The 4th of July marked the first anniversary of the death of my Father.
He died of cancer that started in the throat and spread to the lung.
For a year I had been visiting his grave and always wondering whether or not I was grieving. I didn’t feel grief. I would walk through the cemetery gates and stand staring at the cross, in a beautiful and quiet corner of Southern England, expecting waves of grief to envelop me like I had read about in novels. Nothing.
I started to worry that I had somehow suppressed my grief. Surely I had to feel something.
But over the last weekend on this first anniversary, I realised two things;
Firstly, that I had effectively carried out my grieving during the eighteen months that cancer increasingly washed over and through his body like an over-zealous Spring tide coming in. Cancer is the cruelest mistress but there were moments of hope and even laughter.
It started in his throat leading to a tracheostomy which silenced his voice. As a result, he was given a board to write on as he eschewed a speaking tube. However, when friends would visit, they would write what they wanted to say on the board not realising that it was for my father and not for them. They were just trying to do the right thing and that comedy of manners alone brightened the mood.
There were moments of great hope too when we thought we were winning the war. Of course we were only winning the odd battle and borderline skirmish. You can’t be a heavy drinker and smoker for decades and not expect the ammunition dump that’s been accumulating inside you to detonate.
When we all knew that the end was in sight, it felt like my parents and I were nervous flyers sitting in an airport departure lounge. We knew dad’s flight had been delayed for a bit but we had to make do with staring out and making nervous consoling small talk whilst watching a couple of other planes take off, cemetery bound.
And just as I was getting strangely comfortable with the idea of waiting and comforting at this new level of alertness, it happened.
However, I did not feel grief. Cancer’s foot soldiers had invaded and slowly annexed it’s way to an inevitable victory but for my father the pain and tyranny was finally at an end. He was set free.
July 4th really was his Independence Day.
Secondly, last weekend I realised that as a result, he’s never coming back.
Which is when I cried.