Goodbye, Dad

As some of you may already be aware, my Dad died on Sunday 27 July at 11.50am after a short battle with cirrhosis.  He was 64 years old.

At the moment, I am feeling very heartsick and confused.  I was always brought up to believe that Dad should be blamed for his battle with the bottle, but as I looked back over the last few months of his illness, I've began to wonder.  Alcohol can be used as a way of medicating the self, and people only attempt to medicate themselves for a reason - usually that they are in some sort of distress, and are trying to find a way of easing it.

For most of my life, my dad presented the picture of a very confident, outgoing man who always had his hands on the ropes.  However, maybe that was how he wanted to appear.  For all purposes, he gave the impression of being a very simple man, with very simple needs and tastes.  Still, I have often wondered what he thought and felt in private moments - about who he was, and about how he lived his life. 

Perhaps his perceived simplicity was his attempt to save face not only with the world at large, but also with himself.  I know that he didn't achieve all that he wanted to during his lifetime, so he simply attempted to make the best of what was available at the time.  If this was the case, I feel very, very sorry for deep down, I saw glimpses of a very sensitive and caring man who wore his heart on his sleeve, but was simply tired of being hurt and rejected by some of the people who should have been closest to him.   

And I suspect that I was one of those people.

Whilst my father and I got along famously during my childhood, I became aware of the strange relationship that developed between us as I appoached adolescence and became more aware of what was happening in our home.  On one hand, a distance emerged between us because in some ways, I felt very ashamed of him - ashamed that he drank, ashamed that he gambled, ashamed of the arguments that these two vices seemed to cause in our home.  However, on the other hand, I grew closer to him because we were both held as the frightened victims as the consequence of some of his excesses.  We both lived in fear - fear of the rows, fear of the abrupt departures in the night, but most of all, fear of the silences which seemed to endure in a world without end.

Therefore, for most of our adult lives, my relationship with my dad consisted of two people who were both brought together, and pushed apart, by a particular set of circumstances in their lives.  For a long time, I blamed him for this phenomena.  However, I look back now after reflecting not only on his, but my own behaviour, and see that perhaps that the finger should have been pointing in a completely different direction.

I guess more than anything, I want to say to him "Dad, I'm so sorry.  I saw you suffering, but did nothing, for to even acknowledge this would be to pull down what seemed to be my world around my ears.  I wish I had done things differently, had seen you for what you really were rather than how you were portrayed.  I wish I could have helped you more, made you see the world differently so that you would be able to lead a life that was more fulfilling rather than drowning your regrets in a bottle of whiskey."

However, that chance is gone now.  I guess the only way I will be able to make it up to him is to save myself from the same fate.

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