Tiptoeing around Truth

Last night was not the first time that I dreamt about his death, waking up in a pool of cold sweat, my silent weeps not even silent any more, as I realise that yet again I have fallen into the ‘what ifs’ and ‘maybes’ when my dream turns from innocent to something quite deadly.
I stumbled down to where he lay, my father, a crippled shell of the wonderful man he was. What am I saying, the wonderful man he forever will be.
He has this glow about him, he always has, this ability to scare people with his knowledge yet comfort them with the way his mind traces so peacefully along the realms of reality.
Growing up with a figure like this is awe inspiring. To think that I’ve had a role model so strong, powerful.
I know we all say it ‘my dads number one’-but after numerous dreams about the way my fathers soul, his energy, drifts from his body, until he is not himself anymore, became something I’m sure my whole family have been experiencing for years now, so we all know how my dad is number one.
To physically wake in tears isn’t pleasant, I’ll tell you that for nothing. You’d have thought that after he was given six months to live, that 4 years from his diagnosis, over 20 operations later, a few hundred bouts of chemotherapy and the soul destroying ‘talk’ about the ‘what ifs’ and ‘maybes’ I have previously mentioned, that we would have come to terms that he is unwell.
It’s hard, it’s down right awful to be blessed with such a life, where you have been given a family full of love and desire for happiness, for it then to be pulled apart just like many by cancer.
“It’s terminal”- let me paint a picture for you. My dad is strong, he’s a fighter. A beautiful mind, a beautiful wife and some tinkering children, he’s the structure that holds the family together. That just so happens to be falling a part.
So, this morning, after gripping so tightly onto the chest of my father, who lays there with little movement, little fire that he so greatly holds. I woke. I woke into the admirable reality, of a family with a cancer sufferer.
The best people seem to be the ones to be affected by it. The ones that don’t at all deserve to be put under such a situation. But, I have failed to mention that my father will never be seen as ‘the ill man with cancer’, we will see him as he is, an incredible brain, incredible skill, and an incredible human being, that we are so lucky to spend our lives with.
But when I lay, flashing back to the nights my sister and I lay in our bedroom, unable to leave, as my fathers poor body is lifted out of where he lay, rushed to hospital hostage to the belief that tonight is the night we had been dreading, or the birthday missed due to operations that we pray so intensely to go the ‘right way’ , and the Christmases so nearly missed, our mother being ripped apart by reality of the harsh truth that remains- no body is safe from cancer, not even those who inspire you to be the best that you can, to be like him. The reality of it all is hard, yes, I just suppose that what I’m trying to tell you is, that no matter how hard, or how destroying it is, the fight is worth it, the dreams only temporary.
I woke with the ability to hear my dad snoring in the room next door, and maybe just maybe, even if and when he so peacefully leaves, I will still hear the snoring, and his voice in my head telling me the rights and wrongs, and I’ll still have his hand to guide me, cancer is not the man it lives in. The man it lives in, has cancer but it won’t ever be what we remember.
As I write this, tears pouring down my cheeks I know what he’d say to me if he ever knew about the dreams, or the thoughts.. ‘Man up Laura, you know I’ll always be here for you. No matter what’
And he will, I promise you that.

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