Challenges are necessary for growth and can be, all consuming too.
My lessons are coming thick and fast.
I look at her and my heart feels heavy.
I can see her physical body slowing down and her struggle is undeniable.
I can feel her anger, her bitterness and her absolute mistrust.
I can feel her self rejection, her self loathing and her inability to say sorry.
Saying sorry would surely mean death-death of denial.
She offloads her pain and misgivings, on those around her often and then attempts to have them believe that they are the cause of her pain.
The wounded Mata.
Our learning roles, now reversed-I play the adult and she plays the small child once again (you treat me like I am a 2 year old) needy, self-rejecting and in her words, suppressed.
Last night we played her ‘survival technique’ game-“If it wasn’t for me!”
I know-I really do know mum and I’m truly grateful.
I have used this example on a previous post some time ago and I think it’s worth sharing again.
What role/roles do you play within your life? What role do you identify with most?
I play them all and to hold myself accountable, I switch between Rescuer and Victim.
Rescuer being my lead role and victim, an easy safe role to settle into.
Mother play’s the Victim role and of course the Persecutor with her acid tongue and relentless bitterness. Underneath that heavy brash armor is a woman of great love, strength and resilience, a survivor of life’s harsh lesson’s and a mother.
Jeez… she is definitely presenting me with heavy duty challenges on a daily basis that require patience, tolerance and most of all loving forgiveness.
I’m not sure that I’ve begun to grieve yet, or have I grieved for so many years that now, I’m able to manage this process feeling balanced and present, without being engulfed in sadness?
Is that what we do?
Manage our feelings?
Sounds so text book!
And of course, I’ve managed my feelings for many years, until it got to a point where managing wasn’t an option.
This writing process shall remain my saviour and isn’t it strange how we are able to share with complete strangers the essence of our soul. The high’s and low’s, the authentically raw material of our mind. The innocence, betrayal, the love and honor, our most intimate misgivings.
I am grateful for this space and I am grateful to you, for playing such a fundamental role throughout my healing journey, even though you may not be aware of that fact. I write, people read and to me, someone is listening, someone can hear me.
Everyday there is something new to wade through and I’m doing okay even though I can’t quite get my head around Bro not being here. It seems that maybe he’s just gone away for a while. His coats still hang in the hallway and his glasses sit on the side table, ready for him to read the weekly paper. His chair is softly indented and still raised up slightly, so that it’s easier for him to stand when ready. Shoes are sat in the exact same position of when he wore them last and pajamas folded neatly on his bed. The old crocheted blanket lays unused, an extra to keep him warm at night and Mum placed his clean and washed vest in the middle of the blanket, just in case he needs it.
I wonder if he has actually gone anywhere, I wonder what the hell has just happened, I wonder if I’ll wake up in a minute and it’s all been a terrible dream.
Aah… there they are, my tears of release, a little at a time. I wondered where they were too and now are falling freely and uninterrupted.
Oh Bro, if only you knew how much you were loved-are loved and the empty space you have left behind is huge.
Your presence is missed greatly.
You may never really know how much you love someone until they aren’t here anymore and the sheer impact that they have on your life.
I truly know that now Bro and I’m sorry, I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you enough when you were here.
I’m sorry that I wasted time feeling hurt, angry and so damn stubborn.
Stubborn-and suitably matched.
Checkmate-only we both lose.
My advice to you all is this;
don’t leave things until it’s too late.
Don’t allow grievances to go on for a long period of time.
Don’t waste time with insignificance.
Try your very best to come from a loving place.
See things for what they are, not worse than they are.
We don’t often talk about the beauty of death because pain and finality takes precedence.
Over the past couple of weeks I’ve felt drained, emotionally and physically. Each day rolls into the next bringing fourth such an array of difficult emotions and to lose someone that I love dearly and in such a short amount of time is just devastating.
No time at all.
Making every day count is essential; oh… how I get that now! Experience all that you want to experience and truly know the absolute joy of being alive.
The hospice nurse explained that we would notice changes in his breathing, reminding us that he could hear us and that it was all okay, as she softly touched Bro on his shoulder.
It was okay-dying was okay-do not be afraid.
We asked if more morphine could be administered due to him appearing agitated as one arm would lift and drop to the bed, then the other, he would moan and slightly move his head. This happened several times.
Was he trying to communicate with us?
What did I miss?
Why didn’t I know and understand more after everything I had learn’t and read over the years?
Realizing now, the level of high expectation I always put on myself.
My mind constantly chatted to him, telling him things that I felt, he needed to hear and things that needed to be said between us.
A mutual forgiveness!
It was surreal, like a movie scene playing with us in it, but not of it-if that makes any sense?
Nothing seems to make much sense right now as the words fall from my mind and my fingers tap each letter on the keyboard.
I’ll just keep typing.
We wanted him to feel calm, pain free and safe.
Can you even feel safe when you are dying?
Was God with him?
At some point Mum laid his over sized silver and blue crucifix under his right hand and the Reverend said that God was near by, calling him home.
Morphine was given three times throughout the night, which I think I instigated, by sharing my thoughts with the others. I’m proud of the way we remained courteous to each other with regards to Bro on those occasions when making the decision to call the administering nurse, back into the room.
It was a time to tune into my internal all knowing, in order to do the right thing for Bro and I guess it’s something that could weigh heavily on my mind, if I allowed it to.
Mum broke down at one point and felt like she was murdering him by asking them to feed the driver with a stronger dosage and I had to reassure her several times that it was the best thing for him in order for to feel comfortable.
Just heartbreaking for her and for us too-poor Bro bless him, he probably wanted us all to bugger off and stop being so dam miserable.
His son, slept in the recliner for a couple of hours in the early part of the morning and that’s something I struggled with! Wouldn’t you want to spend every lasting second with the man that raised you knowing you’d never see him again?
My step father for 27 years.
A judgement on my behalf I know and I choose to keep that judgement right now as for the past two years, his son had written him out of his life and wasn’t interested at all.
The judgement will pass in time.
I knew that I couldn’t close my eyes and wouldn’t, no matter how exhausted I was. I had to honor his last breath and acknowledge this man as he returned to a place where he believed was home.
A return to love.
The nurse had told us that once we hear the rasp in his breathing, then it wouldn’t be long before he would pass and waiting for that rasp, was both unbearable and necessary.
How I wanted to hear that rasp, so he would finally be free and selfishly, the waiting was taking it’s toll.
Bro was diagnosed on the 29th of July, without his family to support him, sunk into a lonely depression.
He was so very afraid and COVID rules mean’t no visiting.
Day by day, Bro struggled to pay for the hospital television and phone system with his debit card with not being tech savvy at all. His calls were in short bursts with lots of tears, cutting off quickly mid sentence.
We couldn’t make head nor tail of what he was trying to say but tried hard to reassure him. It was an impossible situation which was horrendous for him and for us too, hearing his sobs, pleading with us to get him out of there.
I called his hospital bed phone daily-over and over again and couldn’t get through.
I called the ward several times and no one picked up the phone.
I called the elderly social work team several times desperate for help, complaining about the lack of communication. The first social worker who mum and I met, was only on call that weekend and when I tried to get through to her, she had gone on leave. The new one, promised she would call me back that afternoon after a meeting with regards to Bro.
She didn’t call back.
And so on… there’s so much more to say about the lack of, but right now in this very moment, there isn’t much point so maybe another day and another post.
The early morning came and I could see the distinct changes in his face and to me, he looked beautiful almost angelic. His skin was so very soft to touch as I gently stroked his hair across his forehead in the same way that I’d done for hours on and off.
As he breathed, his cheeks sucked in almost like a fish in the open air and it wasn’t labored like I imagined, it was gentle and quiet-just a small rasping sound, seemingly like he would stop at any moment and then another breath would come.
His son and wife stood up now and came close to the left of Bro, as if ready for a standing ovation, without the clapping part of course and Mum sat quietly weeping, holding his hand on his right side. My position was near his head side and his face was tilted our way. I felt it important to give his son the choice of changing places with me.
He declined, for which I am so grateful.
I kissed Bro’s hand and told him that the sun was shining, that I would meet him in his beautiful garden.
I told him that that he was free now, no more pain, struggle, crutches, hospitals nothing-just a free man to feel joy like he had never felt before.
I told him Banjo, his much loved dog who passed some time ago, was waiting for him and oh… what an amazing time they were going to have together.
I spoke to him in my mind and asked him;
“What are you holding on for Bro?”
and then it just came to me, as clear as day-as if he answered straight away!
“He’s telling me it’s too noisy!”
Bro had complained several times about the noise on the hospital ward and his inability to sleep.
The radio had been playing since he arrived at the hospice and the nurses must have put it on because it wasn’t something we had requested or did ourselves. It played quietly in the background. The oxygen machine was loud and as the nurse had said earlier in the evening that it wasn’t really helping him at this stage, so we agreed to have it turned off.
The space became instantly quiet and so very peaceful.
We opened the doors and with the early morning sun, Bro took his last breath.
It was five minutes from turning all the noise off.
There were no tears for me just a feeling of absolute peace and such a deep connection to his spirit. Bro taught me so many lessons right up until he passed and left his body. And that is exactly what he did… he left his heavy weighted, shell of a body behind and walked free. This has been my belief for as long as I was able to understand about life and death but now I have seen it with my own eyes and finally, I understand the lesson in all it’s entirety-it really is just a body and his body was an extremely painful body, a vessel to experience all the things that Bro needed to experience on his journey of life.
It happened the way it was always going to happen, the way it was mean’t to be.
We experienced forgiveness together at the highest level on both our parts.
We experienced love and a profound connection.
We experienced healing together and for that I will always be grateful.
Death can be beautiful if we allow the fear to fall away and remain present to all that is happening around us.
Death can be beautiful and allow you to see things more clearly when they seem so confusing.
Together, they have shared 27 years of living in sin (as my mother would say) and if I am to remain authentic and honest, for the past few months, I have just about tolerated him.
The most frustrating, stubborn and controlling man I know and also a man that has been in my life longer than my father was and who gave me so much love.
His words often do so much damage to my mother’s mental health well being and then in turn, her acid tongue would throw as much back and in more recent months, the idea of moving abroad felt like an escape from their unhealthy yet somehow committed relationship.
For months, I’ve been plagued with my own guilt at the thought of leaving them both.
My brother’s have never really liked him that much and in some way, he is just another version of my father only his addiction was food not drugs.
A massive man who weighed 28 stone at one point.
As a child, he was born into poverty, the kind of life where beds were shared with siblings, food was not plentiful and shoes were full of holes. His mother was abusive and life was extremely hard.
She ran off with another man without saying any goodbyes.
The youngest of four and a promising footballer who played for the England boys team as a teenager, his dream was to make it at a professional level. At age 19, whilst working a summer job with his brother on a farm, there was a terrible accident and he was trapped under a tractor.
The accident robbed him of his young healthy body and in turn gave him a life full of immense pain and disability and food filled the hole of where his dream once lived, self hatred ravaged his mind and he was told that he would never walk again.
He defied the odds, even walking into the ambulance two weeks ago, at the age of 77 with a semi smile on his face and telling both Mum and I that he loved us.
I now understand how desperately he tried to be a father figure to me and I wouldn’t let him in, I couldn’t-there was too much about his nature that I despised at times and on the other side of that, I have always known how much he loves me and has always been there when I needed help along the way, telling me often;
“It will come right in the end.”
Funny how you forget those times when you are so wrapped up in anger.
I hope he will forgive me…
Why did I leave it too long to tell him that I am so grateful for everything and that I am so sorry for the times that I chose not to forgive him-for the times that I too, was so incredibly stubborn.
After much back and fourth with his medical team, ranting and raving at the lack of communication, lack of support and lack of updated information, I finally arrived at his hospital bedside unannounced.
What I found was heartbreaking.
He was incoherent, rambling, soiled, unable to reach his drink as his table was too far away. His mouth was dry and sticky and he was semi lying on his back which is impossible for the pain in his spine. I tried to talk to someone but they were all too busy. I desperately needed answers and eventually the nurse who has been ‘dealing’ with him, arrived at his bedside and still, unable to answer my questions, told me that I needed to talk to the doctor.
After 50 minutes of waiting and nursing him myself, the Doctor finally came and told me that his kidneys are now failing too.
Within two weeks, I am now watching a yellow man die in front of me. His body is struggling with a large mass on his liver which has spread to his lungs. The fluid which is bypassing his damaged kidneys and liver, is now filling up his stomach.
He is so weak and sick.
I literally can not bare him being so frightened and disorientated.
He pleads with me to take him home over and over again.
The pain from all directions is absolutely suffocating.
I pray that he will fall asleep and gently pass and that his suffering will end.
Years ago I interviewed a grieving Mother whose adult son had died after a long illness. You could have heard a pin drop in the studio when she so beautifully told the story of their final moment together. The mother had climbed into bed with her son. She could barely hear him, but her head was on his chest. As he took his last breath, he whispered,” Oh Mom, it is all so simple. It’s so simple Mom.” He then closed his eyes and died.
I got chills when I heard that. I realised then, just as it resonates with me now: We allow life to get so complicated-when it’s really so very simple.
From this day forward I resolved to continuously ask myself, How am I making things more difficult than they need to be?
Your answer to that same question is the next step in your path. It’s that simple. Imagine what lies just around the bend.-
The Path Made Clear – Oprah Winfrey
Such a profound and beautiful message for us all.
We allow life to get so complicated at times when really, we are just a moment away from a completely different experience.
Recently, I have taken a much needed break from social media and thought that I would concentrate on my writing and sadly, that didn’t work out as I planned.
I look at the screen and all the wonderful things that are racing around in my mind, seem unable to work their way through to my fingers and on to the page.
It’s happened before and no doubt, it will happen again.
So today I am just touching base with myself, my screen and of course anyone out there who may be reading my blog.
There is a new and overwhelming challenge that my family and I must face together. My hope is that I can use this space to let out the feelings that need to be contained right now, in order to keep a clear head… just for a while.
We are born and at some stage we die and it’s a journey that we all will take.
I wonder now, how difficult the final stage must be or can we allow ourselves to gently relax, just for a while… into the whole magnificent process of a Soul returning home.
Life can be beautifully simple.
I choose to see the beauty within a seemingly dark situation and will honor the lesson for me which I now know is, forgiveness.
Forgiveness on so many levels.
Keep it simple and don’t leave anything unsaid because when we share our truths, healing can happen in such a profound way.
Early this morning, I commented on an Instagram post of a complete stranger.
Normally, I sit back and watch how a conversation goes, reading all the different posts and only write something if I feel moved enough to give an opinion.
The post began with the words-ALL White people are racist not some, not just White supremacists, ALL. The White people who think they aren’t racist, or have done enough work to not be racist are actually the MOST racist because they are the most entitled.
The lady who wrote the post was a life coach.
The words stopped me in my tracks.
Am I seen to be the most racist?
Am I seen to be themost entitled?
I see people, ALL PEOPLE for who they are not what color their skin is and I am struggling with accepting the above statement.
My life’s work has been about helping people move out of the dark into their light. It’s been about helping people overcome pain and resistance in order to live a more enriched life. I’ve taught about equality and brought my children up to embrace all people and to come from a place of kindness and acceptance.
I responded to the post with loving words and having the freedom to speak and was met with hostility, judgement and anger.
Am I being ignorant?
Forgive me if I am… that is not my intention.
I support Black Lives Matter and I also support the fact that All Lives Matter.
I support diversity.
And… in no way do I think that my having white skin gives me any right to feel sorry for myself.
I can see and feel that the world is struggling and that people are struggling and that their struggle has gone on for decades.
For that I am sorry.
Hate breeds hate.
I am sorry that there are ignorant people on this earth-the earth that we all share, who believe that they have more of a right to be here than another.
Today is my Mothers 85th birthday and she is still as fierce with her words as she was many years ago.
We had one of our pretty much usual determined conversations yesterday and by determined I really mean that Mother accuse’s, passes judgement and then dismisses any chance of a re-trial and all determined by her imagination.
I know only too well how difficult it’s been for her over the past few lock down months, it’s been tough for everyone.
For as long as I can remember, my Mother has perfected playing the role of the victim.
It is always about her and how someone has mistreated her, misleading her, lying to her, not including her and so on.
It is such a shame because she is an incredibly strong lady, with unbelievable resilience, a great sense of humor (on a good day, well a very good day, that is) and can be the most loving Mother anyone could wish for.
There is a saying that we have said for many years about her and that is;
She will give you the shirt off of her back if she thought that it would help you.
And, there is a part of me that will tell you, its comes at a cost-a reminder of how much she has done for you, if it wasn’t for her… how she has been a “Dam good Mother” and the ultimate statement that I just have to write in capitals;
IF IT WASN’T FOR ME YOU WOULDN’T BE ALIVE
Um! What can I say accept;
Thanks Mum for my life.
I am so glad I survived, even though the odds were set against me.
Please don’t get me wrong I love my Mother so very much and on the other side of that statement, I have spent my life making up for, as she believes, loving my Father more.
So yesterday, I found myself at age 51 and 3/4 justifying my not spending time at friends houses and spending time at hers, when I’m supposedly isolating (keeping her safe) from her and others.
I’m not even sure what I just wrote made any sense (laughing out loud).
So I shall try again; that heated conversation came about because she read or saw something on Facebook, (yes Mother has face book and commonly refers toit as the Huddle, which is the name of the device she first had, in order to use the internet-argh!! My brain aches just trying to explain it) then made up a story in her head about what she thought she saw.
We often make up stories about situations that actually, we know nothing about or are the very least are missing the facts.
I wasn’t anywhere I wasn’t supposed to be.
When I called to say that I would like to make lunch for her today and we would have to sit in the garden due to social distancing, she went straight into the victim role and stated that I have been very distant over the past few months.
No mention of a Pandemic…
Mother also claimed that she knew that I had spent so much more time with other people than with her and yet, I am telling her that she has to sit in the garden-“Your own Mother!”
We are the product of our life experiences and they do not and will never define who we are and there is always room for change.
There is so much hurt, rejection, loss, frustration, bitterness, jealousy and pain that Mother still holds within her and no amount of my trying, desperately at times to lead her towards thinking differently about her life, is going to change that.
This is her journey and of course I am a huge part of that journey and my love for her is insurmountable.
Will I always feel frustrated when we rub each other up the wrong way… of course I will, because until I heal the part of me that is my Mother, she will always present to me the lessons that I need to learn.
Ultimately, we all want to be loved and my Mother is no different.
Happy birthday to you on this 10th day of June.
Patricia June Maltby Thompson Sinclair
May you find that acceptance within you that I believe you are searching for.
May you forgive yourself for the role that you didn’t play.
May you know, that we your children, love you and always will.
It took some time for me to pick up Leora’s Letters and read it because I knew that the story would evoke some painful emotions within me which are attached to the loss of my Father and what he went through as a child in the same war.
Although he didn’t die, my family lost my Father when he was 7 years old and I don’t really think that he ever stood a chance of returning emotionally, from the atrocities that he experienced in the prison camp.
I can only ever imagine what kind of woman and Mother Leora was, from Joy’s description of her Grandmother and in particular the letter’s that she so lovingly wrote to her family and her five son’s.
My tears flowed generously as I read each letter and what a gift to the world this book is, to be able to have such a personal, historical insight of WWII that will always be available for people to read and for students to study in schools.
Thank you Leora, what a wonderful Mother you were and I am so sorry that you had to lose your beautiful boy’s, in order for others to live.
Thank you Joy for your wonderful book and the gift that you have given to me of love, connection and friendship.
My son is 25 and lives in London which currently, is the epicenter for the virus spread in the UK.
My daughter is 21 and lives about ten minutes away which feels like a million miles right now.
I would love for us to be sitting around the dining table together, enjoying our Sunday roast, hearing them laugh and joke with there little sister.
As a teenager my Mother often said;
“Don’t try and grow up too fast because when you are an adult, you’ll wish you were a kid again.”
Do I miss being a kid? Yes, at times I do and if I could go back and rewrite our history, I would make it all so very different for my brothers and I.
And… I know I wouldn’t be who I am today without my childhood being as it was, but still, sometimes it just sucks!!!
What I miss most are the times when my big kids were little and we were altogether in one place.
My youngest is 12 and desperately misses her siblings. I found this note hidden in one of my note books from when she used to role play being a secretary.
Sometimes growing up can be hard especially for the child that feels left behind and of course as we all know, its a natural process.
I was that child too.
I am so very proud of these three beautiful humans, and feel blessed to call them my children. Yes, there are times when I wish I could go back to number 10, as number 10 was where we were all rooted together, it was our family home. I realise now, I wasn’t as grateful as I could have been for that house-our home.
I am gently reminded that it was just a house… the love of my family, the very soul of those memories will remain in my heart forever and that’s what counts most.
The garden is full of welcomed guests and morning joy.
Birds are flitting here and there and primroses are on parade in their clusters, proudly showing off their beauty.
The sun in all its glory, dances with nature and warms this coming day with its offering of hope and rebirth.
Hope-a feeling of expectation and desire for a particular thing to happen.
Rebirth-a period of new life, growth, or activity, a revival.
With a new beginning somewhere in the Universe there has to be an ending.
Its the Yin and Yang of life, the ebb and flow, the Karmic law.
Sadly, I heard on the radio yesterday of an 11 year old boy losing his life to the unseen and silent killer and an overwhelming ton of emotion hit me me like a steam train.
There is a place deep within me where I feel connected to this child and want to reach out to him, hold him and love him just a little bit more… to let him know that he is and always will be loved by millions of others around the world and that his life had meaning.
All lives have meaning.
We are all in this together.
Collectively, we feel the pain his family feels.
I will never know
or see your
can imagine you now
bounding with life-
by your side
the part of you
that is me
that You lived.
May you all have a wonderful day and know how important each and every one ofyou are . I am thankful for us being on this journey together.
Another great day to be alive albeit a challenging one to say the very least.
A message came through in the early hours of the morning only we didn’t hear phone ting.
My husband’s step father had a stroke at around midnight last night and was taken to hospital-the very place we all need to stay away from right now.
Totally unexpected and such a shock.
Thankfully, as far we know, 80% of his movement has returned which is brilliant and now I am more concerned about the week’s stay in hospital that is ahead of him.
He is 83.
We are unable to visit him.
We are unable to comfort my Mother in-law in person.
As a family, we must pull together, adjust and do things differently.
I am reminded of a well know Dr Wayne Dyer quote;
”If you change the way you look at things the things you look at change”
My Mother in-law acted with haste.
He was given the medication that he needed quickly.
He is alive.
For that… I am truly grateful.
Whatever life throws at you, there is always a choice in how you respond.
Wherever you are in your life right now, today, this very moment… know that you have real choice in how you respond to your current situation and to the world at large. If its all getting too much then change your channel, shift it up a notch, remember who you are and whatrole you play in this present moment.
Maybe the journey isn’t so much about becoming anything
Maybe its about unbecoming everything that isn’t you
It didn’t take much for my Father to find out where we were staying and I am surprised that he didn’t come to the house and smash the front door down.
He wasn’t the kind of man to follows rules and I think he had finally broken.
Going to school that Monday morning wasn’t really an option because of the severity of our situation and I remember quite distinctly, what I was given for breakfast;
Scrambled egg with ketchup.
“Go on eat it up, it’ll do you good to get something in your stomach and stop all that worrying, worrying won’t get you anywhere.”
Said the friend!
I had never tasted it before and I really didn’t like it-so I didn’t eat it.
The phone rang. It was my Father asking to speak to my Mother and that look upon her face returned… the one that she momentarily, had a reprieve from.
I can see clearly in my minds eye, her standing there holding the phone up to her ear. Words are coming out of her mouth and I can not hear what she is saying… but I do know that she denied his begging for us to go home.
He asked to speak to me and she handed the phone over and this time, was the very last time I heard his voice.
Hello darling, it’s me Dad.
Please come home I can’t live without you and Mum.
Please Shellie, please… it won’t happen again!
I’ll get help.
I don’t want to hurt you or Mum, she won’t listen to me just come home.
He was sobbing.
I was sobbing.
I didn’t know what to say, I had no words, just tears, uncontrollable tears, I could have drowned in them.
I couldn’t breathe… my father was pleading with me to come home and I could hear his desperation.
I could feel it…
His words were clear,
he was coherent,
he was present.
I told him that I was scared and sorry but I couldn’t come home.
There was silence-even though we were crying together and then he told me that he loved me and followed with, “I will always love you, you are my everything.”
I have been running from this sadness for so long now and have felt too paralysed to work on my writing this past week. Some days I just wander in my mind looking for a safe place to rest but seemingly, it’s proving more difficult
I have to keep writing through it.
On the anniversary of my fathers passing I desperately want to acknowledge him and give meaning to his life as no other person ever does.
Nobody… and I feel very sad about that.
Was he that insignificant? Did he really matter to anyone? Was his life that unimportant?
If you were to ask my brothers to tell you the date of their father’s death, they wouldn’t have a clue and my Mother always needs reminding.
The date goes unnoticed.
Most years I remember him in silence but this year I wrote a Facebook status which came completely out of the blue.
If there was a direct telephone line that could reach him now, I would choose to hear him speaking softly to me and listen carefully to the sound of his voice, savouring every moment. I would ask him how his day has been and tell him about mine. I would spend the time laughing with him and sharing the simple things I know he’d love to hear… and I’d love him just that little bit more.
We must never underestimate the power of un-resolved grief. Its a burden to carry for sure and one that is so heavy for me to this very day.
Even though I was very afraid of my father, my love for him is evident.
The force that stormed through the door was untamed.
He was a mad man.
The man I loved unconditionally and yet feared unlike any other human being alive, arrived with the big black case in hand.
Remember the case?
I froze – engulfed in terror, my mother a couple of feet behind me and to be specific, she stood in the right hand corner at the back of the front room.
I was her shield.
Like it was okay?
The dog was going crazy, barking in a frenzy of confusion running in all directions. He was my father’s dog and very much loved.
The mad man – hair messed, face contorted, eyes wide with RAGE started bellowing at my mother and the only thing I remember is;
“I’m going to kill you.”
and he hurled the big black hard sided case with such force, across the room at Her and as she threw herself out of the way, her screams of begging and pleading went un-noticed by any person outside.
It was a near miss.
Smashing against the wall.
The dreadful volume of noise – shouting – screaming – crying – barking – it was utter chaos.
I can still hear the hysterical cries from her and the fury filled shouting from him – I began pleading with him, begging him to stop, telling him I was scared, using his love for me to try and persuade him to calm down;
“If you love me Dad then please, please stop!”
I was in my very own nightmare and needed help. I couldn’t get him to stop and physically I didn’t have the strength to hold on for much longer. The situation escalated as he kicked the dog out the way and started to push me back and walk in her direction so I threw my arms around him, hugging him, telling him I loved him, sobbing; my feet slipping on the carpet as I pushed back as much as I could.
I tried I really tried hard; I pushed back
and prayed frantically, with speed, in my head to a God that I believed was there.
He was there, wasn’t he?
Then something changed – slowly, he began to calm down and as I held on to him for dear life, he demanded to know where his drugs were. My mother told him as he prized my arms from around him and walked out of the room.
I prayed every day as a child.
For my father –
What is this love this powerful force This energy of love Can strip the volatile naked to reveal a truth not often seen Rage can hide behind love and fear behind the rage Fear is the truth that rage will not speak Love is the gentle dance to heal a broken heart
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