It’s been six years since my dad died.
I always think about my dad a lot, but even more so lately. I wonder what he would think of my life now. Would he be proud of me? Would he be disappointed?
He has two beautiful granddaughters that he never got to meet. I bought and sold a home. I ran a successful business and now I have a completely different career that I love. I have a couple more tattoos and half a dozen more piercings. I hope that he would be proud of these things. Maybe not the tattoos.
Conversely, I remained in a marriage that was not happy. It wasn’t happy when my dad was alive, and it got worse in the years after he died. I know my dad supported me in any decision that I made, but I know that he wanted better for me than what my relationship had become. I know that he hoped that I would leave my marriage, even though he never came right out and said it (to me, anyway). I have left it, though. I took five extra years but I did it. I hope that he would be proud of me for that.
My dad and my (now ex) husband got along great at first. My dad gave us money for our wedding; he paid for our wedding bands; and he arranged and paid for the cottage we stayed in for our honeymoon. My dad and stepmom bought a brand new house and had the builders create an amazing basement apartment so that we could move to Guelph to be closer to him. My dad was my first client for my business. He bent over backwards for us.
My ex was completely ungrateful for all of this. When we moved to Guelph he treated it as a vacation and lay on the couch for months doing nothing. Part of our agreement was that we split the household chores for the common areas. Instead, my ex would leave pop cans around and leave messes in the kitchen for others to clean up. And by others, I mean me. He got mad at me for small things and he didn’t care if my dad, my stepmother, or my little brother saw it.
As a former daddy’s girl, my dad always saw me as 12 years old. It didn’t matter that I was grown and married, he saw his 12 year old girl being treated poorly. Tension ensued. A lot of stuff happened that I don’t want to get into, but it ended in my dad asking my ex to leave.
I was completely torn, but I remained loyal to my husband. We found a house to rent and we moved out. This is when my husband completely shut down and things got really, really bad for us. We had our ups and downs after that, but it was never “good” again. My ex’s favourite thing to say about my father was that he wished he would get cancer and die.
We moved out in December of 2010. My dad died (of cancer) in May of 2012.
In the last six-ish months of my dad’s life we got closer again, but it was never like it was before. We never had the same relationship. I was never daddy’s little girl again. Our relationship was forever altered and I never got the chance to fully repair it.
Three days before my dad died he called me. In the six years that have passed since his death, I have never told anyone about the conversation we had.
My dad and my stepmom didn’t know that the cancer was going to win. They remained hopeful and even as my dad got sicker and sicker; skinnier and skinnier; weaker and weaker, they chalked it up to a bad chemo round.
Three days before he died, they saw his oncologist who told them that the cancer was terminal and that my dad had three months to live.
My dad called me from the oncologist’s office. I could barely hear him over the phone. The chemo had made him really weak and his voice was barely audible even in person. I could tell he had been crying, which made it so much harder to hear him.
He told me that he was going to die. He told me that he had three months left to live. And he told me…and I have kept this to myself for six long years…he said, “I’m really going to miss you, Breezy.” That’s what broke me. I lost it. I got off the phone with him and just melted down. I had missed out on a year and a half of my dad’s life and it turns out that it was the last year and a half he had.
My husband was on nights that week. I went upstairs and crawled into bed with him. I curled myself around him. He woke up and saw that I was sobbing. He asked me what was wrong. I couldn’t answer. After a few attempts, I told him that my dad was dying and that he only had a few months left.
My husband. Rolled his eyes. Rolled over. And went back to sleep.
When my dad died I was a mess for about a month. I imploded. I drank constantly. I acted recklessly and sought out bad situations. I have one night where I can’t remember anything that I did, and I’m pretty sure I want to leave it that way. I’ve never felt that dark before.
And my husband? Did nothing. Didn’t hug me. Didn’t kiss me. Didn’t even go to the funeral. I had three friends come up to stay with me for the weekend of the funeral (including HIS best friend), because they cared more about me than my husband. They were there for me. They let me cry on their shoulders. They slept in my bed with me. They helped me fill out insurance forms and made sure I could walk up the steps in the funeral home.
Not the person with whom I promised to spend my entire life. To take care of no matter what. That person was nowhere to be found. That person insisted that I not talk about my father. That I not have pictures or mementos of him in our home.
The last six years have been hard. This past year in particular started out really, really hard…but I’ve really found myself. I’m happy. I like where I am and who I’ve become. And I really hope that wherever my dad is, even if it’s just in my head, he’s proud of me.