I wrote a post on Facebook about my late father and his devoted cat. Within an instant, I found myself looking back on my life and the things that left a lasting impact on me making me who I am today.
My father was my hero and my best friend. Brought up in foster care by an old Middle-Class couple, with strict Victorian attitudes and values. He attended the best schools and wore the best clothes, but his life was a misery without affection and little contact with the people who'd taken him into their home. In turn, my father adopted a strict approach with my brothers and I.
"The three-second rule". An instruction had to be started within three seconds of being told to follow it, my brothers and I never failed to obey that command. My father never raised his voice at us. He didn't need to. His voice was one of authority. He was dashingly handsome, educated, and had a wonderful sense of humour, I loved him dearly and never doubted his love for me.
My parents were an attractive, well-dressed, well-spoken couple. who turned heads everywhere. They often received requests to model clothing for magazines and Newspapers. It wasn't a career. they simply had style and looked glamorous. Occasionally my two brothers were invited to pose along with our parents, but I never was.
Mother was a narcissist who didn't like women. I knew she loved me, yet there was something always missing. People would say what a lovely daughter she had. Mum would shake her head. "No, she isn't. However, my sons are both so handsome..." She said these things without thinking, but the damage was done. We travelled the world. I was a shy child. Everywhere we went was different. Education, attitudes, behaviour, expectations. I was always the outsider and stood apart from the crowd.
I was a loner who made friends with ants. astounding little insects with incredible brains. When I first approached a nest, the entire army of soldier ants would swarm over me, each biting to warn me off, yet not leaving any sensation behind. I'd sit perfectly still beside the same nest for hours letting them explore my arms and legs showing them I wasn't a threat. Sometimes, I'd pick up live insects and offer them to my darling ants. These wonderful insects are in the Bible -Proverbs 6.6. The Greek God Adonis mentioned them too and there's an ancient story of a grasshopper and an ant. Brains the size of pinheads yet with the ability to make independent decisions and still decide to live and work in perfect unison.
The Greeks understood about ants, modern man is only just starting to pay attention. There's no rivalry amongst ants, each has its place, and every ant knows its individual value. If an ant is in danger the entire army defends it. They rescue injured comrades and carry them to safety. Every ant is equal.
Mum had stunning long jet-black hair. Beautiful deep brown eyes and had an amazing exotic-looking olive skin. A sort of Sophie Loren or Elizabeth Taylor. Dad was a blonde bronzed blue-eyed Adonis, an absolute gentleman women fell at his feet, but he adored my mother. They were opposite, Mum was extremely challenging and demanding of him and the rest of us. She was incredibly self-focused, yet he tolerated her sometimes oppressive behaviour.
Both my brothers were handsome. Mum tried everything to control my older brother and make him into what she needed. As the oldest child, she did everything to brainwash and control him into being hers alone. My brother also carries many scars. Deep down I think she loved me, but also resented me. She didn't include me and struggled to disguise her disappointment in me, a short, freaked redhead. Sometimes I felt an outsider in my own skin.
As I entered my teens my father began to communicate more. At times I suspected it was me and him against mum and my brothers, it wasn't their fault, she took obvious pride in curtailing their interaction with our father.
Dad and I shared a ridiculous sense of humour I'd sit at his feet and we'd put the world to rights. Sometimes I'd forget that neither parent expressed their love and pride with me as they did with my brothers. I loved it when Dad called me his "sugar plum fairy" I didn't know what it meant. I didn't find out till much later.
I was in my early teens. One day Dad offered me money to go out for a few hours. "An old friend from the theatre is popping in darling. I haven't seen him for years. It was of me I know, but, I told him my darling daughter is gorgeously tall and blonde". He gave me one of his endearing smiles. I silently took the money and went out.
I took an overdose not long after, not enough to harm me, just a cry for help that went unnoticed. I just wanted to be SEEN.
I refute any suggestion that my father was cruel or deliberately trying to hurt me. He had no concept of what sort of impact his unthoughtful words would have. A short while later we had another surprising conversation. This time we spoke of my dreams and aspirations. I dreamed of being a Myrmecologist a psychologist or some other worthy career (I could never have imagined I'd lose my precious vision and hearing in such a cruel way). The loss was gradual at first. I sensed my parents were hugely disappointed with me. No one understood. My isolation and loneliness replicated.
Sensory loss has added to the level of things you'll never be able to do or achieve and you can't depend on your looks to help you gain attention. Some people are fortunate some are not.
One day my father sat me down and said "Focus darling. There are a lot more things you won't be able to do now. You can't depend on looks
My father told me "Focus darling. Look you can't depend on your looks to get anywhere in life. Some people have good looks, some don't. Use every other ability you have and be realistic about what options you have left".
I took a second overdose a brief time later.
My "daddy" remained my hero. He loved me regardless of how I looked. He proved his love by doing whatever I asked of him. by being there. By defending me against my mum's unfair treatment. I knew he found comfort in me as I did in him. I wonder. Is it possible to absolutely love someone yet look at them and not see them as physically beautiful? I believe so.
My father and I had so much in common. Mum hated it. When my father and I were together we weren't focusing on her. She'd stomp around talking aloud to herself cursing us both.
I married the first boy to kiss me. I don't regret it in respect of the fact I have the most wonderful children. I was young and without expectations from any man. I'd never spoken to anyone about my self-loathing, insecurities, fears, and intense feelings of loneliness.
My then-to-be husband and I were walking down the road arguing about something inconsequential when he suddenly lashed out hitting me in the face. I yelled and burst out crying. He stood watching before coming close to me and speaking firmly but quietly. "Look if you stop crying right now, I'll even marry you". It was the theme of the next 20-plus years.
Insecurities are usually the result of deliberate or sometimes ill-thought words or actions of others. It's extremely difficult to cure worthlessness and rebuild confidence. Some never succeed in doing so. People who've experienced inequality, heartache, and mental and or emotional and physical abuse, who go on to become the most empathic of people. Who strive to help others and who are true survivors.
My beloved father had seven heart attacks. He was told he's heart wouldn't last much longer. My oldest daughter was pregnant. The baby wasn't due for another six months. I begged my father not to die and leave me, begged him to stay and see his Great Grandchild.
This man with all his failings, with thoughtless insensitivity had in turn survived rejection and the insecurity it breeds. A man with a great heart, but a weak one. Who knew heartache but didn't learn to recognise those things in others. Who didn't know how to relate as a parent and yet, somehow managed to draw people in, retain an incredible kindness and generousness and make people want to love and know him regardless of his failings.
I lay on the bed beside my wonderful father, stroking his hand, kissing his cheek, reminding HIM how wonderful, loveable good and handsome he was. I watched him waste away, growing weaker and weaker. He'd been given the terminal diagnosis in early December. It was now June approaching my youngest daughter's birthday, the new baby was due any day. He couldn't eat and already survived two days without water. He tried to mouth something, struggling painfully to get words out. I leaned as close as possible "If I have done anything to hurt you, tell me now, I beg, tell me now". He looked at me pleadingly. He wanted to die in peace, he wanted to give me peace in his death. I kissed my darling father's face and told him what he needed to know. he tried unsuccessfully to mouth thank you.
My daughter was allowed to bring the baby home for an hour or two as an act of mercy. We placed the baby beside my father's arm, and he tried to smile. He'd suffered without any medication. without food or water. However, that night the doctor decided to give him morphine. Now I know that back then some doctors did this as an act of mercy for the patient and the family.
Against my wishes my then-husband persuaded me to return home that night, telling my father would rest peacefully for the night.
We received a phone call at 5am I rushed around to my parent's house. Mum stood calmly at the foot of the bed. I threw myself onto my father's still-warm body, kissing his face repeatedly. My father. Such a beautiful yet damaged human. A perfect and yet perfectly imperfect father, I finally realised I'd always had a human friend, and that I'd never been quite as alone as I imagined. It hit me that he had also been alone in his own way. I just hadn't recognised the things in him that were also in me.
My mother remained calm. I knew in her own unique flawed way that she'd loved my father deeply too. She looked at me and smiled sympathetically. "Shall we prepare your dad darling?"
I know many in Western society cringe at the idea of cleaning and dressing a loved one, however, it's a privilege to do that last deed for the person you love. We dressed him in his favourite suit.
For all his flaws and imperfections, he was generous, kind, humorous, intelligent, principled, loving, and lovable. Everyone loved him.
He loved literature and poetry. Particularly Rudyard Kipling's poem 'If' I asked someone to read out a specific passage as my tribute to the man who forced himself to LIVE long enough to honour a promise to me. Life without my father has been so much harder to endure. But I stand tall for my children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. For myself, I have the right to stand tall and believe in myself and for the man who genuinely loved me - My Father.
Rudyard Kipping IF
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