Letters to my father: Welcome.
We don’t talk about grief. We think we do but we don’t. We give the sympathetic looks, and comment how sad it is, we write condolence cards, tell people “at least we had time”. However, it’s not long before the conversations fade, not because people no longer care but because resuming normality means we can somehow stop this tidal wave of emotion. I have realised, that as humans, we just don’t know what to do with it. I remember being in a pub once and at the mention of his mother, a friend of mine was in tears.
I could see the fear on peoples faces as if the black shadow would engulf them too. It’s almost as if we can’t bear to linger in the grief space too long. Only now, experiencing it myself, do I get it. It’s like a special kind of club. Over the last few months I have often thought about how JK Rowling wrote about the thestrals. Only those who have witnessed and understood death can see them. Creatures that invoke both beauty and fear, pain and joy. Because grief really is the dragon of all emotions. Those suffering with grief are living in a reality where the life they once lived has shattered, and not only are they dealing with huge loss, but a reconstruction of a world that no longer makes sense. This is certainly the view point of key grief researchers like Robert Neimeyer.
Grief and me
Since my dad was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukaemia in May this year, how people behave around me has changed. I have found that I have been fighting against being that person at the party; the one whose sadness emanates from them, like a throbbing magnetic field of melancholy. One that envelopes everyone, forcing them to confront their own grief, or the reality that grief is coming. So many of us hide it away and only allow ourselves to show it in appropriate ways; funerals, in the car on the way to work, at 3am when no-one else can hear us
But the reality is my grief is messy. I have wondered in the past 6 months why I haven’t seen more people crying in Tesco because believe you me I’ve had a few occasions where I’ve cried, first in the vegetable aisle, then at the checkout. Each time grappling to hide it as a cold or indeterminant object in my eye.
My dads diagnosis is terminal. We’ve gone through induction and consolidation chemotherapy. We’ve seen fellow patients improve, while others deteriorate. He is on a drug that has worked for some and not others, for some it’s extended their life for a few more years, others a few more months. I am surrounded by a swirl of uncertainty, panic, delusion and a total inability to do anything. It feels as if I am moving through glue as I pace around this waiting room. A waiting room I desperately don’t want to be in. I cling to the small percentages of people who have an overall survival of more than 5 years, but at this point would be happy with 2.
One of dads chemo buddies, who started at the same time as him, has been referred to hospice care as the drugs are not working for her, just 6 months after her diagnosis. I feel as if I’m staring down the barrel of a gun. We await dads latest bone marrow results this week. We are all being gnawed by a fear that what if this is us too.
Letters to my father
When people said to me, at least I had time, I went into a panic; what do I need to do to make the most of this time, what should I ask, I should be asking all the questions shouldn’t I? I should be documenting his life story, am I being present enough, should I quit my job? Does he know I love him?
I have come to realise that there is no answer to any of these questions. And often we see depicted or encouraged the ‘hard conversations’ we should have with loved ones before they die. But to have these conversations means an admission that his life is ending, not just to me but to him too. And he is already scared enough. I do not need to remind him of this.
So here, in letters to my father, I will write all the things I do not have space to say. I will write letters to my father and store them here. Some may wonder why I have decided to do this so publicly. For me this is first and foremost an outpouring of my grief. Being in the depths of it I know I cannot be the only person to experience it and I hope by sharing with others, they will realise they are not alone.
I also hope that by sharing I will gain a community, because in grief you need a community to lean on. Finally, my dad is a wonderful man. I know not everyone is lucky to have a father such as mine. My dad has led what some may consider a small life, in a small town, steeped in the history of his family. It’s only recently that I have realised how wonderful this is, I want to share my dads story. I feel like in this world we have moved so far away from what community and life really is, and my dad has shown me the way. Perhaps he can show you the way too.
So for all those in grief. I see you, and I welcome you into this messy space of mine where the writing will be imperfect, the emotions will be high. I hope we can all be of support to one another and I look forward to talking more.
With love,
Anna x