukaemia’s.
We did not go for a meal today. You quite rightly said we have had enough of those. A meal seems to be the standing pillar of all your birthdays before. Our family, taking over restaurants, much to the disdain of other diners, with raucous laughter, too much wine, and a big bill to boot. Instead, we allowed ourselves to be still. As you sipped your tea in bed you told us that you just wanted to walk, to have a meal cooked together, nothing more. And as we exchanged cards, and mum cried silently, unbeknownst to you, as you read her words of love and held her hand. I feel like all of our ailments, imaginary or real would be solved by us all having a big cry together; loud and angry sobs, and big cuddles, allowing the fear and love to envelope us as one. I want you to know that you can cry Dad. That you don’t have to hide this from us, because we want to cry too.
Tonight we have our meal for £25 from Marks and Spencer or Tesco, a real treat in this household, and a chocolate cake to follow. You laugh as you call your 94 year old mum, who is oblivious to this day, but remembers once reminded. “I have seen all the people that matter to me today” you say, and we can want for nothing more or less.
I love you Dad. We didn’t need to dread this day. This day is a celebration of what we have been through this year. Your hair is back, your blood counts are up, and the butternut squash and harissa filo pie is in the oven. We are so lucky this day.
Love always Dad.
Anna xxx
Oh my heart truly goes out to you. My dad had the same/similar condition (I found all the ever changing blood conditions so confusing and honestly I think I tried not to think about it) which turned to leukaemia and we lost him in 2022. There are no words, but you found them. This is a beautiful piece of writing. Very much love to you and your family. X
This is beautifully written. The part about feeling as if you are being dragged away from someone really resonates with me at the moment. I love that picture of your mum and dad on their wedding day - joyful.