My Dad Died This Morning

We had a love-hate relationship — mostly hate…

My dad died this morning. I’m glad he’s passed away, because he was suffering. It wasn’t a quick death. It took years of decline to get there. He had Parkinson’s disease and in the end, he couldn’t move. He hadn’t been able to eat anything for over a month. The end was inevitable.

We had a love-hate relationship. Mostly hate. He hated me being the person I am — socially awkward, anxious, struggling with some aspects of life. I hated him being so critical, nasty, unsupportive and belittling.

He loved tearing me down. I think he got off on it. He called me “waterworks”, “good for nothing”, and told me he’d “give me something to cry about”. Which he did. He seemed to enjoy it.

To other people, he was charming. Mr Reasonable. He was also a know-all; always right.

Mum used to say that if he wasn’t being nasty, he wouldn’t have anything to say, so the whole ‘if you haven’t got anything nice to say…’ principle wouldn’t work for him. I wished he’d just keep quiet.

He got thrown out of church membership when I was 15 — I guess they got a glimpse of his dark side, behind the respectable facade. Apparently he was trying to take over and turn the place into a dictatorship. They weren’t playing ball, so he got mad.

Anyway, that’s in the past now. Funny thing was, when he got Parkinson’s he had a personality transplant. He was nice. He complimented me a few times. It was weird. It was nice to see that hidden side of his personality for a few years before he passed away.

Now that he’s gone, I’m conflicted. He was horrible, but he was my dad. He wasn’t all bad. We had some nice holidays when he was in a good mood. I remember going to Bodnant Gardens on one of our holidays in Wales. I’d seen it on a postcard and thought it looked incredible. The gardens took my breath away!

Dad did his duty. He fed me and clothed me. He tried to appeal my 12+ decision when I failed the exam. He didn’t want me to be assigned to the local shit hole for my education. His appeal was unsuccessful, but I’m grateful that he tried. I think in the later years of his employment, he was miserable at work and took it out on me.

I’m sad to see the end of his life, despite our differences. But I’m not sad to see the end of his suffering.

Dad told me his story of working on the railways in the 1950s, so I could sell it to a nostalgia magazine. He’d previously banned me from pursuing an early writing career and continued to tell me I’d fail, even into my 30s. But when I went on to achieve my dream anyway, he supported me. That was nice.

He came from an age of Victorian principles, corporal punishment, and harsh discipline. As an adult, he thought many of his put-downs were funny, and that’s just the way he was.

I sometimes wondered if there was something wrong with him, as he had so little empathy towards me, but it might have just been that he had a hard upbringing too.

So now he’s gone. All I have are memories, and I’m trying to remember the good times, the holidays, the time he told me his story, and the last few years of his life. That’s when I saw a nice side of him: he seemed happier, kinder, and frankly, he seemed to like me more.

The feeling was mutual. I liked him more in those last few years too.

© Susie Kearley

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