We need to talk about the D-word.

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.