Mommy's Mental Health - Chapter 73- Grief is a terrible thing...

Losing a parent is always hard. ALWAYS. But I do believe that grief is harder to come to grips with when the relationship is complicated.

My father was an alcoholic. But deeper than that he was a severely misunderstood and unloved child who grew up knowing very little but disappointment and abuse from his own father. Where did things go wrong with my dad? He went to the Navy where he excelled and played in the Navy band, worked his way up to being a reputable business man, and accumulated some wealth, enough to buy a home in Observatory with my mother. He then got a job offer at IBM in Johannesburg that was too good to refuse, but collapsed as IBM pulled out of the country, like so many companies, in protest of the apartheid regime. But that single moment seemed to be my father's undoing.

Unfortunately, this also happened around the time of my conception.

It's hard not to blame myself.

How does one blame themselves for being born though?

My mom insists that I was planned and knowing her history, I know that she wouldn't have considered a termination. She was still holding onto hope... that her family would be whole, and happy and my father would provide for us in love and financially.

This dream was dashed as I continued to self-sabotage over the years and his drinking got worse. The debts kept piling up and he hid from them by getting paralytically drunk. When my mother fought with him about it, he took it out on her physically, as well as my sister. I blocked most of it out. Disassociated.

It took my father hitting rock bottom in order for him to "sort of" turn his life around. My dad, while living with my uncle as he had offered my dad a place to stay and a connection to the church, then had a job opportunity in Malaysia breeding and farming Ostriches.

While the initial stages of this venture were thrillingly exciting and my dad kept a hilarious diary of his day to day life, eventually the investors pulled out and my dad was forced to return home.

He struggled on and off for a while, moving from Pretoria, where his brother lived, back down to Cape Town. I think I'd only just gotten my driver's license and my own car at the time. A lot of water had flowed under the bridge, so to say since I was 9 when my parents got divorced. I was working for a reputable Property Company and had been building a life with my first "husband" when I got the call from him that he was coming down to Cape Town. I was thrilled at first and didn't think to iron out all the details before his arrival. I was young 19, maybe 20 at a stretch. I was so excited to show my dad what an awesome driver I was (I had a lot of help) and that I had my own car. When I went to fetch him from the long-distance bus terminal at Cape Town Station, he had one or two bags with him and his guitar strapped to his back. When we got over the initial excitement of seeing each other for the first time in about a decade, I asked him where we were going. You know, where was he going to live? Well, it turned out that he expected to live with me.

My ex and I had a strict policy of not allowing anyone to stay with us. And this, coupled with horrible memories of my childhood made me adamant that he could not stay with me. We spent the whole day in the car trying to figure things out. Phoning everyone he knew and having doors shut in our faces. It turns out he burnt bridges with many people and hurt many people too, while he was at his worst. Eventually, his friends, a lovely couple, opened their home to him and he was able to find a job at a music store in the far Northern suburbs of Cape Town (Brackenfel). Here, he managed to find himself a stable job with a stable income and even acquired a company scooter registered in his own name so that he could zoot around. These were good times and I allowed hope to trickle in. This was all dashed by an argument over stocktaking on a Sunday and it would be the last job my father had.

He returned heavily to the bottle and ended up living in "poor houses" or houses set up for people who were down and out. It was a relieving alternative to his living on the street. My 2nd ex-husband and the father of my child would often pick him up for weekends with us, where we would share what little we had with him and spend time singing by the fire. I regret not having recorded anything of this precious time together. He got to spend time with me, watch me get married, and walk me down the aisle. He also got to hold Matthew and watch him grow as a little boy.

Eventually, my dad had a horrific stroke, rendering him permanently paralyzed on his right side. My mother, my sister, and I were in no state to be financially responsible for him and he became a ward of the state. This was a lucky thing, in a way. He was put into a home at the age of around 68 and that is when he knew it was the end for him. He died that day he had the stroke even though he continued to "live" for several years afterward.

Eventually, my father stopped eating and wasted away until he died, almost three years ago.

I keep asking myself if I did enough if I was enough for him. It's hard to separate myself from the responsibility of the be-all and end-all for my Dad. But at the end of the day, it wasn't about me. It was the realization that whatever hopes he had of getting back on his feet died with his stroke, as well as his inability to play his beloved guitar that killed him in the end. It was his yearning for my sister over me and his blind adoration of my mother that steamrolled anything I did for him at this stage.

At least he lived out his last few years in an environment with three meals a day, clean bedding, warmth, a garden, and medical care.

The facility the State designated for him was in a terrible Suburb near the Airport, which made visitations scary and dangerous, but we still visited him as often as we could.

I keep thinking if I was ever enough for him... If I'd just tried a little harder, and visited just a little more, that his outcome would have been different, but the truth is it wouldn't have made a difference. I know that logically, but my heart does not.

I did not post for your birthday this year Dad... but I thought of you the whole day. I love you and I am sorry.