When I Parent Dies and Grief Doesn't Arrive

I read a wonderful article by Payal Aggarwal today about the tragic loss of her father, and it got me thinking about my own Dad and the loss of parents in general. My story is a very different one to Payal’s and it’s one of mainly confusion as opposed to grief.

When a parent dies, everyone expects you to be grief stricken, devastated and heartbroken, but it becomes very complicated when that parent wasn’t the loving care giver they should have been. What’s worse is that if you are not as upset as people think you “should” be, they start asking questions. Then you have the grief of losing a parent (which is buried in there somewhere) along with the trauma of having to explain your tumultuous relationship to the confused masses (Ok, you don’t have to, but I personally found it the easiest way to shut them up).

My Dad died on January the 1st 2021.

My Dad raised me from birth to age 14, so was a big part of my life until that point. He had good qualities, he was quite funny, had amazing taste in music and instilled in me a love for all the best cheesy ballad singers like Whitney Houston, Mariah Carey, Cher, Madonna, Gloria Estefan, as well as Michael Jackson and Meatloaf. I put my very eclectic music taste down to him. He was also very romantic, he used to buy my Mum these huge padded valentines’ cards that came in a box, they were ridiculous, I have no idea how she stored them all. When they had big arguments, he would put the stereo on to some cheesy love song on repeat, lock the bedroom door and go out. So, my Mum would have to listen to it blaring from the bedroom until she forgave him (As an adult I can see this was very unhealthy but as a child I thought it was cute). He loved my Mum a lot, too much in fact.

He also had another side, he was hugely depressed and on very strong anti-depressants, and he was an alcoholic, a violent alcoholic. He is the reason I have PTSD, he is the reason I don’t trust anyone, he is the reason I am always waiting for something bad to happen.

I used to wait at the top of the stairs listening as my parent’s walked down the street from the pub, to hear whether they were arguing, if they were I knew I would have to jump in and try and protect my Mum when they got home. I would jump on his back and try and pull him off her, from about 6 years old, I was no help, but I always tried.

My parent’s divorced when I was 14, and suddenly he was gone, and I missed him. Regardless of everything bad about him, he was still my Dad, and no one is all bad. I felt abandoned and alone. My Mum finally had her life back and found a new partner, but me and my sisters were left in this strange aftermath (I am not going into detail about my sisters in this as it’s their story to tell not mine).

I saw my Dad a handful of times over the next 12 years or so, mostly I bumped into him at a supermarket or a car boot sale. I remember seeing him when I was at Tesco shopping for supplies to start University that year, I told him I was starting University and I think he was proud of me, but his new girlfriend changed the subject and then they left. Another time my sister made us knock the door at his house, I waited in the car, he came out and got me and we went in and had a cup of tea, it was awkward, and that was the last time I saw him (about 9 years ago).

When I got pregnant with my son, I wanted to make up with him, I found him on Facebook, I wrote him a really long heartfelt message, stating that regardless of the past I would like to see him and that I was pregnant with a boy. He sent me a thumbs up back. I was heartbroken, I tell the story now with a laugh, but it still hurts, part of me thinks it was his partner but who knows.

He never met my son, who is now 7.

Fast forward to the end of 2020 and I got a phone call from my sister to say my Dad was dying, he had Liver Cancer and was being sent home for palliative care. His new partner had promised to keep us informed of everything going on, but we didn’t hear anything else until the 3rd of January. I got a text from my sister saying

“Just to let you know, **** just told me Dad died on New Year’s Day xx”

And that was that, so matter of fact, he was gone.

Then came the barrage of emotions, mostly confusion, confusion about how I “should” feel. Would it be wrong if I cared, should I be glad he is gone, he hurt so many people, would relief be the correct feeling?

Coming up to the 1-year anniversary of his death, I still don’t know how I should feel but my thoughts on it now are mostly regretful.

I think deep down he was a good man, his mental health issues got the best of him and although that is no excuse for the things he did (which I haven’t even scratched at in this article), I feel regret that he had such a traumatic childhood himself, I feel regret that my Mum, myself and my sisters suffered so much, I feel regret that there was no help available for him. The police were at our house on a weekly basis, yet nothing was done. That’s the 90s for you! I feel regret that he only gave up drinking years after my parents got divorced (why couldn’t he do it for us), and mostly I feel regret that I didn’t get to have a relationship with him when he was sober. I know I “shouldn’t” have wanted one, but I did, I see so much of him in me, good and bad, and maybe if I could have understood him a bit better, I would be able to understand myself better.

That opportunity is now gone, and life moves on…and when I do finally get to the point of feeling grief, the well-wishers and sympathy will be long gone.

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