You're as handy as a small pot
familyfriendslossThis post is going to have a lot of pretty blunt thoughts on loss, death, cancer treatment, losing a parent, losing a child, therapy, people pleasing, learning and generally being radically honest with myself. I don't want to upset anyone who might be triggered by any of these topics, so please do feel free to stop reading now.
Towards the end of 2020, I found out that my Dad was having trouble swallowing. In August I went home, and we found out that Dad had cancer of the oesophagus. I stayed in Ireland whilst Dad began treatment, coming back to London in November. The next 3 years were a blur in some ways. I threw myself into work, I tried to find things to focus on. I started therapy to help support me, as I'm not often very good at self care.
Between lock downs and Covid, we were all limited in how much we could travel home. In this time I learned that being present, and supportive, is not the same as thinking you need to move home and live with your sick parent. I learned some difficult lessons about respecting someone's choices through a terminal illness.
We had some great points years on, where Dad's cancer stopped growing and even reduced. But on one fateful day, the day that Lucy and I had a frozen embryo transfer, we learned Dad's cancer had spread again, more seriously. Two weeks later Lucy and I found out we were pregnant. A few weeks after that, Lucy and I very sadly lost the baby.
Sometimes I don't quite know how I managed through things, but at work, not many people really knew the ongoing struggles. I know that at the time I was taking each day as it came. I made life quite small and simple, because that was all I could manage. Slowly people stopped reaching out or asking about Dad at all, some friendships even died away completely. All the while, I was just trying to keep going. I was making sure Lucy was ok, doing what I could for Mum and Dad, taking care of the cats, making sure I did my job well and making sure I worked through things in therapy.
I leant on a lot of people who knew what it was like to lose a parent to cancer. I felt seen by them, like you could make all the gallows humour jokes, because life really teaches you to laugh when you can, take hold of the good moments, because harder ones are going to come. Those harder moments are going to go too, time will take care of that.
In late August last year we got the call from my older brother that Dad wasn't good. We all made our way home, Lucy and I from Swindon, where I am so blessed she just let me cry and talk, and she listened and heard me all the way to the hospital. In the hospital we watched Dad slowly slip away. When he died, it was all a blur. The funeral happened very quickly. I felt so grateful to have the support of friends and family around us all.
Life has fundamentally changed, and so have I. I'm slowly making my world a little bigger, but without feeling I need to please everyone. I'm mindfully doing things that feel right, and doing things that are kind to myself and others. I'm still focusing on work, and I enjoy that it challenges me in all the ways. If this past three to four years has taught me anything, it is perspective. I feel I know what is important.
I'm hoping these notes can help me re-engage with parts of the world, and myself. But I'll be mindful about what it brings, and if it sits with what I find important. Until then, I'll leave you with some words I wrote to mark some feelings six months on from Dad's death:
There are times I lift my phone to find my earbuds. I open “find my friends” and without thinking, there you are, “location not found”. It’s been 6 months since Dad died, and sometimes I forget he is gone. I expect him to be at the other end of the phone, but, he is not there.
If I had to explain how it all feels now, living with the loss, I would lean on analogies as I always do. Living life without Dad is like missing a limb, like I’m walking around without an arm or a leg, and nobody notices, it's like I'm missing an invisible limb. The people who can see the lost limb are those who have lost one themselves, or people who stand next to you and help you navigate the world of metaphorically buttoning up a shirt or opening a jar one-handed.
Days start the same, they end the same, but you do it all without that limb. Sometimes I feel that limb is actually my whole heart, like I can’t quite fit any more feeling in me. There were times I was angry very few people could see the struggle, nobody could ask, “hey, can I open that jar for you?”. Now I find myself feeling happy for the people who aren’t adjusting to that pain. If anyone reads this and finds it uncomfortable, fair play my friend, you keep going, I hope the world never shares this pain with you.
Can I say I’ve gained perspective? I certainly don’t worry about all the same things I used to. I think I finally understand what Dad meant when he said, “not everyone has to like you, Mel”. I used to think that was a challenge, how can I relate to anyone in my life, how do I find common ground? How do I make them feel seen? Now, for better or worse, in this armless version of myself, I’m just me. I don’t compare so much, I don’t worry some people don’t reach out to me, or I’ve lost touch with some, I don’t agonise over interactions and worry if my meaning is clear or if I’ve hurt someone’s feelings. I try to take each day as it comes, give kindness to each person and very much remind myself that what someone thinks of me is none of my business. I’m not sure this is all the best way to be, but it’s how I can be right now.
Sometimes, at night, I look up at the stars and another analogy comes to me. Dad, you were my North Star, and you’d have laughed at that a bit. You taught me how to navigate life. You tried to tell me all the things you learned, and sometimes those lessons went in! You gave me the gift of disagreeing with me as often as you agreed with me. You challenged me. We challenged each other, and in the end, understood who we both are. On reflection, I’ve learned to fully accept that we are all flawed, but coupled with what I’ve gathered about life so far, and some your guidance, I can manage a kind of beautiful peace in accepting the present moment.
Listening to
- Previous: October is here