Travelling . . .

Well today was fun. I drove the kids to Cadbury World. It made me think of you because the day that you left us we were on our way there when I got the phonecall. In six weeks it was the first time that I had not been at the hospital by your side, with Mum, hanging on every beep of machinery and improvement in blood gas numbers. I was told it would be good to give the kids a day off, get them away from the hospital. It was the last thing I felt like doing. You had had your eyes open that morning. They were so cloudy but I know you were in there. When I said where we were off to you raised your eyebrows as if to say 'typical!'. I am so glas you were there that morning. They had been unable to rouse you for the previous two days so it seemed like progress. I said goodbye, I remember kissing your head, trying to get to it amid the wires and machinery, and I stroked your hair. Two hours later you had gone. The drive back was hell. I look back now and am so sorry that I had nothing to give to the kids. I offered them no comfort or strength - I was totally engulfed in my own shock and pain.

Today was about them. I didn't really feel like going (again) but we had fun. We ate chocolate and played music all the journey ... loudly! They both love music and that is something I always have and always will attribute to you. Your voice and you passion for music was passed on to us and in turn I have passed it on. And I have to say I think you would even approve of their taste in music (mostly!).

I would love to hear you sing, my lovely Dad. I stand in church and can still hear an echo of your voice.

Lov you xx

Maybe it is time to say goodbye...

I was reading on someone else's blog and an interesting thought struck me . . . I don't think that I have actually said goodbye to you. I am continuing life as if you have simply popped out and could be back any time soon. I have certainly not let you go, and if I am honest I really don't want to, as if, in letting you go I would be failing you, loving you less. And yet, I can see that in letting you go I will be able to love you so much more. I would be able to remember you and talk about you and be grateful for all you were and the love we shared. Instead i am just so bitterly disappointed that you are not here and yet you should be.

I have also learnt that perhaps I need to make myself remember you, remember the good things. And that must surely be better that trying to block everything out because it just hurts to damn much. A living real memory and joy has to be better than blanking your photos and refusing to go there in my mind in case I can't bare it.

You know Dad, I am a teacher now. You knew I got my degree but you never knew I actually made it to my dream. I love it. I don't love the hours but I love my days, my class. I wish oh wish you could have shared in it because I have so missed you being proud of me.

I love you to the moon . . . and I am grateful to summer holidays where I have time to think.

x

How long has it been?

I am sorry. It is not that I haven't thought of you ... I do, every day. But I just haven't been able to talk to you. You see, I don't think that I have handled this grief thing at all well. If you were to be sitting at home right now it would not surprise me.

How is it that nearly three years on I have failed to process what has happened? I do anything to avoid talking about you, looking at your photo, the pain is just so bad that I have shut it off, pretending that you are not really gone at all. And yet, I wish I could move beyond this state of suspended feelings. You were oh so much more that the last few weeks, you have a whole life that I need to acknowledge and celebrate, to share with everyone, to smile at all the fantastic memories.

So I am back. I want to grieve for you my lovely dad. I want to deal with the fact that you are gone ... for now, walking a different path to me, till we meet again. Because I want to move on, and shutting the pain and grief into a little box and squashing the lid down so firmly is not good. I can hear you telling me not to be such a twit and I know that you would want me to be dealing with this so much better.

Happy birthday for last week. To be honest I was glad to miss the big picnic. It was nice to visit where we put your ashes. It is beautiful, it was quiet. I took Mum up. You must be so proud of how she is doing, but it is so hard for her. You not being there was never an option and I think she still feels it is all so unfair. But it was good to go.

I love you. And I miss you. Every day. We really weren't ready, were we. Do you know how often I close my eyes and pretend I can feel you giving me a hug, a tight firm reassuring hug that only you can give. Do you know how much I miss your wisdom, you were our rock.

Anyway, I will be back soon, I must because eventually we will get to the real stuff and I can move on. I love you to the moon . . . .

x