An Unbreakable Bond

I almost scoff at the word Father; what it means, how it's used, what people think it represents, and the expectations that come with the title.

It's not for me. I never knew my father. I use the past tense because I'm pretty sure he's dead.

But I know my Dad. And as controversial and politically incorrect as he is, he is mine.

Not by blood, but by bond.

Which is much stronger if you ask me, which I assume you are, what with you reading this and all...

For lack of a better word, let's say he's a colourful person. He's also quite a sick person. I'm currently contemplating what life's going to be like without him, sometime in the near future. The end looks pretty fucking nigh, to tell the truth.

Sometimes I feel like I'm okay with it, he's in a fair amount of pain and it's safe to say each day is a struggle for him.

He's suffering.

Other times my pulse quickens, my insides turn cold, and my stomach ties itself up in knots at the inevitable realisation of life without my dad.

That's the selfish side of me, you see. The side that wants him here as long as is physically possible, regardless of consequence, regardless of pain. Because of the comfort he provides me.

Really, when I take a step back, I know that if it's his time - it's his time, and I need to make peace with it. As he puts it, 'I've had a good innings.'

Which is true, for the most part. For a man born in the fourties, who smoked and drank his way through the majority of his life, I'm surprised he's still standing, or sitting - as is the case. All things considered, he's not actually looking that bad. I'm surprised he's made it this far if I'm honest.

But he is in pain.

And I still don't want him to go.

The cliche that is me still falls asleep at thirty-four, with dreams of Daddy-Daughter dances, and walking down the aisle arm-in-arm... when in reality the man can barely walk.

I know, I know. In fact, I warned you. But as selfish as it is, it's true.

I want that, so much.

Although, not just for me but for him too. You see, he has 'fathered' two daughters in his long life - three if you count me. But he has never 'given anyone away'. Not for the lack of marriage either, but that's a story for a different day.

I want him to experience being valued the way I think he should. To have the moments you would consider a given when you have little girls. I need him to know his worth and how thankful I am to have been able to call him Dad. To experience those moments whilst he still can. To make those memories. Because in the end, all we have are memories. And after the end, that's all we are - memories.

Now, he would tell you it doesn't matter. He doesn't believe in marriage, but that's from his privileged position of having been-there-done-that. But he does believe in love. It's evident in the way he talks about my mother. And yes, mother not mum is intentional, but again, a story for another time.

He's played his part in raising a child who isn't his own, with the same respect and patience as he did his own children. No difference has ever existed.

You see, for a man in his seventies with a vast, extended family - support has been in short supply of late. And when you are confined to the same four walls day-in and day-out, company is underrated.

The majority of the time he is alone. Albeit, some of it is his own doing. He's from that generation, you know - stubborn. Getting them to accept help can be as exhausting as trying to get blood out of a stone, and at times, prove hard to watch.

Almost as if he is resentful to accept the inevitable passing of time and the grief and grace it possesses. But we mustn't forget its graces, for growing old gracefully is almost surely becoming a thing of the past.

I mean, I understand. Of course, I understand. Not wanting to give up our independence is installed in all of us. In fact, I'd go out on the line to say I probably understand a little more than most, what with being sick and dependent on the help of others, myself. But in my opinion, it's harder for the people looking in than it is for the person choosing to suffer for the sake of saving face.

So I get the need to distance one's self, I do. But I also know that these years (if he's lucky) are his last, and I desperately need him to know he is valued. To know he spends most of his time alone breaks my heart. We do what we can but the prospect of a care home is out of the question. Stubborn, remember?

For the majority of my life, I haven't known much of family. He has been the one true constant that has carried me through most, if not all, of my hardships as I grew into the woman I am. The idea of him not being there as I continue to grow into whom I will become is harrowing.

He has always been my safety net.

And I don't mean that in the 'bail me out of trouble, picking up the pieces' type of way. Or because he's been what society would call 'the perfect role model'. Far from it, in fact. But because he is solely the one person I have ever met who will die with no regrets. None. Nadda. Zilch.

He has lived his life solely for himself. And that to me is a wonderous thing.

A rare thing.

I know what you're thinking...

Once you have children you pledge your life to them. You must be selfless. To sacrifice. To give them everything you have and everything you will be.

Which for me he has done. He's just done it in a different way...

I'm a parent, myself. It's the single most rewarding thing I have ever done and will ever do. (I told you I'm a cliche, right?)

It's an honour to watch those little hands and feet grow. But it's my honour. My decision to have these tiny people in my life was because I chose to experience the trials and tribulations of parenthood. So when I sacrifice and give my all to my children, I do it because I want to. Because this road is one I want to walk. Honestly, I think it's hard to find a truly selfless act.

Now don't get me wrong. He has truly lived life for himself. However, he would give you, a stranger, the shirt off his back if you needed it. Literally. The shirt off his back. Which you don't want, trust me, he's super old and his skin is flaking.

I have watched this man walk through life with the confidence of a misguided toddler. To take everything that has ever been thrown at him with a smile on his face and a skip in his step. He's taught me generosity and kindness as a second skin. To always find the fun in life, and to live it like you'll never live it twice.

He is the walking, talking example of happiness.

That, to me, is priceless.

I'm going to miss him terribly. When our time is finally up and he sees his last sunset, that is how I will remember him. That is the part of him that will stay with me for the rest of my life. The imprint he will leave on my heart.

To the man who has taught me what it is to have a Dad.

Happy Father's Day.