I lost both my parents last year.
I first lost my dad.
I don’t like calling like that, because he was never a “dad” to me. I remember vividly being a kid and trying my best to never use that term with him, in any circumstances, and if I did, it was because I really had to.
Sometimes I think he did his best as a man, but most of the time I struggle to forgive him the nights I spent as a kid on that pissy couch, refusing to fall asleep on that horrible thing. I fail to forgive him for not helping me as a young adult when I was there, broke and unable to put food on my plate, pretty much starving and months away from being on the street.
We had good times, but they were too rare to make up for the fact that he never made room for me and treated me like a stranger in his life. Like that time, when I was 12 and he told me he didn’t have enough money to buy me a Christmas present but an hour later made us stop in a supermarket to buy a Furby for his godchild. That time hurt me so deeply I can still feel the pain in my guts 20 years later.
He died on a hospital bed, alone, after several epileptic fits which cost him his independence and in the end his life. He ended up alone, paying the sad price of not cherishing his daughters, his family.
I knew nothing about him, just as he knew nothing about me. I never knew he self-checked himself in a home at the age of 62, never knew his health was that bad. I was just informed when he was pretty much on his death bed, letting himself die by not taking his pills, because the epileptic fits took away most of his motor abilities. He retired at 60 and got into a home at 62 and died at 64. How sad is that?
I knew nothing about him. I don’t know what he looked like when he was young and fit, when he met my mother and fell in love with her. I know he cherished her, loved her so much he adopted her daughter, a kid she had with another man. Admittedly she didn’t even know who, amongst the men she slept with, was the father anyways. I didn’t know him, but I know he loved my mother and never loved another woman after she left him.
He is now gone. He is gone and has left behind him a life where he gathered money and got all the things money could buy, failing to enjoy the real things, the ones you feel in your heart and soul rather than in your hands.
I am sad and I wish I had known he was sick. Maybe I could have talked to him and asked him about his life, his regrets, because I do hope he left with some regrets. Maybe he could have told me how he wished things could have been different, or maybe he would have stayed the big bear he always was, until the end, hanging to that pride, wrongly but surely… which sadly sounds more like him, really.
Instead of being there for him, as a loving daughter would do, I am here, resentful and unforgiving. I am sad, not as a daughter but as a human being, sad that this man died alone, and maybe sad that I didn’t get to be a daughter and have a dad.
He will never know; never know that I wanted him to treat me like an equal, respect me and give me a bed on the weekends I had to sleep in his house. He will never know the sadness I feel for him, as a man, sadness all over my body and soul, because he never gave himself the chance to be loved.
I wrote this when I learned about my dad was about to pass. That was in September last year.
I lost my mother as well, who I also had issues calling “mum”. I was informed of her death when one of my sisters tried to get in touch with her to inform her of our father’s death…. But that’s for another day.
This is the song I chose to be played at his funeral (funeral home). I was the one who had to that. I remembered a poster of Queen he had in his living room and thought this song would be appropriate.