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,
Today we argued.
I am currently sitting in the dining room. Starving. Too annoyed to make lunch, and with no inclination to bump into you in the hallway. I am in one of those moods where I will not be doing anything even if I am hurting myself in the process. Imagine me with arms crossed and my face stubborn, unflinching. I refuse to make a cup of tea, make a sandwich, even stretch my legs. Protesting. 6 hours I have been in here, without a crumb. You brought me a tea and some rich tea biscuits as a peace offering a few hours ago but I am not ready.
I am not angry with you really. I am annoyed that I’m not even allowed to express anger these days. That even that right has been taken away from me too. Not only has the delusion that we will live forever been stolen from me but my will and need to be angry has too. I’m furious that I’m furious. You’re dying and I am acting like a petulant child.
When I said to you I’d be writing my research proposal all day, really it was my excuse to hide away. To be fair I am buried up to my eyeballs in it. Something I love and am overwhelmed by in equal measure. Although today my meeting with my colleague was tinged with exasperation. I am pissed off that I can’t be annoyed with you and it seeps into every aspect of my day. My colleague and I discuss how we might investigate the impact of social bond strength on cooperation in conflict….oh the irony. I barely hear a word she says. Nodding at all the right moments, my sight clouded by a red and black mist that doesn’t seem to shake.
The argument was silly, something about who should go first in the shower, you being annoyed that I was insistent it was me. I had a deadline looming but who’s house is it you say, remember where you are etc etc. It goes on for a bit. I took a deep breath and said nothing. To be fair this tetchiness has been building for the last few days. I have been here all week, becoming more and more irritated every day. The TV remote that needs to be held at a precise 74 degree angle in order to turn the telly on, the comments about how awkward my vegetarianism is even though you seem to enjoy every meal I cook, and the internet connectivity that seems to do whatever it bloody well likes. “I don’t want a hole in my wall” you say. That’s only for the new broadband Dad, they’ll fill it back in. You won’t have 90mph hour winds whistling through a tiny hole by the phone. But no, you won’t have it. I seem to be annoying you with how I talk, too loud you say. Apparently I seem too excited about life, I utter amazing, wow and ‘that’s brilliant!’ too much for your liking. I suppose when you are staring down a barrel, that can be pretty irritating. You had some blood results yesterday you weren’t happy with, and every second since then you have been feeding the anxiety monster, going over and over the positives and negatives of the results. Every time I seem to be remotely positive it grates on you. But I don’t know how else to be. To be fair to you, I would have been the same. Maybe all we need is a big cry.
There’s not much I can say, so instead, I take a shower. Warm showers being my go to at the moment. Any slight inclination towards a negative feeling and I’m in there. Goodness knows what my gas bill will be like. But I can think in here. As the hot water cascades down my back, I exhale a sigh of relief, and my mind wanders. Time passes but eventually the dread returns. A feeling deep in the pit of my stomach. “You can’t live here” my brain says, “you’ll suffocate”. “No” replies the heart, "You have to be here, you’ll regret it if you don’t”. I am frozen. In a hot shower. I am frozen. “Maybe you shouldn’t have handed in your notice on your job” brain retorts, in a voice that sounds a bit too much like mum. I take a breath. I am in the flat until the end of September, I tell myself, plenty of time to win the lottery or for my research supervisor to offer me a full time job. There’s still time. I feel a clump of hair loosen, natural when you have long hair like mine. But I can’t help but wonder if it’s a symbol of my irritation with the situation or that by being here I’m slowly losing aspects of myself, thread by thread. As the drops of water pummel my skin I hope they hold down the frightful urge to apply for other jobs I hate.
What exasperates me the most is we’ve always got on famously you and I. But when we argue, we argue. What is it about the people you love the most, they really know how to push your buttons. Maybe its that an argument means so much more. I remember there was a time we argued so ferociously I didn’t talk to you for 6 months, missing a birthday and Father’s Day while awaiting your apology which you probably also needed in return. I can’t even remember what it was about now. Something else to regret now I guess.
At some point in your chemo I became the source of your annoyance, I toughed it out, amongst the spite, the rage and the resentment flowing from you. I was grateful to return to the flat for a few days break. Cancer does not negate annoyance, it does not nullify spats. It just amplifies the guilt. So I stay quiet as much as I can. And if this means barricading myself in the dining room all day so be it.
The thing is, I pride myself on my ability to communicate. In my job managing teams of 15 or more, I deal with every possible disagreement, surprise or challenge that gets thrown my way. People compliment me on how calm I am. “Does anything faze you?” they say and I remain smug in the knowledge that my yoga and meditation has paid off. Then along come the people you love, who cause such an instinctual reaction you can barely stop it. Its something about our parents that means we descend back into being a terrible teen. I even see it with you and your mum, at 67 and 94. Adult-adult is what we need, but I can’t seem to muster it. When I think how I have managed huge teams, hired and fired. I held the breakdown of my own partner in his grief, absorbed the fear, the disdain, the anger. Forgave him his affairs which we chocked up to his grief and not our crumbling foundations. I contained our arguments like a true adult. I have dealt with house moves, dissolution of my engagement and yet I find such a spat with you the most challenging to deal with.
Sometimes I don’t feel like you really appreciate who I am as an adult, and what I am capable of, and that just fires my indignation. We never really discussed the breakdown of my engagement; ten years of love I could not really talk to you about. When someone hurts me you just feel anger, all you could do was tell me to flee instead of forgive. Perhaps you were right. But fleeing never helps, and despite the urge to do it now, I stay.
I think in all moments of anger we feel suffocated. A need to keep on running. To run away from the hard parts of life, to separate ourselves and to bury. But today Dad, just like yesterday, despite how irritated you seem to be with me, I shall go and kiss you on the forehead and make you a tea. There’s not much you can throw at me now that will stick. My aliveness, however long that lasts, is infuriating. To me and you. Because their is no aliveness without you. So lets forget the argument Dad. I’ll deal with tomorrow when tomorrow comes. I’ll shut that lid on the fear that tells me that I’ll never truly be an adult again when I lose you. Just a little girl that’ll always be looking for her dad.
Sorry Dad. I’ll emerge from my hiding place now and come and see you. I love you.
Love always.
Anna xxx
That thing of not being allowed to express your feelings/anger because of the situation is a really fascinating thing - I'd be furious with the illness for making that small normality impossible
Gosh does your Dad know my mum !! She’s not terminally ill like your dad but she is terminally stubborn. I have the same issues with the internet, my cooking and many other things.