Sometimes not everything is a joke to me. Humour helps me get through an awful lot, but sometimes, just sometimes I allow myself to write about things that are hurting me. I'm not talking about a poem about a dodgy curry either.
I always feel like I sound so pretentious when I write about something serious. Most poems that I write are little snapshots of how I was feeling at the time, so it's interesting for me (if not you) to go back and re-read some of them. To see what my mood was like. I'm of course not including poems about squirrels with GPS tracking systems.
Talk to me.
Tell me that you're fine
that your days aren't long and painful.
Tell me that your regretful ways are gone
and sadness is not your only visitor.
Tell me how you're happy
to not have me around.
Tell me that you're proud of me
but make me believe it just this once.
Tell me you'll protect me
And not fill my life with fear.
Tell me you're not scared
of all the things you've done.
Tell me how you loved her
and we'll forget all of her pain.
Tell me that you're sorry
and I'll tell you how you're forgiven.
Tell me you'd like to see me
to take away all that I have seen.
Tell me that you're ready
to say goodbye to all you knew.
Tell me that you love me
And I'll lie back to you.
I wrote this at the height of my dad's illness. I was angry and believed nothing from anybody. He would call me every day, from about 3:00am onwards and just bombard me with how he loved me, was proud of me, and how I never let him down. He would call dozens of time each night/morning. After each call, he would forget about what had been said, and call me back and the whole thing would repeat. I managed to cope for a few months, but eventually it started to wear me down and I began to cope less and less. Many times I slammed the phone down. Ignored it. Yelled at him. Screamed at him. Nothing, nothing seemed to reach him. I would lose my temper with him, hang up, and then within a minute he'd call back as if nothing had happened and we'd start all over again. There is a black ink stain on the wall where I threw a Sharpie in temper (it was the closest and lightest thing to hand). It got to the point where it felt like I was dying with him. I couldn't go and visit him. I was terrified of how I would react if he behaved the same way in person. I didn't want to hurt him. But I did that in the end anyway by not visiting him.
He died while I was in Canada. I found out a month after he'd died. My sister phoned me and told me. Victim support had informed her. I was the last to know. My other sister's family had even pretended to be acting on my behalf and found out everything they could from the nursing home. The manager had to actually apologize for giving out the details to someone other than me. I had no energy left to care. But it was just a typical move from my family. My family are awful. Each and every one of them. I know that some people include me in that company as well. My dad's sister certainly does. She is.....was in charge of his care. She didn't bother to tell me that he'd died. Dad had already been cremated and scattered by the time I'd found out. He had always wanted to be buried. So I couldn't even grant him that wish. I wish I could have been stronger for him.
Both my parents had some form of dementia towards the end. Mum's was thankfully short lived because of the cancer, but it was still a nightmare. For a long time afterwards, I struggled with the fact that I didn't really know when my mum, the person that was truly my mum, had died. It felt like she'd slipped away and I hadn't even noticed. Like she'd died without me realising. And all that was left was a warped version of her. A warped version that had to be fed and cleaned. Mum never got abusive, which I am so thankful for. Dad's was different and really put me through a lot. And that was just through the power of the telephone.
What really upsets me is I was so proud of how he was dealing with it. The last time we met, we hugged, and we both said how much we loved one another. And I meant it. He said that he wanted it to end this way. That we would remember each other this way. We were in the park in Leamington. I asked him if there was anything he wanted to know about mum's death (he wasn't around for when that happened, but not through his choice), he said no, he didn't ever seem to want to know, so I didn't force any details on him. I was the one that told him she was sick. I had to tell him the news that she wouldn't get better. And I was the one that told him when she'd died. I never thought I'd have to do something like that. I didn't feel grown-up enough.
We hugged and he told me to take care of myself. He was always a big man, one that I was barely able to get my arms around. Now he was skin and bones and he felt so fragile. I was scared to hurt him, but I thought that if I hugged him hard enough, long enough, and really meant it, then I would always remember it. He then said that this is how he wanted it and said goodbye.
He was living in a place about a mile from the park. I followed him all the way back there without him seeing me. Every slow and painful step. It took forever, but I needed to know he was ok. His last sight of me was in the park. Mine was of him walking back to a dirty hostel, dragging his walking stick behind him. The walking stick that he had worn down by dragging it down the same road over and over again. It was worn at an angle. I never saw him use it. But he always dragged it behind him.
Three days later, he called me from his new "home". The nursing home. And I guess that was when both our nightmares began. It was like our "deal" about how it was supposed to end had been forgotten. I don't blame him. But you know what? If I had been him (or my mum), I couldn't put my children through that.
Two different illnesses killed my parents. But I lost them a long time before they died. Sometimes it's easy to get the lines blurred, but I really loved the good parts of my dad. Hated the bad parts. And despised the illness that he had, for what it made him, and for what it made me.
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