I know in my heart that my dad is right behind me
Part 5 - December 2009
The new year of 2010 is just days away.
Neither horoscopes nor the media’s news analysis can fully predict
what will happen in the months ahead. This time last year I had no
idea that my dad was terminally ill, cancer pressing against his
spine causing him to become paralysed by February. He was living
with mystery symptoms until it was too late for medicine to do its
usual good work. But life changes without giving us a decent notice
period - even if we sit still circumstances will shift about around
us. And when they do change we have to cope and do our best for
each other as human beings, friends and family members.
All I know about 2010 is that my dad is
no longer alive to see it, dying last July. He was deprived of the
chance to experience anything of the coming 12 months - a year that
must be kinder since how could it be any worse? I hope that he is
in a better place, a spiritual realm where he can look benevolently
on my progress in life. He will approve of all I have been doing
since his death. But he would now want me to bring my immense
distress over his passing to an end.
Last year taught me more than all the
lessons which could be learnt within a normal 10 years. My year in
review for 2009 is very personal, one of highly expressed emotion
and scenes that were bleak. But to come out of this I learned that
I could give affection and put someone else first. I experienced
terminal illness at close quarters. Despite knowing mental health
conditions well – both personally and through meeting other service
users and survivors – I had never encountered end-of-life care.
Another close relative had been given a cancer diagnosis and
treatment with radiotherapy in the past. But I always knew that was
treatable, she would be better soon. My dad’s prostate cancer was a
different story and I understood that from the minute of hearing
his diagnosis. I had to face it, to not make this crisis ‘about
me’, and see how I could make his situation bearable for longer.
What I did not expect was to become an advocate for my dad, to care
so deeply, to listen so carefully and ultimately to survive without
him.
I now realise that there is more to
life than mental health concerns and wider issues beyond merely
existing each day thinking there is always time to spare. My own
awakening in life has made me wiser and more compassionate. I
respect that members of families grieve differently and I hope that
I have been sensitive to the needs of significant others. I do not
feel bitter about my dad’s death as a tragic event following half
of my life battling mental health problems. Instead I believe that
all my experiences allow me to have a different perspective, one
that I hope to help others with through sharing where needed.
It is hard to live in an area where
no-one has met my dad. Some people I meet are not attuned to grief
and do not see its significance – I sometimes wish they would take
the time out to learn before they also have to go through it one
day. My dad’s absence is still obvious; going to certain places
will never be the same without him; tea and coffee cannot taste the
same as when he made it. I do not hear about his latest movements
and outings anymore. I wish I could have discussed the recent snow
fall with him.
I spent Christmas Day on my own with no
Christmas food or television programmes in sight, in my pyjamas
with unwashed hair. I longed to spend it with my dad or even to be
able to phone him as I did last year. I did not feel fully prepared
for how long the day felt or my emptiness, for the tears that never
quite came, for the strong memories but also the boredom where I
felt like doing nothing. I wanted to be anyone but myself, even
believing that being part of a large family prone to falling out
would be preferable that day. I envy people talking about family
Christmases, but I appreciate that they may not be ideal. I knew
Christmas was almost over by the early evening so felt the
heaviness lifting from my body and mind.
Bereavement has taken its toll on my
mental health. I recognise this and a need to rebuild my reserves
again. I am more likely to catastrophise. If I hear that one of my
small surviving family feels even slightly ill I start to picture
having to visit another hospital. I find it harder to settle and
concentrate now. I tend to ration what I can eat only to find that
I am lacking in energy. I am scared of a new year as well as trying
to be hopeful.
Today I start writing in my 2010 diary.
I have a 2009-2010 academic year diary which would last another six
months, but it is better for me to start afresh. I no longer need
to write in the back of the diary the contact details for the
hospice, or the community nurses previously looking after my dad. I
bought new clothes in the January sales so I do not associate all
my clothes with the past (but I also have to watch my spending from
now on). Early in 2010 I am starting to do some service user
involvement, mentoring student nurses within my mental health
trust. I have a new friend I ‘met’ through the Macmillan online
forums who is in a similar stage of bereavement. Recently I put
myself forward to be a media talker for the national Prostate
Cancer Charity in case I can help raise awareness of this
disease.
I will continue to see my community
psychiatric nurse in 2010. She has said that we will still be able
to talk about my dad at any time. We will be looking more at other
areas of my life again. The theme of mental health recovery has
always been strong within our work together. But where family
crisis and bereavement take place, there is a need to focus on
these areas. I feel that the way I helped my dad during his final
illness owes much to the past therapy with my CPN - a remarkable
result to come from this work. I do believe that it is a
shortcoming that only ‘outcomes’ such as having a job and home are
captured as data for use by NHS mental health commissioners. It
seems more important that outcome measures reflect the good we do
for others rather than service costs saved or targets hit. You
cannot put a price on being with someone when they are dying – and
it is something I did for my dad but also for my own recovery.
Six months on from my dad’s death I do
not feel quite ready to let go yet. I have used the cancer drop-in
centre over the Christmas break so that I was less isolated at this
time of year when grief rises up again. This centre will still be
there for times I want to call in; - many centre users go on to
become volunteers which I could consider at some future time. I
sometimes cannot stop thinking about my dad in the hospice or in
his care home. I still allow those thoughts, and my heart aches,
but at least these events are in the past. I can see ahead into a
new year and just hope for peace of mind. I know in my heart that
my dad is right behind me in whatever happens next.
Alex
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