I just had to write, and write and write

He died 2 August 2012 at 130pm

A few days to a week after he died, I wrote this. 

I feel a lack of closure that is beyond what I have ever experienced. I will never connect with him, in anger, love, or forgiveness again. What was done was done. I have sobbed silently for the loss of time and familial closeness. I have cried for my father's stubbornness, and for my own inability to rise above it.  While I tell myself that I am at peace . . . I still weep - and the weeping comes in waves - some feel like tidal waves, some like a calm lake awakening . . . .

There comes a point in your life and grief process that you have to remember the smaller good things and happy moments, and forget or forgive the bigger not so good things . . . and that is the path I have chosen to take at the end of all this.  But first I need to get all things off of my chest, and out of my head, and onto paper. 

People are asking if I saw my dad before he died, and are questioning why I didn’t go over to England.  While I do not have to explain my decisions to anyone anymore, I will tell you that I did not feel the want, nor the need, to go. I have seen a cancer death.  Debs told me that I would not want to see him this way, and I believed her – maybe I was also afraid of how I would react . . would my emotional shield get cracked?  Would my strong façade fall to pieces?  Would tough old Nicky show her weakness?  Why was I afraid of appearing weak?  so much to learn about myself.

People tried to make me feel guilty for not going, told me he was probably hanging on just waiting to say goodbye to us (me and my sister) – that was the worst thing they could have said. . . and for a while it worked, and I struggled with my decision.  But now I am totally at peace with it.

I was 7 when he left our family home; I was 15 when I was taken to Canada; I was 21 the next time I saw him, then I was 35 or so and for the last time at age 43.  In all that time, we never talked about anything substantive – I don’t know if there was really a lot left to say.  We shirked the questions we both probably should have asked; we could not seem to speak beyond basic pleasantries, weather, TV, other things.    When he lived with Linzi here in Canada (in the late 1990’s early 2000’s) he would come and stay at our house on the weekends – it would give Linzi a break and hopefully give him a chance to connect with his 2 grandsons (never really happened).  I found, even then, the conversations stilted and difficult, forced and strained – maybe too much time had passed for us to fix the relationship.  Linzi was always searching for a relationship with dad, and I felt so sorry for her as he never seemed to have any love left by the time she came along . . . I cannot imagine how she must have felt . . I put up an emotional brick wall, Linzi got a broken heart.  By this time I had pretty much sloughed it off I think – I had told myself that there was no relationship there - easier to deal with that what I felt was the unloving and non-acceptance of him as a father. 

I remember that one night I just suddenly grew the balls to ask him what I always wanted to ask. I asked him why he didn’t love me.  I think I shocked him.  He very non- emotionally told me that he would have loved me more if I was a boy, and that he wished it was always just 'him and mummy'; and that he deliberately refused to take us on weekends “to hurt Mummy”, because he was hurt he wanted her to hurt.  He put us in the middle of his waging war against our mum.  

To sit across the room from you father and hear those words cut me to the core.  I knew that he was not going to win the Father of the Year award, however, I felt totally unloved, unwanted and not needed at that moment.  Why was I even bothering to be honest?  The moment he said those words I wanted him to leave, leave my house and leave my life.  I can remember the wall of protection go up higher around me, I can remember the switch inside me move to the off position.  I can remember the feeling of emptiness and worthlessness.  I guess even though we had not had the best relationship, I still needed his acknowledgment and acceptance – I guess that was not going to happen.  This was the day I totally shut him off emotionally. And I did not realize that until now.

The last time I saw him was October 2008.  I had no plans of going to see him that year, or ever again, (could never afford a trip) but a great friend of mine, Sue, gifted me with airline tickets, arranged it all with my sisters without me knowing, and even booked the week off of work with my boss.  Debbie took me to the IOW to see my dad.  I was still deciding the day before I got on the plane as to whether I was going to visit him or not – Dean and I had many talks about it.  Debbie pretty much made up my mind for me . . . . while it was not a very comfortable visit, too many years had passed; I had told myself it was the right thing to do . . .and that I would be a better person for doing this . . . and when I left I was convinced that I was able to shut that door forever.  Get that chore out of the way . . . . yes, I thought of it as a chore to be honest.  Our visit felt strange.  He seemed pleased to see us as we stepped off of the ferry, and apparently had waited all day – had got there early, but after 5 minutes we seemed to be like strangers trying to make small talk.  The relationship really had not survived the distance and the hurt . . . I told myself that day that I did not love him.

I told myself after I returned to Canada at the end of that holiday, that I had closed that chapter in my book of life, and that I was at peace with my decision that it was going to be the last time I spoke to or saw my dad.  

I have since found out that I am probably the world’s best liar. . . I told everyone, many times, that he was gone from my life – book closed, story over, and that I was totally cool with it all.  And I will swear on a stack of bibles, and I truly believed that I was okay with it.  I truly did  - I had no clue that I was lying to myself – I had told myself so many times that it ‘just didn’t matter’ that I had begun to believe it.  I created my ‘perfect little world’ of ‘I can handle anything’ . . .I was surrounded by a big wall of concrete, and protected by a huge emotional shield . . . I was safe.

So, Debs called from the UK and told me that dad was sick back in January 2012, I replied “ok, well let me know when he dies” I felt no emotion . . out of sight, out of mind. . . . . don’t forget, I was OK with this (world’s best liar).  And I really thought I was ok . . . and I really didn’t react emotionally, I just put up another huge block up in front of me, added another layer to the emotional wall I have built around me, probably since about the age of 11.  I was fine, good ‘tough old Nicky’ was not going to let anything through that wall – I had it all planned out perfectly . . . so so perfectly . . .

Until . . .

early February I pop onto Facebook at work, and my whole day came crashing down around me, in a way I could never have predicted.  In fact, I would have put money on the table against the emotions I was experiencing.  The tears started flowing, not just slowly and steadily, but accompanied by sobs, the feeling of nausea, the shakes – what the hell was happening to me?  It was all because of a single photograph.  A photograph of my dad smiling with his great granddaughter by his side, he is laying in his hospital bed, with charts on the back saying “Mr. Edwards’s fluid intake”, “Mr. Edwards’s medical chart”.  But I saw three things clearly, his hands, his face and his eyes.  You could see the cancer had taken hold – now it seemed too real – now I really realized that I was about to experience the imminent death of an immediate family member – my dad.  After experiencing a visit with a cancer patient only 6 hours before his death a few years ago, you could see that Deb was right; it really is just a matter of time. That was 6 months ago . . . . they gave him 6 weeks, and he made it 6 months.

My reaction scared the shit out of me . . . I became a wreck, I cried for hours, had to leave meetings, close my office door.  I became a mess . . . and didn’t understand why.  I felt like I cried for a week straight.  

It took 2 friends to figuratively grab me by my ears and drag me to the corner, sit me down and tell me the truth, and it hurt, and it still hurts.  It took them treating me like the child I had locked away, like the emotional person I was trying never to be, like the person that had suffered from abandonment and loneliness that I was, they literally put me on the path to self-discovery.  I came away from our chat feeling like I was suddenly emotionally alive . . . a new me had been born . . . I knew that I needed to find out who I was.

I started to recall my childhood a little bit at a time.  I never really recall hearing a lot of “I love you” coming out of my dad’s mouth, and spoken to me, but that is another story.  But when you look at his young life, maybe he didn’t know how to say it.  He was the youngest of 11 children, born in the 1920’s and 1930’s.  He probably didn’t hear those three magical words very often.  He may have never known the strong love between a parent and a child – how much energy can you really have as a parent after the 11^th child in 20 years?  Who am I to now judge the lack of words to me?  Pam, a close friend, made me realize this about a year ago when I first heard of dad’s onset of dementia.  And those words have stuck with me ever since, and made me accept the small things that my dad did for me as his way of showing he loved me.

For 36 years I shut off my true emotions, and now I am mad.  Mad that he refused to pick us up on weekends; mad that mum threatened to call the orphanage every time he didn’t show up; mad that we seemed to be a chore to him; mad that my cousins saw more of him that we did; mad that he ignored Linzi; mad that I wasn’t a boy; so so so mad; mad that when my mum asked for him to take us for a few weeks or months so that we could move back to England in 1981 he said NO.  Gee thanks Dad . . . . .

And the journey continues . . . . .