I’m getting back on track tonight with the purpose of this blog. My main purpose is to get things off my chest that I haven’t done in the almost two years since my dad’s Stage 4 lung cancer diagnosis. It’s supposed to be cathartic, or provide some insight into my life…I think.
My Dad has kept his cancer a secret. He doesn’t want anyone to know he’s dying. I think he’s still in denial about it. The treatments he’s done to buy time have left him weak and in a fair amount of pain. Even though he’s been bald since before I was born, he wears the most ridiculously ugly novelty wig hat that makes him look like he’s trying to imitate Guy Fieri.
I think I’m in just as much denial as he is. When people find out my father is terminally ill (it took me a good five minutes to use that phrase here), they immediately say how sorry they are to hear it. I immediately say every time “Thanks, it’s fine”. But it obviously isn’t, because here we are, right?
I’m conflicted about my feelings on my father. We haven’t always had the best relationship. He was absent a lot during my younger years. He worked a lot, and he drank a lot, and I felt that. I have some great memories with him, but those are always overshadowed by the bad ones.
He took a belt to me. He raised a hand to me. He raised a hand to my siblings.
But that was also part of the time we grew up in. Those things happened, and it wasn’t something that felt out of place. Kids got spanked, and sometimes it was with a belt.
I thought this would be a long post. It’s not. I’m just feeling mad about cancer taking him away.