Goodbye Daddy

He died this morning, my father, at 4.35am.

I am numb.

From the moment I woke, snuggled in with my babies, to this moment now as I write, I have been busy with them. Busy with my children, busy with our lives, too busy to let myself think and acknowledge that he has gone.

My 3 year old asked me today ‘why are people sad when people die?’

She has a very pragmatic view of death, which we have gently fostered, encouraging her to notice that life and death cycles are everywhere, in nature, in life. Not to fear death. And when her great granny died, I described how we could always see her when we wanted by closing our eyes and remembering her hugs & kisses. So her question today made so much sense to me, if death happens as a part of life, why does it make us sad? I answered simply, saying that there are many reasons but sometimes it’s because we miss the person and sometimes it might be because there is still something that we want to say but we weren’t able to. She replied, ‘but if you still have something you want to say, you can just close your eyes and tell them…’

Yes, yes, yes…. and that is what I shall do right now.

Daddy

Our journey together has not been easy, it has been rocked with sadness, mistrust and catastrophic communication failures. But my heartbreak has always been wondering why you couldn’t really be a ‘daddy’ to me. Why you weren’t there, physically, emotionally, spiritually, tenderly, lovingly, you just weren’t there. In your own world, with your own dreams, that included your children or not, as you saw fit.

I wanted to be seen by you, I wanted to be loved by you and I wanted to be cherished for being me. And yes, I had expectations, I had hopes about how that would look, I would compare myself to my peers, compare their fathers who talked to them about their dreams and aspirations, who listened. Fathers who joked, fathers who danced, attended, visited, cared. I know you loved, but in this extraordinary, funny sort of way that was unique to you, that the rest of us couldn’t really understand. I know that you did the very best you could, but that I failed to recognise that translation from your best to my hopes. I know you would not have known how to do it differently, but it left me bereft. Do I grieve your loss today, or have I already spent half a lifetime grieving at the hole where you were supposed to be?

I do not feel like I have had a father. I have struggled to allow my husband to be a father at times, in the way he chooses to be, because I have no concept of what that role really looks like. I have to tear down those fantasies that I replaced you with and let him be human, fallible and most of all, thank goodness, deeply loving. But those fantasies have kept me hoping, kept me alive, imagining a knight in shining armour ride up and announce that he is my daddy, that he will rescue me and make everything all right. What happens to those now you are gone? Do they die too?

I have accepted you, I have rejected you. Mostly, I have kept my distance. I am grateful now that I no longer have to hold you at arms length, for my muscles are weary. I can carry your spirit beside me and allow the spirit love to be.

And I am grateful that just a few short weeks ago, my brother recalled a memory that I had never heard before. How when very young, he had created paper flames to stick up on his wall and telephoned you just down the road to proudly announce that his room was ‘on fire’. He remembers how you ran, how he put down the phone and within a breath you were there. Ready to save him. I love this story, I love that I heard this just before you died. That I could let you go, knowing that you were a daddy after all.

I love you Daddy, just as you are. Rest now, be at peace.