Shortly after I discovered I was pregnant with my second child, I also discovered my dad had tried to kill himself when I was young.
I was upset on many levels: that I was told by someone else; that he hadn’t felt able to share it with me; that it was my fault; that his secret was shared without his consent. But, also strangely comforted that my own mental health struggles had a history and a context. Mostly, I felt an overwhelming sadness for the pain the man I loved must have felt. This was not how he would have wanted to be remembered. This is how I remember him.
As a baby, he would say ‘zip up a banana’ as he put on my babygro. As a child, he pushed me for hours in my buggy, built me a dolls’ house from scratch and painted my ugly orthopaedic boots pink. As a teenager, I was arrogant about my supposedly superior intellect and he expected to be the boss. And yet, we enjoyed spirited conversations about feminism and played music together. At college, I missed him terribly. In the era before mobile phones I could call home to hear his voice but didn’t see him when he drove up unannounced once to deliver my forgotten purse. As a young adult, I failed to appreciate his talent for DIY. But, I loved his quirky sense of humour and assistance at my school making models with the children.
When my partner cheated on me, I heard him swear for the first time ever, but he told me not to waste another second thinking about him. And that was that. Shortly after getting married I moved back home to travel to London for work. My dad didn’t approve of me temporarily leaving my husband, but as the icy fingers of leukaemia began to take hold of him, I was and forever will be incredibly grateful for those months I had living with him.
You can’t mention my dad without mentioning the Church. Yes, he took it incredibly seriously, which sometimes led to him missing out on other things. But, it also gave him a huge amount of unbridled joy, especially leading the singing with his guitar. He said it was his best birthday ever when I attended one year. And he eventually tired of being ‘told what to do’ and embraced a more relaxed spirituality.
It breaks my heart on a daily basis that my dad never got to meet my girls. He never got to read them stories or take them to the park. He never got to help my husband renovate our house or to see me become a published poet. But, I’m also relieved he never had to see me go through cancer treatment, albeit with a very different outcome to his so far.
He may not be around but his legacy lives on. I share his desire to always try to do the right thing, even if I fail as I often do. I share his love of pudding, my girls his love of drawing; our house is full of the few treasures he left behind.
There are many different versions of a person. This is mine.
These Boobs Were Made For Talking 