Wednesday 29 May 2013

A very special blog post

I wrote this some months ago in January of this year. This post was written exactly 8 days before my dad passed away from cancer. At the time, I had neither the heart nor courage to share it. And it is still, very honestly, incredibly hard for me to post this. Reading it now brings all the emotions back with the added poignancy that he is no longer with us.

However, grief buried is grief that can wreak havok on the human heart. So here it is.

Some day I may even be able to write about that last week and the days since.
Until then...

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This is a very special blog post.
It’s January 2013, and my dad is dying.
My dad… is dying.
That’s a really strange sentence to write. In a way,  my brain still hasn’t caught up with the reality of what my family is now facing. I find myself confused, distressed, disbelieving. My thoughts run one way in one moment only to run the exact opposite a second later.
But that’s the reality of my today. Today, 30 January 2013, my dad is dying. He’s 72 years of age, and he probably won’t make it to his 73 birthday on 21 March. With terminal cancer that has spread like wildfire, he doesn’t have very long. His dearest wish now is that it happens as quickly and painlessly as possible. And now, for my sister, mum and I, that has become our biggest priority. To help dad die quickly, painlessly as possible, and with as much dignity as we can muster up for him.
It’s funny how things sharpen to a point at times like these. When a loved one is dying, suddenly time is all you have. Every moment, every second becomes infinitely precious. There’s no racing through the days. No wishing tomorrow would come. Right now, right here, that’s all that’s important. Right now, right here, I can still hug him and feel his warm back beneath my hands. Right now, right here, I can still put an arm around his shoulders and give him a kiss on the head. Right now, right here, I can still hold his hand and tell him I love him. Right now, right here… that’s all we have left. Maybe that’s all we ever really have.
My other priority, in all of this, is to not look away. If my loved one is going to face this, I will face it with him, holding his hand, telling him I love him and helping his spirit on to the other side.
(It’s funny – because I had always thought that he would be the one holding my hand, walking me down the aisle, handing me over to my husband-to-be. That’s not going to happen now. When I get married, Baba won’t be there in physical form. Instead, I will be there for him. And maybe that’s also the way it was meant to be. )
My dad and I haven’t had a very easy relationship over the years. He was a strict parent, and I was never backwards about telling him what I thought. It made things volatile and hurtful between us. But in the last ten years or so, we have both made steps to heal the rift and find resolution. It has meant that now, in this time, we are not busy mending fences. Those were mended years ago. Now we are busy telling each other ‘I love you’. I’ve been able to express regret for things I wish had been different and have him acknowledge and share that moment with me. I’ve been able to connect with him and share a loving space with him. I am so grateful for that.
My dad isn’t some famous Australian. He doesn’t have world-breaking achievements under his sleeve. He won’t be missed by anyone except those of us who know and love him. The PM won’t stop to make a speech about him. He’s just a family man. Someone who worked hard at a pizza bar for years to put his daughters through school and send them to Uni. That’s it. But isn’t that more than enough? Isn’t that really amazing?  
I don’t know how I’ll face the coming days and weeks. I don’t know what to expect from that final moment. I believe (through some personal experiences) that his spirit will survive, and I don’t know how to talk to him about that. I feel I have some spiritual gifts that can help him at this time, and I don’t know how to share them. There’s a lot I don’t know.
I do know: I love my dad. And I will always love him. Now and for always. I am lucky I get to tell him that many times I hope before he passes on.
I wish for you all LOVE, for today and for always. That’s all that’s really important anyway. Really. It is. Let’s not wait until it’s almost too late to realise that and live by that universal truth.