Death. Yep, I went there: I typed the D-word onto my
computer screen.
It’s a word that frightens many people off and few will even
dare to utter because it’s seen as a sort of poisonous substance that will burn
the tongue. I know it’s still a massive taboo because at one point I forced
myself to stop talking about it. And I’ve decided that that is really not the
best way to go.
My dad died when I was thirteen years old. It was completely
unexpected and his death unfolded in such a way that I really do think it
merits being described using that so over-used word, tragic. His death at just
44 shook our whole family, both immediate and extended. My younger brothers
were just four and five years old at the time.
DEATH IS SURE
I had heard of children losing their parents at a young age
but I didn’t know anyone who had, at the time I lost my dad. It sounds so cliché
but you never think of it happening to
you. I knew of adults who had lost their parents but they had been bereaved
in adulthood so it wasn’t the same. It so happens that within a few months of
me losing my dad, I discovered that three of my friends, all the same age as
me, had been struck by the same shock.
We all know we’re going to die someday, but few of us really
seem to prepare for it. It seems far-off, especially in the age in which we
find ourselves today, where medicine is better than ever before and people are
living well into their seventies before death comes a-knocking.
But despite this, many people are scared of death. I’m not, because as a child of God I believe
that eternal life is waiting for me in Heaven, a wondrous place that is better
than anything that life could ever offer me – but if you don’t believe in an
afterlife then I guess death really is the end-point for you. And the idea of
being knocked down by a car at any time then can become quite scary. Alternatively
people may become resigned to death, taking the position, “I’m going to die
anyway, what’s the point in bothering with having a meaningful life?”
IT’S HARD: THE
EMOTIONS THAT COME WITH BEREAVEMENT
My dad was a Christian. Having him taken away from us when
life seemed to have so much to offer was hard, but at least we knew he was
better off in the clouds. Thinking ahead
to my GCSE Results Day where I wouldn’t be able to triumphantly tell my scholarly dad of my grades; picturing my wedding day without a father to walk his
daughter down the aisle… Yeah, that was sad. Something else that made things
particularly difficult for me was the fact that my dad and I had never really
been close – he had worked away from home a lot throughout my childhood and as
a child I had already felt that I lacked that idyllic connection between father
and daughter that every girl is supposed to have. Now I would never have that.
It wasn’t easy. I could have gotten angry at God and decided
that He wasn’t worth following. Or I could have decided that He didn’t exist.
But I didn’t. Actually, if you want to know the real truth, I was ready to pray
for my dad to come back to life and see Jesus’ resurrection of Lazarus after
four days re-enacted! (We didn’t do that though.)
The tension that had preceded my mum breaking the news to me
turned to deep sorrow once I discovered that my fears were founded and he truly
was gone. I don’t think I can ever forget the picture of sitting on my
brother’s bed and my mum gently uttering those words to me. I don’t believe I
have ever wailed like that before; not before and not since.
After the grief comes disbelief. It didn’t feel real. I had
just come back from school and I was thirteen years old! As that day wore on
and more and more people started piling into the house it became more real. I
cried so much I started choking and my eyes turned to bulging red appendages on
my face.
That’s when I started to lose my appetite. People tried to
make me eat but I didn’t care. It didn’t taste right in my mouth. All I could do was keep staring up at the
photo of me and my mum and my dad when I was a kid and then thinking that the
man in that picture was gone. I just kept staring in front of me and thinking.
Thinking, thinking.
My mum has a lot to do with me getting through that rough
patch the way I did. She kept strong for all of us even though she was having a
really hard time of it herself. A case in point: she didn’t tell me and my
brothers straight away; she waited until she was strong enough to be strong for
us. Going through the pain of being bereft drew us closer together. We could
talk about my dad in a way that family friends couldn’t; we knew the same man
closely as a husband and a father.
GETTING UP AGAIN AND
DEALING WITH LIFE AFTER LOSS
I see my mum as a big driving force behind me getting myself
up again after my father died. I went back to school after two days (well, I
had a weekend as well because I found out on the Wednesday evening). Nobody was
expecting me back so soon. My classmates had been told the news and were very
kind and supportive. People that had bullied me the week before came up to in
the corridor and told me they were really sorry about having been mean to me. I
even got a card signed by my whole form and personal cards and hugs from some
of my teachers.
It meant a lot then and it still means a lot now, over six
years on. But I found that not everyone could broach the issue that way. I
remember one reaction in particular from a friend of mine when I told her the
news. It still amuses me even now: “Oh. Do you want a crisp?” (Passing me the
salt and vinegar crisp in her hand). I’ve also had people laugh awkwardly when
I tell them that I don’t have a dad.
Others just avoided me.
In church of all places, at times I felt as though I was a contagious
leper, where many of my peers completely avoided talking to me after I lost my
dad. It was a hard pill to swallow. It took me some years to get over that
actually, and I had to approach some of my friends to ask why they had
completely deserted me at that time because it still hurt. After discussing it
with them I better comprehend their reactions and I don’t blame them: death is
something that we don’t teach ourselves to handle.
A few told me a few years later they didn’t want to make me
cry when attempting to console me. But what people don’t realise is that any
well-meant consolation is always greatly appreciated. It’s great to know that
people care and can see you’re going
through a hard time. And crying can be cathartic! It can help wash some of the
hurt away. I don’t think it’s a bad thing to let a few tears stream from your
eyes (do you hear me, guys??).
Others voiced their fear of not knowing what to say. I can
tell you sincerely that something as simple as ‘I’m here if you need me’; ‘I’m
sorry for your loss’ can go a long way. Other cutting comments however, like
the throw-away “Life goes on” are not very helpful. Yes, life does go on. But
saying so a matter of days after your friend has lost a loved one is not the
most sensitive remark to make. Friends are supposed to build up and support one
another.
I had amazing people to help me through that time: people
who would spend their break-times looking for me when I’d disappeared to have a
cry in the toilet at school; people who would stay with me in my room to talk
to me; those that would make the effort to come and visit; friends that would
call persistently to make sure I was OK (I do believe one of my friends called
me 64 times on the night she heard the news! Now that’s commitment for ya.).
FEELING APOLOGETIC
ABOUT VOICING THAT WORD
But I found that after the immediate shock – perhaps because
I got on with life as normal – people did seem to forget. I was still in the
drama production at school, I was still in the choir, I was still working hard
– so I seemed like the same person to many. I remember the sting I felt when
some of my close friends asked me about ‘your parents’ a little after my dad had
died.
I remember how I tried as much as possible to keep the word
‘dad’ out of any phrase I ever uttered. When I realised mid-way into a sentence
that what I was about to say was going to involve saying that word I would search
frantically for a way to change the sentence. Because almost certainly if I did
say anything there would be undesirable consequences: either those that knew me
at the time would turn to ash and look around awkwardly at the other people in
the room, or instead look tentatively at me as I recounted whatever story I was
trying to tell, or those that didn’t know anything about my family would ask,
“Oh, what does your dad do?” and I would have to drop that bombshell word
‘dead’ into the conversation and THAT would kill the atmosphere… Or, as I’ve
learned to do of late, I could just say “My dad WAS a civil and structural
engineer” and then just hope they got that nuance. (As far as I can tell, only
one person has ever noticed that nifty little change in verbal construction.)
The problem is though, if they don’t get it, they may ask you another time
about your parents and then you feel you have to explain. It seems strange that
I’m the one that feels as though
they’re walking on eggshells in such a situation. I wonder: if I don’t feel uncomfortable, why should
anyone else? Talking about loss after you’ve experienced it, is cathartic.
Others can tell you, it’s pretty difficult growing up with
only one parent in your teenage years and early adulthood. You always feel like
you’re missing out on stuff. Parents’ evenings for you don’t look like they do
for everyone else; when you go to and from uni you talk about your mum or your
dad picking you up rather than your ‘parents’ (and loading the car takes
longer); day-to-day conversations where your friends talk about that parent
that you don’t have always have a drop of pain mixed in with them. But all of
that would be made easier if we could just talk about that person even if
they’re not alive, just like everyone else.
I may have lost my dad at thirteen but I still had a dad and he has a right to be part
of my life story. In an age where I may live for 80-something years it seems
pretty sad to have to silence talking about someone whose existence heralded
mine for over 60 of those years. The years that I shared with my dad on this
earth may only be a fraction of my whole life picture but if I want to remember
and talk about the good times we had then that shouldn’t be a taboo. Just like
you should be [able to] if you’ve lost a grandparent. Or if you’re a widower who wants to
reminisce on the happiness he shared with his late wife. A grieving parent
whose child has gone too soon. Or a brother left without a sister. What I’m
saying is anyone that’s experienced
bereavement (and if you haven’t yet you likely will at some point) should feel
no need to sweep that part of their life (that BIG part of their life) under
the carpet. It’s formed a part of who they are today. I believe if we talked
more about death we wouldn’t be so scared of it. It seems strange to say it,
but death is a part of life.
That’s why I’m not shying away from the D-word any longer. And
I’m proud of my friends that don’t shudder or look away when I talk about my
dad.
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