Dear Dad...I miss you now in midlife more than ever

I was at the kitchen sink this morning ticking off the mundane to-do's and it's usually during these moments that I do the most thinking, creative ideas ping around my brain begging to be brought to the surface before old stories come tapping me on the shoulder whispering 'nope stay quiet, no one wants to here it, remember?'. But this morning feels different, I could feel my Dad around, his presence feels like a gentle, warm light and the familiar pain that runs parallel with the light is the pain of losing him. I feel it as a tightness in my chest that surges towards my heart and it's the very real visceral feeling of heartbreak. The grief has softened over time, it's been almost 10 years since he left but some days, especially in this midlife era I am in, I ache to hear his voice again and the comfort of his softness. I'm sure you might relate, when the pain gets you in moments and takes your breath away, the panic of realising that the finality can't be undone?

I used to write alot of blogs in the disability space after my son was born but I stopped writing the day my Dad died. As in really writing in a vulnerable, expressive way that let my inner world spill on the page without too much correction (the long game of perfectionism). His death shut me down, I closed my heart off to myself and to those close to me for a long time, I simply didn't know how to process the loss. I was in my early forties with young kids and our darling boy with Down syndrome, would soon reveal a hidden secret that would mean a hip reconstruction and extensive rehabilitation within a year of Dad leaving. I certainly had grounds to stuff the grief away amongst the stress of trying to keep our little family above water but none the less, the stuffing down comes back around, it always does eventually.

Dad's death was a long, painful goodbye, a decade or so in the making. The coroner called me after he was found dead in his kitchen by his gardener and she gently and quietly told me that the cause of his death was chronic alcohol abuse. It's not like her words were unexpected but hearing them out loud was hard, really hard. While the death certificate noted chronic alcohol abuse, it could have also justly noted the heartbreak of losing his love to breast cancer, the painful abandonment of his father who deserted him and the family when he was a young child, the constant changing of schools and being relentlessly bullied, the phone call that came late in the night in 1987 to tell him his sister had taken her life at 43 years old and the years of stress from my mother's trauma, emotional immaturity and dysfunctional family that leant heavy on Dad's stability and generous nature and would contribute to the demise of my parents marriage in my mid teens. Also noteworthy would be the painful relationship and emotional disconnect with his mother (my grandmother), who was a fiercely independant, creative woman, an artist, ceramist and psychic medium who I never knew. She lived in Rockhampton in far north Queensland and we grew up in New South Wales, visits were rare. She remains an interesting enigma to me, as does her father, Frank E. Westbrook who landed on Gallipoli and went on to write a collection of poetry including a book called 'Anzac and After' (google him!).

While his cause of death is tragic and undeniably a sad ending, the man was a galaxy of stars and spirit, a life that can't be overshadowed by his ending.

I remember the Dad I had who strived to give his children the stability he never had, who would swing by the BP Servo on the way home from work and buy us a Smurf each, the joy of waiting for his two tone Mitsubishi Magna to come down the road to home. He was a steady presence despite his own deep emotional wounding and he was also hard to truly know because of it. He certainly kept his armour up, who could blame the man?

He had a magical garden at his home in the Blue Mountains and would spend his days writing poetry in front of the pot belly fire up the back of the yard. He pottered with wood work and doted on his garden. He was a lover of books and nature, a bushwalker in his younger years. His dear partner Loretta (my stepmum), would spend most weekends with him and weekdays being close to her children and grandchildren in Sydney. Thinking of her now, is rainbows and butterflies in my stomach. I adored her.

Loretta's breast cancer diagnosis came and within a couple of years she would pass away in her late sixties. Dad's demise started when her diagnosis was revealed.

It was like he started to check out of life from then and after her passing was when he put the foot on the accelerator and his light dimmed, he was done at 73 years old.

Now I am getting older and feeling the wrestle and pull on my changing identity in midlife, I feel closer to Dad in alot of ways, there was much I couldn't understand back then that feels clearer now. Time has allowed some clarity to enter and a melting of the pain, the pain of grief more so than the pain of abandonment - to lose a much loved father and grandfather who would not know his grandchildren is something I must tend to slowly, it hurts.

I wonder if you are missing someone in your own middle years, who you desperately wished was here to comfort you and tell you it's going to be ok?

I recently found a poem that Dad penned to me back in 2004 and his words feel like they always did, soft and comforting. I would like to share it with you, it feels relevant to the deeply unsettling moments and also the hope surfacing in midlife :

"To My Daughter"

Your youth is like a flower,

swaying gently in the breeze.

It's good and pure and wonderful - a bud with mysteries.

And I stop and wonder what the future has in store.

For the flower in my garden,

I can protect no more.

You will have to face the storms of life,

it's dangers and its strife,

unprotected from the ill's that are a part of life.

My little flower now in bloom,

you are a beautiful sight.

Beware my love, remember this -

one day there will be night.

You may not see it coming

because it comes in many shades.

The colour's seem so bright at first,

then you will see them fade.

Do not let bad weather change your strength,

lift high your head with pride.

No need to close your petals,

to hide your heart inside.

No darkness then my darling,

all day the sun will shine,

and the flower in my garden,

will be no longer mine.

Until this time, I will care for you,

our bond will be your water,

You will always have my love,

My flower, my very precious daughter.

Dad 2004.

Today is the first time I have written about losing my Dad and it might just be the start of spilling my story on the page, it won't be neat or tidy, but I have some tales to tell.

Until then,

Tears, miss you Dad xxx