Image as part of The Proud Project. Titled: Grief

❗️Trigger warning ❗️

The day I took the series of images was on the 5th anniversary of my Dads passing. It’s always a day of reflecting and remembering now.

These images helped me to showcase my thoughts and feelings around the time of his passing and how consuming death becomes even after so many years.

Even though my Dad was on palliative care and we were expecting his passing, the period of time leading up to his death was excruciatingly hard.

I handled his dying in the only way I could. By pretending it wasn’t happening.

For me, my Dad has and always will be the oak tree in my life. He was a solid man- the best person to turn to for advice because he was a fountain of knowledge. He had strength a plenty and such an unselfish heart. He inspired me in so many ways. I was proud he was my Dad. He had such a dry sense of humour and a worthy addiction to chocolate.

So I refused to acknowledge he was dying. Even when the oncology consultant sat us all in a room to tell us there was nothing else that could be done and he had weeks left, a couple of months at best with blood transfusions, we all just shut down. I imagine most families cry. We all just left the room in a state of shock and pretended it was your average day. We discussed how good looking the doctor was and my dad just sung to my son who was sat on his lap in a wheelchair on the way back to the hospital ward. We all heard the doctor. We just pretended we hadn’t.

So I refused to acknowledge he was dying. I could visually see it. But my brain wouldn’t allow me to accept the truth. I kept a barrier up for self preservation. I was weak when he needed me not to be.

All those conversations I wish I’d had, I avoided. Instead I kept jovial and upbeat. But my body betrayed me. My throat and mouth were covered in ulcers. I just quietly sat in pain.

The morning he died, a part of me died. I held his hand the entire night, cleaned up the blood that came from his body and played him Jimmy Reeves through my phone. I talked to him about anything and everything. By the time I’d reached his bedside that night he could no longer speak or move, so I was doing what I thought was best. Distracting him. But in reality, I was distracting me.

I didn’t tell him enough that night that I loved him, because I didn’t want him to feel like it was a goodbye. I didn’t want him to know he was dying. I refused to let go of his hand. Clinging onto it like a small child holds onto a parent for assurance and guidance. His hand being my safe place.

He’d been in a state of concious paralysis so when he finally passed I was glad it was over. But internally I was broken. Watching someone die is like sitting in a boat and watching a person drowning but you just can’t reach them. It’s torture. But whatever I felt, it was nothing compared to what my dad had been through. It wasn’t a good death. He’d been let down by medical practitioners and he had no pain relief.

When someone dies and you don’t have those conversations but you know there was a chance you could have, there’s a deeper sense of loss for all the things you wish you’d asked or were brave enough to say.

He passed away at 4.04am and I drove back home to my own family. Again my body betrayed me and I was sick. The trauma too much to take in. I felt weak and lost. I was ashamed that I couldn’t match up and be his oak tree when he needed me. I was small and pathetic in my feeble attempts. I hid away in fear.

I remained the small acorn and cloaked myself from the pain I felt. I could protect myself in my shell, but I couldn’t protect the damage happening to him so it was easier to ignore his pain and pretend life was just normal.

I saw the light go out in his eyes. The moment his soul left. With it he took part of mine.

His death changed me fundamentally. There’s a before and after version of Donna. I think trauma does that to anyone.

I had a pyschic reading with Morgana Marie on his anniversary. and something she said really resonated with me.

He had to die so I could grow.