In My Fathers Pockets... #Cancer #LosingAParent

In my father’s pockets In my father’s pockets of most of his jackets, his old navy coat, his donkey jacket and his best suit even, I found boxes of matches, curious I asked him why he had so many, was he collecting them…? He said “it’s to keep me warm when I get to heaven” That’s the time when my heart missed a beat and went like a stone in my chest. I knew he had been ill, but at that moment and the look he gave I knew he was dying. All the coughing I had heard at night, made sense now, when you’re a child you just think your parents will always be there, will always live, immortal we think don’t we. Well, this was not to be and from that day on I knew the secret, knew that I would have to face his dying? His impending death! What awful words they are? How would I cope? I didn’t dare ask how long he had. I had heard the word Cancer whispered in tearful conversations before but as a kid you put these things to the back of your mind. Dr Basu came to visit dad when he was at his worse, a nice doctor he was, his family had moved from India, like most of our doctors actually in our area. You never saw his wife though, a quiet woman, by all means. Four days later after me questioning my dad, he said he was going take me to the cherry orchard and talk, the cherry orchard was a lovely place at the back of the old cemetery, lots of trees to climb up and swings and slides. We walked in silence to the orchard, walking down the slopes of the big flags that were tombstones of the Victorian times. Just at the back of a huge Woolworth’s shop. The circus usually pitched its tents in the fields beyond in the autumn. Chipperfield's was the best, I remember the last time I saw the circus we all went as a family and one of the unicyclists fell of his bike and an ambulance was called. He had broken his leg we had been told later. The lovely smell of candy floss always lingered after the circus left town. The only other fun thing to anticipate was the Fairground, which visited in October, the biggest fairground ever. We got to the green wrought iron gates of the orchard; Dad swung them open and said I could go on the swings for a bit… While I was swinging I watched dad, he was watching me get higher and higher, kicking my legs back for more force. He smiled at me. I smiled back, fighting back the tears that would surely fall so very soon. He sat on the bench and looked at the flowers the trees and the grass as if he was looking at everything anew again. When my legs got tired I went over to dad and sat on the wooden bench next to him, he took a packet of sweets out of his pocket and handed me one, mm pear drops I loved them. “Julie”… he said “what I’m going to tell you now, is sad for you but I don’t want you getting upset. “ I don’t have long left on this earth; my lungs are poorly with something called cancer. It’s not been helped by the fact that I have smoked most of my life. Even cutting down this past year and using a pipe was too late. The doctors say I have but three weeks left to live. Not sure how they came about the exact time, but then doctors only guess at things like this and they do the best they can.” He hugged me... I felt his warmth next to me smelled the tobacco smoke, he didn’t usually hug, and dads in the 70,s didn’t usually hug. It wasn’t the done thing, well not in our family anyway. “What’s going to happen now then?” I asked, not really wanting any answers Dad explained that the treatment he would have had was too late and that cancer had taken over his lungs very fast. That explained why his chest looked weird and fell up and down as he breathed instead of a fluid movement of breathing that we would have. This was so hard to take in...My head screamed, why my dad, why why why was all I could think of. When you’re scared of losing something, you get an immense feeling of panic, the thought of not being able to control something, and the things you love are to be taken away without question or explanation, makes your body reacts in a very painful way, the stone weight of the pressure you feel in your heart is awful, and no amount of crying lets its release. When it was time to walk back I held his hand, something which we never normally did, but then again things had changed forever in the conversation me and my dad had. He had said he was proud of me, which felt wonderful. Wish he would have said he loved me though, but words like that never came easy to my dad, and I understood that. When we walked back through the cherry orchard, pushing the old green gate of the park, then making our way through the back of Woolworths, where the Victorian graveyard slabs were, then walked our way home. As we went through the door, I went upstairs and sat on my bed grabbed my famous five books, I was halfway through five on Kirin Island. Anything to take my mind of the thoughts, which were cascading through my mind like a waterfall. I tried to read, but even as the text was read in front of me the words just jumbled into one big word WHY! I heard mum and dad talking, so now the cat was out of the bag, she knew, I knew... The next few days were like a dream; I could not focus and hardly eat anything. Getting ready for school and walking across the road to meet Maureen was a blessing; she was a good friend and understood without asking any questions. At school I was so upset but never cried, I was in the hall just before assembly when I walked up to the big wooden cross and made the sign across my chest, the teacher came up and asked if I was a catholic. I had said no, but felt I needed to do it, not sure why. But then again nothing was sure any more. When assembly started the hymn was “firmly I believe and truly” that’s when the tears rolled quietly down my face, I hoped no one would see them. My only thought in my brain was my dad was going to die. It said it over and over again. As we said the Lords’ prayer at the end of assembly that day I prayed hard that my dad would be spared and that he could carry on as if nothing had happened. Tears spilt onto my flat black school shoes, and I needed to get out of their fast and wash my face in the school bathroom. As we filed out ready to line up for class, I went to the bathroom to wash my face. I looked a mess, tears streaked my face. Classes blended into one another and as usual, I liked to avoid Mr Tunley who I thought was a horrid teacher and always shouting at you. He had a habit of throwing the blackboard rubber at you if you were talking in class. Luckily that never happened to me as I was usually quiet anyway, especially in his class. I loved French classes as I liked to learn different languages; the best bit was when we played bingo in French to teach us all the numbers. At dinner time we filed into the dining hall by class and queued for our dinner. Today would be faggots in gravy and chocolate pudding with a white sauce. I didn’t like faggots but picked at them and rolled the peas around my plate, we often sang we plough the fields and scatter the good seed on the land at our dinner table, as we flattened out potatoes and spread the peas across them. The dinner ladies usually checked to see if we had eaten some I suspected today I would get told off for wasting food! But did not want to tell anyone why I had no appetite. How could you explain something like that? The bell rang for the next sitting so we cleared our plates and put the trays on the side and our scraps in the big plastic bin ready for the pig swill to be made. All the bins were sent to the farms to be made into pig food. Good idea I had thought, no waste at all, so why the dinner ladies told us off was anyone’s guess! The afternoon lessons were a blur, even at break time I walked over to the handicap school grounds which boarded the school and chatted to a girl there, who worked there. She was nice and often said that she would love to be my mum. I liked talking to her and she knew what was happening in our family to, she didn’t say too much but her eyes understood. That meant a lot to me. When I got home that night dad was not there. Mum just said. “He is at the hospital and won’t be coming back” mum had a way of making things sound harsh even though maybe she didn’t mean it. “Can I visit him?” “Yes but only on visiting hours, you can come with me later at 7 o’clock is the time” When we walked through the wards the smell of disinfectant was everwhere, the hospital was always so clean in those days, the nurses looked like nurses, with uniforms and hats on, starched and proper. The matron was in charge of every ward and woe betide you if you came in early before the visiting bell rang. Mum said as we walked in. “You dads changed so don’t be upset in front of him” My heart skipped a beat. I walked towards his bed on C ward at the general hospital and was shocked at how thin he had got, his big beer belly that he always had was shrinking. His face was saggy and his eyes sullen. My heart raced and I tried to think of happy things to say. Happy! What on earth was that word; I would never be the same again after this. I hated the world and everything in it. Dad chatted as best he could, mum had brought him some grapes which he let me eat, well I tried to at least but when you are sick with fear food is the last thing on your mind, and I was skinny as it was. Even though, normally I would eat anything. I even got called a dustbin by my mum. It was so hard the visits, ever night at 7 o’clock till 8 o’clock we would sit with dad. When we got us to leave I always hugged him and kissed him goodbye. Mum did the same, although I never saw her do that before. Not the done thing you see! This went on for a few days. The one day my mum’s neighbour ran in from her house and said there was a message for her on the phone. We did not have a phone or a car so when we got the message from the hospital to in immediately we had one of Dads Lodge friends pick us u and drive us to the hospital. I remember when we were nearly there and had to stop because of the red traffic lights, I looked up and saw a cloud in the sky it was the image of my dad. Dread kept in...I knew! I hoped I was wrong. As we walked into the ward, the nurse came up to us... “I’m so sorry; you have missed him by ten minutes” “Would you still like to see him?” she said, very efficient Mum just nodded, as we walked towards the bed which had a curtain around it I wondered what I would see. I was shaking. When I saw dad lying there, with a small cut off from a daffodil on the pillow, I started shaking. I took his hand, willing it to close round mine like he had done before at the cherry orchard. But even if I would have had a million pounds in my back pocket, it would not have changed what had happened just 10 minutes before. The strange thing was I felt a bright light behind me but saw nothing when I turned. I whispered the Lord’s Prayer just like we were taught in school. I thought that he would be with Aunty Edna now, a lovely lady who was so kind to me. Nothing helped though. Why wouldn’t his hand close around mine! My mind screamed for answers. Why had we missed it, why did he go so soon? It wasn’t even 3 weeks, that wasn’t fair. Later we had heard that a nurse, told my dad the night before. “Mr Howell, take it easy and stop moving so much, don’t you know you have only 3 weeks left to live” With that my dad just gave up waiting and passed away at 12. 50 pm on March 16th. A day that will be forever engraved in my mind never to be erased. My heartfelt like it had a lead weight in it. I couldn’t breathe and I felt a panic rise in me. “Dads gone then now to heaven?” that was all I said that day Mum replied in her ever cold tone “that’s it done” As we went home, mum had decided to walk us through town, after the usual cups of tea from the hospital. Tea, the great British drink, cures all ailments and is a good thing to do when you do not know what to do with yourself. As we walked past the cherry orchard I started to cry. Mum didn’t say anything to me or comfort me, just carried on walking with her head straight. People stared in the street at me, I wasn’t making a noise but the tears made me gip and cough sometimes. Some just shook their heads at mum, but she just kept on walking till we got home. I went upstairs, on the way up I took dads pipe with me, put it under my pillow and left it there, the smell reminded me of him. I felt so alone so scared. I knew that dad would have to be buried and was dreading the funeral. Mum had spoken to the doctor and he said my dad would be delivered to the chapel of rest in readiness and we could see him if we wanted. I hoped that he wasn’t cold and that his matches would keep him warm like he told me. I had nightmares every night, dreaming of him being so cold. My mum took me to the chapel of rest and said. “Say goodbye Julie this is the last chance” her tone as always was cold I walked up to the coffin, he had his slippers on, I thought that he would be comfortable in heaven with them on and managed a small smile. He had a cut on his head. They must have hurt him, how can people hurt those who are already dead? My mind was reeling with questions. When I kissed him on the forehead tiptoeing to reach him, I cried. “Oh dad I’ll miss you, please be warm in heaven won't you” Mum was waiting outside when I got out of the chapel. She just motioned me to follow her. We went to an office just at the side of the chapel where mum made some more arrangements for my dad’s funeral. Mr Bloomer was his name, a very kind man who spoke to mum in a very gentle way. He was nice to listen to and always said my dad, not the body as the nurses had said. On the morning of the funeral, it was cloudy and looked like rain. The big black car pulled up, the front room curtains were drawn in respect and so that the neighbours knew. We sat in the car, me at the very back and other relatives in front of me, I couldn’t remember who they were and didn’t really care either. I had this mountain of emotion to climb and it was not going to be easy. We walked into the church and I saw dads Masonic friends there all smartly dressed and stood waiting. We sat at the front I hated the front row in the church as the vicar could tell if you were singing or not. After a few minutes, everyone stood up... All eyes turned to the back of the church. Four men were carrying my dad in his coffin. Tears rolled down my already wet cheeks. My mind whispered to me as if to torture me. Your dads in there you know. The vicar said words I did not listen to and then Amazing Grace was played. It was my dad’s favourite song, always had been as his family was of Scottish descendant and he was proud of that fact. I tried to sing but just gulped. My mum said “Sing for your dad” And with all my might and a heavy heart, I sang all of the verses, while looking at the box that contained my dad! My dad! No, no, no. my brain screamed silently while singing. I was sure the vicar was watching me too. After the service we went outside into the cold wet March morning, it was raining; they say that if it rains when you're buried, it meant you did not want to go. My heart was broken into a thousand tiny pieces. I was alone, in the crowd, I felt so lonely. “Dad?” I whispered could he hear me in heaven? Who knew! When his coffin was laid to rest we all threw some soil on top of the coffin. I hated doing this; I did not want to put him into the ground where it was cold and wet. Did they not know that he would be cold? That he needed his matches so he could stay warm? Everyone started to make their way to the “wake” it was to be held in dad’s favourite pub. I sat on a stool and just watched everyone eating sausage rolls and having a drink. Someone came up to me and squeezed my shoulder and smiled at me, it was kind but that just made me cry. Someone being kind to me always made me cry. My dad was kind but fair too. Didn’t let me get away with things, and I knew it was for my own good really. I didn’t get hugged or my shoulders squeezed very often. I went outside and looked up at the clouds, I saw my dad’s face as clear as day, and I waved at him. “Are you warm dad?” I smiled through a tear-stained face. I did not get an answer. That night I had awful nightmares, I dreamt I was talking to my dad when all of a sudden he turned green and rotted away before my eyes. I woke up sweating, alone and scared with nowhere to go for comfort. I was still sent to school out of mum’s way, I never saw her cry and she never comforted me psychically or verbally. I felt like a zombie, all the teachers at school knew why I was like that and were unbelievably kind to me, even let me sit in sickbay sometimes when it got too much. No one picked on me though, as bullying was strictly forbidden in those days and the teachers clipped your ear -hole if you were caught bullying no questions asked. Or you were sent to the Head Master who then makes you write a thousand lines or caned you, and you got no sympathy at home either as the parent would know you had done wrong if you had been summoned by the headmaster. That was how it was, but then there was total control of the school and everyone knew their place, especially the pupils. Respect was the thing they demanded most of all. And they got it too. That night after days and days of nightmares, I dreamt that dad was chatting to me, in the biggest fur coat you could imagine, like the ones you saw the men wearing in the 50,s, that dream was comforting and after that I did not dream of him being cold again, so I guessed it was his way of letting me know. My final dream was I saw my dad and he came and took me in his arms and sang “have I told you lately that I love you” in his own voice, that dream was so special; I did not have nightmares after that.

Afterthoughts. Isn’t it strange that when you lose a parent who you think will live forever, changes your whole life, thoughts and feelings in just a few seconds? It is so hard, no matter how much money you have or who you are, death does not have any boundaries and chooses who needs to go and that’s it. But time does heal I promise you and it gets better and better with every year that passes. I can now look at my dad’s photograph and smile, remember and breathe without the pain in my chest. I think when people try and comfort you, they are only trying their best and they really don’t have the words to comfort if they have not gone through it themselves. If someone has lost a parent or other loved one, no words are needed, as the silence of utter understanding takes place of the mere words that could be uttered in an attempt to help. As a “grown-up” I understand how hard it is for the young to accept that someone they love has gone. I am married now to John, a long and happy marriage cocooned in a loving family, just like he said. With a beautiful daughter and loving son, a gorgeous granddaughter too! What more could one ask for? I feel blessed.