I was eight when my father died. I don't have some absolutely heartbreaking story to tell of how my dad was my best friend and I lost him in a tragic accident.
It wasn't exactly like that, although it was heartbreaking for my family.
He was 35 years old when the cancer first hit him. He was able to go through chemo and managed to get rid of it for five more years. Unfortunately, it came back when he was 40. And that time, he wasn't so lucky.
The doctors knew the chemo wouldn't work a second time, so dad didn't even take the offer to have it done.
He knew he was going to die, and he very well lived that last year of his life to the fullest. Since I was only eight I didn't know about much, but I knew enough. I was an extreme daddy's girl since I spent most of my time with him as a baby. My mum worked odd hours for work and was always gone, so I stayed at home with daddy.
We would go on walks and he would read to me. My dad was definitely a nerd when it came to books. One of the many things I loved about him was how he got lost when he read. When he'd find a great one, and wouldn't come out of his room until it was finished; only stopping to eat and use the restroom.
I don't remember a whole lot about my father, only that he was extremely easy-going. He always went-with-the-flow and tended to stay in the back of big crowds. He never judged anyone for who they were. I remember him always telling me, "Don't assume anything about anybody until you've taken a walk in their shoes."
At that age I had no idea what he meant. I didn't know anything about judging others. When you're young like that you don't look at others and notice them by their weight or their clothes. You noticed them by their approach and whether they were nice or disrespectful.
At least that's how I was.
I, too, didn't know much about cancer except that it was deadly. My dad never exactly said the words, "I'm going to die," but instead told me that he wouldn't always be around and told me I needed to be a brave little girl for my mother.
Day after day, week after week, and month after month passed as I slowly watched my father drift away from me. Drift away from our family. He held on for as long as he could and made sure he told me he loved me and cared for me each and every day.
On that last week, it was by far the worst I had seen him. He was so lifeless and just drained of energy. He was pale with bags under his eyes and so skinny that you could see his ribs as he breathed with bruises covering his body. It was horrifying.
Then one day, he was gone. At 5:53 AM on December 12, 2002, was when I lost my father. He was no longer in pain, but died peacefully in his sleep, just as he wished for. He was no longer suffering this horrible disease. He was now with the angels and God.
I know with being merely eight years old I wasn't expected to know exactly what was going on, but people underestimated me. I knew all of the circumstances, and that last year I prepared myself.
My mum took his death very hard, as was expected. I always tried my best to comfort her. She would just kiss my forehead and pull me into her chest until she cried herself to sleep. For months that went on, and not once did I cry. It wasn't until I was 13 years old when I first cried about my fathers death.
I was going through my old belongings in the attic where I found his book collection.
I read every single one. I cried myself to sleep for weeks after that. I wasn't exactly sure what caused my feelings to switch on, but they did, and all those years of keeping them in poured out.
I was finally to the point where I was okay though. To this day I would still go down to his grave to talk to him. Tell him about school, mum, friends, and Harry of course.
