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It can be difficult to piece together the bits of memory I have to create the image of my dad. Lollipops from the pink dairy after school, ‘the wall’ music video blasted on our tv in the living room. His dinners, that I don’t remember well, but I somehow know he was a good cook. His beard, his big tummy when I hugged him. Him getting skinnier, and a bit scarier, Although I never admitted it, I was scared. He looked different. No more rumbling laugh and squishy tummy hugs. Vacant eyes and an empty frame. This is not the same man I grew up with.
He was sick. I knew this because I listened to my mum talk to her friends about it. Scitzaphrenia. Alcoholic. Depression.
I was 8 years old, all I understood was that my dad had got skinnier and wasn’t as funny anymore. He was sick with diseases I didn’t know existed. He was taken to a house. Away from us, to get better. I didn’t understand.
I saw him occasionally, on weekends. Sometimes I didn’t want to go, I was scared.
I was scared of my dad and I wish I knew then what I know now. He was sick. He needed to see how much his family needed him.
Blue and red flashing lights illuminated our front garden. “You need to wait to talk to your mum”. I didn’t understand. I was welcomed with a hug and a serious tone. His demons had won.
My life has forever changed, no longer dependant on anyone, I make the most of every day. I try to be kind and understanding, you never know what demons someone is fighting.
I didn’t “mourn” the loss of my father much at the time. I am still mourning, and healing, and the grief comes in waves. I often think where I would be if he were still here. Would he have encouraged me to be better, to do more? Would he and my partner get along? Would him and mum still live together in our little home? Would my partner one day ask him for my hand in marriage?
Would he be proud?
I didn’t understand. I still don’t.
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I think he would be proud. I’d like to believe that for you.
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