Yellow Belly

I am a coward.

Bit strange me saying that as I have never been known to back down from a fight, even stepping up for someone else at times. And one of my most useful (and most used) mantras is : "Feel the fear and do it anyway" (thank you Susan Jeffers). I'm forever telling my kids that it's ok to be nervous, that butterflies in the tummy can be good, and the true definition of bravery is being scared of something but having a go regardless- the ol' "get over it, get on with it" mentality.

But today I am a coward.

Too afraid and uncertain of how to act, what to say, that instead I'm keeping quiet.

Not that I'm not worried my silence will send the wrong message. It's just, I don't know what message to send.

So  I sit.

And send none.

And then fret that my fear will take too long and I'll miss the chance to say anything at all.

Here's my dilemna: two people are in two different hospitals, neither of them near, both fighting for their lives. It's been a while since I had an actual conversation with either of them and now the clock is ticking. Fast.

What do you say to someone you once had no trouble filling hours talking to? How do you express the feelings you yourself can't even clearly understand?

And when is the right time, when time is running out?

I've previously pondered the dynamics of human relationships that get waylaid by life. Friendships that are interrupted by the very act of living. Some you can pick up where you left off- if only the chance comes up. And I've philosophised before about the family connections that get cut off by word or deed - or both- from one party or the other. But the human animal is a funny creature- one that relies heavily on "later"...until it's too late.

So, coward that I am, and desperate to not have the final memories be bad ones or sad ones, I haven't actually spoken to either of these people, who were once so dear to me. I've sent balloons to one, SMSed the other, and left a slightly cringe-worthy message on the machine of the mother of my friend, I was so tongue-tied at the time.

Me, the one who they say was born talking (if family mythology can be believed). Me, who could allegedly talk under water with a mouth full of marbles (an untested rumour). Me, who has been known to get paid to speak for a living.  Me, who is sadly, strangely, silent now.

I simply cannot find the words. Nor trust my voice not to break.

A coward indeed.

And I am so afraid that when I find my courage, it'll be just too late to say anything at all.

Jx

©2012

Daddy's Girl

So the circle of life continues.

The man partly responsible for bringing me into this world, is by all accounts about to leave it.

I don’t know this for a fact, as he left my world some 30-odd years ago, when I was about the same age my daughter is.

But I’m told that the same disease my mother was battling at the time he left, is attacking my father now.

See, another circle.

To be honest, I’m not sure what I’m expected to feel about it.

Sure, I feel bad that Cancer has reared its ugly head again- I don’t wish it on anyone.

Yes I am sorry that someone is suffering, with no brilliant prognosis this time.

True, there is concern that people dear to me are upset about it.

Of course I should be sad that someone I know is in pain.

But the whole what-am-I-going-to-do-my-dad-is-dying thing, well I just can’t come at.

Because - truth be told - I lost my father a long time ago; I’ve done my grieving already, aged 8.

A lady I know recently buried her dad with whom she had a…shall we say challenging relationship. Without breaching her privacy or her pain, it was a similar story: he left, didn’t have a lot to do with them, and time ran out before the break was properly healed.

Yet she had the bravery, and inner beauty, to speak a Eulogy for him. She revisited the good times and the bad, and bid him farewell the best way she could: with honesty and humour.

I wish I could say the same thing for the man I know as father.

If I do get to talk with him before he goes, I might say thank you for having me. After all, without his input I wouldn’t be here now.  And I might smile at a cherished memory or two that survived the fallout that befell our family. I would even wish him well for the next part of his journey.  But I cannot tell him I love him. (Nor do I loathe him, just for the record.)

And hopefully one day I can find the words to explain to my children why they never met their grandfather, for all his faults.

So all I can do is this: support my family as they support him, and pray that when the circle of life rolls around again, there is no break in the bond between my own offspring and me.

Daddy’s Little Girl (©1986)

daddy, aren’t i your little girl? aren’t i your ‘supa-kid’?

well, then, why did you leave me here, wondering what i did?

your clothes are gone, your cupboard’s bare, not much is left behind.

your crucifix stays on our wall, one thing left to remind.

please daddy, won’t you come back home? we all miss you so much.

my friends still have their daddies here- a real daddy to touch.

but daddy’s gone, he left me here, he didn’t want his child.

so now it’s just the 4 of us, one less reason to smile.

my daddy’s gone away, you see, he doesn’t really care.

‘cause when i cry his name at night i know he’s never there.

but daddy, i’ll grow up someday, i hope with no regrets-

but when you leave your little girl

the pain’s hard to forget.

Jx

©2011