Memories

I have come to the conclusion that memories are bizarre little snippets of the past, easily twisted and mutilated to suit our subjective perspectives.

As I nurse my father, I find myself remembering things that I thought long forgotten. They're not memories I can easily describe, or even pinpoint, because the strangeness of them relates directly to the fact that they're just emotions. I don't even have images to put with the feelings, but the well of sadness and nostalgia seems to become deeper with every one.

Many of them relate directly back to memories of my mother. She died in 2009, and for a long time I refused to deal with the grief her death caused. She was my best friend. My father and I were never close. My parents divorced when I was in Grade 3, and he was a bit (okay, a lot) of an ass for most of my childhood. I even had a wicked stepmother and two stepsisters! (I may have fantasised about being a certain Disney princess for most of my teen years.)

When my mother died, it seemed to shock my father into taking responsibility for his kids. Too little, too late, I thought. And for a few years, we struggled to find any way to connect. He was trying to be a father to an adult woman who spent most of her time wishing he had died instead of her mother.

His diagnosis forced us to finally lay the past to rest, and in the space of a few months, he was not just my father, he was also my friend. His illness is, in a roundabout way, a blessing that I wouldn't want to change.

Throughout the progression of the disease, he has shown himself to be a gentleman in the truest sense of the word. The man I thought he was, self-absorbed and uncaring, has proven to be just a mask. He has dealt with the trauma of losing his independence, becoming completely reliant on others for his well-being, and physical care, with humour, love and grace.

Even now, as we deal with the reality that we are possibly witnessing the last few days of his life, he makes an effort to smile at my ridiculous sense of humour, though he is barely conscious most of the time. If I happen to break down in front of him, he reaches for my hand, not to take comfort, but to offer it, though he cannot move much more than a finger and is reliant on us to move him.

Cancer is, possibly, one of the most debilitating illnesses a person can experience, but in a strange way, I am grateful for it.

It has shown me that my father is a man worthy of respect, whose humanity and dignity were kept intact, not by our care of him, but by the revelation of his true nature in the face of adversity. He has, throughout the last year, been accepting, grateful for our care and uncomplaining of his situation.

I am so grateful to have seen him as he truly is. A man of incredible strength, and uncompromising dignity.

My Dad.

Long Time, No Post

So... life happened and blogging took a backseat for a few years. Oops? 

It's been a very busy few years, but I think the last year has been the most eventful. The reason I'm back here is simple: I need a "safe" space to write about how I'm feeling, that isn't necessarily private. Keeping a diary would be an option, if it weren't for the fact that I don't want to. Blogging seems appealing somehow. 

It probably stems from a desire to wallow in self-pity (because who doesn't want to wallow every now and then?), but I'll try not to be too miserable, so I don't bore the internets to tears. Aren't I kind?

In October 2015, my father was diagnosed with terminal cancer, and given three weeks to live. It sucked. In February we were preparing for his funeral. By August, it looked like he may actually live to a ripe old age. Last week, we took him to the oncologist to discover that the experimental drugs he was on have stopped working, and in the last few days, his condition has deteriorated to such a degree that he's once again bed-ridden and struggling to remain coherent for longer than a minute at a time. 

Before anyone begins suggesting remedies and alternative treatments - thanks, but he's not interested. I tried at the beginning, but have since decided to respect the fact that it is his journey and all he needs from me is my support and love. 

As for me? I'm coping. I'm angry, sad, happy, relieved, stressed, and a hundred varieties of emotional states at regular and irregular intervals. I just need to process, and writing a blog seems to be the best way for me to do so. 

So hi! Again. Maybe this time I'll stick around for longer than a few weeks. :)