A year has passed since my dad died. Here are some of the things I've learnt

Losing my father has by far been the most profoundly earth-shattering experience I've had, but also one that has taught me a lot about myself and shaped the way I view the world.

Nobody can prepare you for the earth-shattering moment when a loved one is diagnosed with an incurable, terminal disease. In 2020, during a global pandemic and after years of losing dexterity in his right hand (and an incorrect diagnosis in Jamaica), my sweet, sensitive father and I were in and out of hospital appointments trying to find the root cause of what he was experiencing. It felt as though his condition worsened with every month and then week that passed. At first, it was his hand, then difficulty walking for long and then short distances and shortness of breath.

At the start of 2021, days after my 26th birthday, I got a call confirming our worst fears - that my father had Motor Neurone Disease. A condition I had up until this moment not heard much about beyond the life of Stephen Hawking (someone whose name would repeatedly be brought up throughout my Dad's illness). MND is a fatal, rapidly progressing disease that affects the brain and spinal cord. It attacks the nerves that control movement so muscles no longer work and can leave people locked in a failing body, unable to move, talk and eventually breathe. It kills a third of people within a year and more than half within two years of diagnosis (taken from the MND association).

My Dad loves to tell stories about how he and I were practically joined at the hip when I was a child, how much I adored him and how deeply he loved me. My parents weren't together throughout my childhood, but their respect for each other endured until the end of my Dad's life when my mum (after losing her husband just four and a half years prior) was present for his final moments. I'm grateful for the foundation of love my parents have shown me, particularly given my Dad's complicated and painful upbringing. He left school at 11, and it wasn't until his dying days that we discovered who (we think) his father was. And yet, his capacity to love and extend kindness and compassion in the most challenging circumstances never faltered. 

As well as being an emotional man, my Dad was also an incredibly anxious one - he'd have panic attacks when getting on planes and was an avid over-thinker (something we both share). The journey of facing his mortality and fear of being trapped was a massive thing for him to face - knowing that he would become less mobile every week or day. He could not walk or feed himself by the time he passed, for those who have cared for parents, family, loved ones or by profession will know that it's heavy heart work. I am sad that he was forced to confront death so painfully. Sad that he felt trapped. And sad that he's no longer here. But there is also so much that the past couple of years have taught me.

A year on from losing my gorgeous Dad, here are some of the things I've learnt:

He's with you all the time.

Immediately after my Dad passed, in a flurry of desperation, I attempted to see a medium. I needed to see my Dad, speak to him, and ensure he would be okay wherever he was. I had missed the final moments of his life by less than an hour, which I struggled to grapple with. I was in too much pain to do proper due diligence around who I was supposed to see and got scammed. However, months passed, and he revealed himself to me in less forced environments and often when I least expected it. And most importantly, I know that he's with me because I am a part of him, and he is part of me. Though his physical body isn't with me, his heart always will be. 

The pain will become more manageable.

I didn't realise how much physical pain could be caused by grief until this loss. There were many points at which I thought I might not survive it, the grief. The tightness of the heartache. The intrusiveness of painful flashbacks in my day to day and the tears that never seem to stop flowing. The pain has not disappeared, but the waves of emotion that once felt insurmountable come slightly less frequently.

Your life is yours.

Seeing two parents die prematurely from health complications has been a constant reminder that we only have one life with finite time on this earth. Losing my Dad has reinforced the importance of loving deeply and living life for yourself, not for other people. For the past few years, I've changed my work and how I live - adopting a slower pace by the sea and working on small projects that spark great joy. 

What was his can also belong to you.

My Dad returned to Jamaica almost eight years ago and every year, I would travel there to see him, to the house he had managed to build after twenty-five years of driving London buses. I was terrified that returning to Jamaica would feel wrong like it couldn't exist without him. Jamaica, to me, meant my Dad, and as much as it still does, I now realise that I can carve out my own relationship with the Island, one that builds on everything he has taught and shown me. I'm grateful to him for making Jamaica a vital part of my life, and I'm excited about carving out new memories. And I've been thinking a lot lately; maybe I'll follow in his footsteps and spend more time there.

It’s time to look after yourself.

I've recently started acupuncture, and after the first session, the practitioner told me that I've been running on empty for a long time, years in fact. And she's right. As much as I have incredible projects on the horizon which I couldn't be more excited about - my mind and spirit are still recovering from the loss of my step-dad, burnout, surviving a global pandemic, leaving a job, suicidal ideation, poor mental health, caring for my dad, losing my dad in the space of five years. I list these things as a reminder to be kind to myself, acknowledge that healing is a process and that we (especially as Black women) need to look after ourselves before helping others.

I also wanted to share this poem that I wrote last year. It’s called MAGIC

Dad says he doesn't believe in magic 

Dad says he doesn't believe in magic but when he tells me he wishes he could bottle my smile and take it with him on his next great adventure 

I want to tell him his words are just that 

Dad says he doesn't believe in magic but a few nights ago he was sure his grandfather touched his arm 

He asks me if I think he could have made it all the way from St Elizabeth to South East London

I giggle at the thought of spirits boarding a British Airways flight from Kingston

And just when I think he's no longer here

Sunlight streams through my window and reaches into my heart 

I'm sure this is proof that he is magic

Wishing you all a lovely week.

With love,

Liv x