My father passed away on a bitterly cold November evening three years ago. It is only natural that thoughts of him have been running rampant throughout my mind. As my father lay dying in a Hospice facility I was his constant companion. I stayed by his side twenty-four hours a day for the last three days of his life. I spent those last days in deep conversation with him. There was no subject that was taboo.
My mother and father had divorced when I was fifteen years old. After their divorce I had no contact with my father for many years. I reentered his life after the birth of my first child some ten years later. My father had by that time remarried and taken on the bonus of two step daughters . I had gained one wicked step-mother. Our reunion was short lived as we had a major fall out over his drinking habits. As a child I did not have a choice to not be around him when he was drinking. But as an adult I realized that I did have the capacity to control the situation. I left my father’s house that day and never looked back. Twenty more years of my life would pass and lead me back to him and into this room that smelled of death.
I wanted answers to questions that had never been asked before. I was no longer the scared little girl who trembled in the night at the sound of her father’s raucous voice. I was brave. This time I had the power.