Lessons on the long, quiet process of healing.
“I’m scared. The doctor told me that my dad’s got months to live, and I don’t know what to do.”
I felt my brow furrow instinctively. “Bloody hell mate, I’m sorry…”
We took sips of our coffee in the office kitchen.
I looked up at my colleague. “This might sound like a rogue suggestion, but have you considered therapy?”
A beat.
“What, like grief counselling?”
“Yeah.”
“My GP suggested it, but I don’t know. I might give it a go once he passes. Have you tried it?”
I glanced down at my cup. “Yeah, I have. I’m not sure if I’ve told you this before, but my dad passed away about 18 months ago, so I know exactly what you’re going through…”
He Wasn’t My “Real” Dad…
But for all intent and purposes, he was.
I knew Rich for 22 years.
That’s 22 years longer than my biological dad. (He left when I was born.)
At first, Rich popped round to our house after his shifts. I’d often be in bed, but I’d hear the chimes twinkle in the night.
I’m pretty sure my mum’s favourite part of the day was seeing him walk through the front door.
Then, his presense became more regular. He visited on weekends and stayed during the week. I was standoff-ish at first, but only because I was scared. Not of Rich. It was never Rich. Just the circumstances.
I’d seen men hurt my mum before.
But Rich was different.
God, even just thinking about his goofy grin as I type these words makes my eyes glisten.
Life Was Cruel to This Great Man
The first time he got cancer, he was six years old.
I don’t know all the details — he never spoke about them — but I do know he spent a good chunk of time in a children’s hospital. In and out, in and out. It could have been months; maybe years.
It was uncomfortably long, either way.
But did he dwell on it? Not at all. He quickly realised he’d been given a gift. So when the same fate dawned upon him decades later, he was remarkably stoic.
I remember him dipping bread into his minestrone soup — weeks before he was about to pass away. The cancer had already spread to his lungs, and tumours were on the cusp of ravaging his brain.
(We didn’t know either of these details at this point.)
“You know what, Scott,” he croaked, blowing on the hot crust. “I’ve been dealt an extra forty years. Forty glorious years. And spending over half of them with you and your mum has been an absolute joy.”
The Grief Comes in Waves
A song.
A TV show.
A passing thought.
It’s the little reminders that touch me.
Just the other day, I walked past a butcher shop and had to hold back tears. This was the place he used to buy me a pork pie from on Saturday mornings, and after I finished football practice, he’d leave it on a plate in the fridge with a scrap of paper tucked underneath:
“This is for you, Scott.”
I’ll never see his cheeky “I’ve-done-something-naughty” face again after he pulls yet another practical joke on my mum. They were never anything outrageous. No; he was too subtle for that.
His favourite was putting a single clothing peg on the back of my mum’s jumpers before she left the house for work. She’d never clock it, but he made sure I did with a glancing nod.
The amount of times clients asked her why she had one on her back will never not be funny to me.
So you see, nothing is immune from my memories.
Not even clothes pegs.
I Technically Lost Two Dads in the Same Year
I met my biological dad for the first time during COVID. He reached out to my mum and we spoke over FaceTime.
The whole thing was anticlimactic.
Did he want to get to know me and my life and everything I’d done over the last twenty four years?
Meh.
Not really.
There was no curiosity on his end. Just a sh*tload of guilt. It’s like when you get fired from a job and your boss keeps banging on about how hard the decision was.
Seriously, dude — I don’t give a f*ck.
You’re the one who made the decision to leave me all those years ago. And I’ve had to deal with the emotional sh*tshow ever since.
Do you know what it’s like clamming up when strangers ask innocent questions about your family? Like how tall’s your dad? What does he do?
The shame of it all?
It f*cking sucks.
Building stuff. Playing in parks. Having a second best friend. These are all things we missed out on.
I mourned your loss years ago, mate.
Of course, I didn’t say any of this to him. I just forced the conversation along and did the small talk stuff.
It was painful.
We eventually got onto the subject of football, and that’s when I knew we’d never speak again. Football’s a cheat code for men — a social lubricant when you’ve got nothing else to say.
Why are we talking about this stuff?
Surely you’ve got more pressing questions than, “Who do you support?”
We spoke once more, but that was it. He made zero effort to reach out again. Nor did I.
I immediately hopped on the phone to my mum and Rich.
If Someone You Know Is Seriously Ill or Has Just Passed Away…
My heart goes out to you.
Everyone’s experience with grief is different, so the emotions coursing through your body are likely different to mine.
I felt an overwhelming sadness for months.
It still touches me.
Therapy can help, but I won’t bother with the general platitudes you’ll face from well-intentioned friends and family. It’ll pass. You’re strong. Besides, he wouldn’t want you to be upset.
You’ll be numb to their words. They’ll bounce off you like a Droideka forcefield.
Because here’s the truth:
It just sucks.
And it’ll suck for as long as you need it to suck.
Does time heal things?
To a point, yes.
But when someone you love passes , the pain never truly goes away — and nor would you want it to.
It’s the one part of them that you get to keep.
Jimmy Carr says it best: “Grief is the price we pay for love.”
Amen to that.
I miss you, dad.