Hello,
My name is Anna. Welcome to Letters to my Father.
My dad has terminal leukaemia. He was diagnosed in May 2023, with a version called Acute Myeloid Leukaemia or AML. At the time of diagnosis, the level of leukemic cells in his blood was high, and we were told this meant that the prognosis was poor.
My dad is in remission. Some cancers when in remission can be in remission for years, however with AML there is an increased chance of its return , particularly if you have certain mutations, which unfortunately my dad does. He was offered a stem cell transplant, which is rare for someone of his age (he was 67 at the time) but through meetings and discussions Dad decided this wasn’t for him.
Instead he has opted for a chemotherapy drug which in trials have increased people’s life expectancy by 2 years. For some it hasn’t worked at all and there is the rare case of some continuing over 5 years later.
We hope that we are the latter. Update: Unfortunately after just 3 months it was evident that this drug would not work for dad and he relapsed in March 2024. He is now undergoing a more intensive round of chemotherapy, we are aware there is no cure but hope for more time.
I feel too young to be losing my dad. Perhaps at 37, I shouldn’t be surprised but I had always hoped I had so much longer.
Why write this substack at all?
I am sure there might be people out there who are wondering why I am writing these letters, why I don’t just say them to my dad and why I am sharing something so personal on an open platform.
There are numerous reasons. Here are just a few;
When I imagined what it might be like to be losing a loved one, I thought it would look like endless cups of tea, chairs overlooking a beach, deep and meaningful conversations every day. This is not my reality. For one thing, at the moment dad is still pretty active, and he is keen to enjoy every day he has. By having these conversations now would rip us out of the present, and taint the joy. If the moment comes where we are together, right before the end, perhaps we will have the conversations, perhaps we won’t, but for now I need the time and space to process what it even is that I would like to say.
My dad is an extraordinary man. Perhaps not extraordinary in the way many currently measure life, but in all the small ways he is. He is a pillar of the community we live in, so proud and rooted in our town. A remarkable life lived in the small and everyday. I want to document his life, immortalise him, and share the lessons of what it really means to live.
I am terrified I will forget. Grief is a unique emotion, and in the initial moments of dad’s diagnosis I felt as if my memory had been wiped. I couldn’t remember the times he had made me laugh, the days we had spent together. When I was away from him, particularly when the chemo ravaged him, I couldn’t even remember his face as it was. I do not wish to forget. While he is still with me, and my memory is triggered every day I write what I know and what I remember so I may never forget.
Finally, grief, I find, is such a hidden emotion. A friend of mine lost his mother a year or so ago. We were sat in the pub, and out of nowhere he began to sob. The group froze. None of us knowing what to do. I found this myself. After the beginning, the support has waned, and shows of grief are followed by people looking at the floor in the hope that this feeling isn’t catching. Almost as if we must hide away this universal truth that we all know. That death is the only constant. There appears to be much shame around grief, an attitude of almost ‘keep calm and carry on’. But grief is so utterly life changing. Once the veil has been lifted there is no going back. My life has been changing for some time but since dad’s diagnosis, I have quit my job, and dived head first into a new way of living (you can read more about this on my other substack called Tide and Seasons). So here, I want to lift the lid on grief, air it out, give it time out in the open, make this a place others can come and share, or find comfort, or for a moment feel seen. Grief needs a community and here you will find one.
Why subscribe?
This substack works like a living memory for me. All I wish to do is provide a small corner of the world where people may feel understood, seen and feel they can find others they may talk to in their grief.
My posts will always be free, and there will always be here for you and for me. I hope you can find the joy as well as the sadness, and help me celebrate the life of this wonderful person. The best person there is.
There will be letters but also small snippets of joy that happen on days I am with my father, snippets that so often can be forgotten but make up the matrix of who we are.
I want to remember the joy this grief brings. It seems an oxymoron but as Clover Stroud said recently, grief makes the world technicolour at the moment you least want it to.
I hope to see you soon, and thank you for taking the time to get to know me and my dad.
Anna xx
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