For a long time, I wasn’t able to write about my dad’s death. Some people run to church, to their faith, to their inner selves, to help groups. I just retracted. I felt nothing. Nothing but pain and a deep well of sadness. Over time, as the days passed, as winter faded into spring, into summer, and now into autumn (it’s not been a full year yet) it got easier. It was easier to talk about him, remember his face, answer people’s questions about what kind of person he was.
There are still sad days. Days when my heart is as heavy as my shoes. When anything anyone says, fills my eyes with salty tears. Days when being around families is hard. Days when people talk flippantly about colleagues or neighbours who have been diagnosed with cancer, in hushed voices, relieved that it’s not them, or their loved ones. Relieved that they don’t have to witness someone’s life slowly fading, see them struggle with orientation or memory; see the bruises on their hands from all the drips, put them to bed after chemo, or watch the colour slowly fading from their skin.
There are days when I leave conversations abruptly. When people talk about curing cancer with ‘clean eating’, with drugs from South America, with smoking weed, with prayer. They don’t know just how violent cancer is. How it eats away at your dignity, your body, your family. There’s no cucumber juice that can cure cancerous cells. Please don’t talk to me about that. Please don’t talk to me about people who won the fight against cancer. Because my dad lost his.
There are still sad days. Days when my heart is as heavy as my shoes. When anything anyone says, fills my eyes with salty tears. Days when being around families is hard. Days when people talk flippantly about colleagues or neighbours who have been diagnosed with cancer, in hushed voices, relieved that it’s not them, or their loved ones. Relieved that they don’t have to witness someone’s life slowly fading, see them struggle with orientation or memory; see the bruises on their hands from all the drips, put them to bed after chemo, or watch the colour slowly fading from their skin.
There are days when I leave conversations abruptly. When people talk about curing cancer with ‘clean eating’, with drugs from South America, with smoking weed, with prayer. They don’t know just how violent cancer is. How it eats away at your dignity, your body, your family. There’s no cucumber juice that can cure cancerous cells. Please don’t talk to me about that. Please don’t talk to me about people who won the fight against cancer. Because my dad lost his.
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