23 Attempts at Love

Chapter 23: A Different Kind of Love

There is nothing dignified about cancer. The way it ravages your body, strips you of your dignity and leaves you incapable of doing things you were fine with the day before. The way it leaves you and your entire family a broken shell, barely holding things together. The way it changes the way you look, the way you speak, the way you behave, so much so that old friends don't recognise you when they visit.

I spent my first week back home reading every appointment letter, every referral from the doctor and every article I could find online about it. I stayed awake until the early hours of the morning determined to find the one miracle treatment which would save my Dad. I prayed to a God I didn't believe in.

Sam and Katie had moved home. The five of us were back together for the first time in years, everyone older and wiser and all a little more distant than we wanted to admit. A drunken family dinner on the first Friday night all together with Mum's Famous Lasagne bonded us all together again, laughing and drinking late into the evening until Dad suddenly got so tired he couldn't walk himself upstairs to bed. Sam carried him. We all remembered why we were together, and the laughter died.

I had six months with my Dad. I told him every little thing about Africa, about London, about everything and anything I'd ever done without him and every book I'd read. I read to him, him sitting in his favourite armchair with me sitting on the floor besides him, reading aloud until I heard the gentle sounds of snoring.

Towards the end we had two carers who visited Dad: Gill and Patricia. They arrived into the house in a colourful whirlwind of fun and character and hearty laughs and reminded us that there was a world outside of These Four Walls. Gill – well into her fifties – told us about her latest dating woes and her troublesome teenage daughter. Patricia bemoaned her granddaughter's school results and whether she would ever be able to get a husband (the granddaughter in question was 14). Gill danced with Katie in the kitchen to music from the 70s while Patricia sat with Mum in a moment of peace. They were there for us just as much as for Dad.

Every night I said goodbye to my Dad, told him I loved him. Every night could be his last and I wanted my last words to him to be those.

We lost him in the night, peacefully. Gill and Patricia were there to deal with everything, take care of everyone. I held everything in until they took his body away, and then shattered into a million tiny pieces in the living room.

I spoke at the funeral and every word quivered in my mouth like it was about to shatter, too.

My Dad was brilliant. He was smart and funny and savvy about everything, but he had such a big heart that only a few people saw. He loved us – my family – hard. He came to my swimming competitions, to tennis tournaments, to dance recitals. He critiqued Mum's paintings and always encouraged her to do more, always encouraged all of us to do more. When I was little I sat on his lap by the fireplace while he pointed out places in an Atlas and told me stories of his travels.

There are so many things you don't get to do when you lose your father. I won't have him beside me when I walk down the aisle. My fiancé can't ask him for his hand in marriage. He won't be there to see any grandchildren, or to grow old with Mum and bicker about pension funds and retirement villages.

The worst part about this whole thing is how quickly it all happened. I had six months to say goodbye, but no length of time is long enough. Losing a parent isn't like losing a friend, or a grandparent. It's like losing a huge piece of you, everything you knew. It's like riding a bike and a wheel falling off. It's losing your Dad and everything that comes with him: my mentor, my motivator, my friend, my father.