Fifteen years

Photo by Jahoo Clouseau from Pexels

March is a hard month for me, hence the silence. 

My father passed away on March 31, 2006. I think I am still angry. 

I think of the cycle of grief. Denial, anger, depression, bargaining, acceptance. If there was any denial, it was very brief. The anger still goes on 15 years later. Not much of a cycle, more of a brick wall. 

I miss him, flawed as he was. I wonder how it is possible to miss someone you are so mad at, all the time. He was my dad. My hero and role model as I was growing up. The world became a very lonely place once he was gone. 

And I am mad at him, because his death was totally preventable. He died 6 months before his 55th birthday. He died because he refused to accept he had diabetes, and didn't treat it. He died because he said 'what is life without some bacon' when his liver was heading for cirrhosis. He died because he said 'I'll just have one glass' when he had been told even a sip of alcohol will permanently destroy his liver. What was wrong with him would have been so simple to manage, yet he chose not too. Every time I miss him, I get even madder. My hero has fallen from his pedestal, because he was selfish. He chose the bacon and the wine over everything else. 

He never got to see me give my law degree dissertation, which he inspired. Standing up to give the dissertation just two months after his death was probably one of the hardest things I have ever done. He never got to see my sister graduate from medical school and become a doctor. 

He wasn't there to hold his grandchildren when they were born. He wasn't there for his daughters' weddings. He stopped being there for my mum, and the joy was sucked out of her life for ever. He was the absolute centre of her universe - he still is. His own dad, my grandfather, fighting dementia at the time of dad's death, was aware enough to say 'if he's gone, why am I still around?'. He then proceeded to pass away too. We had to burry my grandfather less than a week after my dad's funeral. 

The more I think about it, the madder I get. I wonder when will I feel the other things. It's been 15 years. I'm still furious at the waste of it all. I think about him around the anniversary of his death, and I can't help thinking 'Dad, I really hope that bacon and that wine were worth it'.

This is about the only time when I'm sad I am not religious. There's nothing in me helping me to forgive him. I suppose as I age myself, I might understand. And that eventually I can bring myself to tell my son the good stories of his grandad, without telling him about the anger.

Fifteen years is a long time to be mad at someone you love.