Fathers and Daughters

I’ve been crying a lot lately. Which if you really know me, isn’t something I like to do in front of people let alone publicly admit on the world wide web. I’m all for happy tears and am nearly always the first person to shed them. But for reasons that no longer elude me, I’ve spent my life struggling with the vulnerability of the sad ones. This has historically been quite problematic given I feel everything so deeply. Deeper than I could possibly explain in writing despite this blog being my weekly quest to try. The effort it takes to put on a brave face in public is one I wish I wouldn’t have exerted so fiercely in private. Perhaps then I wouldn’t be playing catch up with my feelings all these years later.  

On a visit to the Hiroshima Memorial Museum in Japan I was struck by a quote from Satsuki Mikami, mother of 12-year-old Naomi who was killed in the atomic bomb blast. She said, “I cried and cried as if all the moisture in my body had turned to tears”.

As people around me moved from one exhibit to the other I just stood there imagining what it would be like to face such a loss. I read this quote over and over again wondering if Satsuki survived the grief? Or if she cried and cried until she was nothing but a whisper of a woman swept away by the wind. Part of me also thought that if I lingered there a little longer, Naomi would know a stranger cared enough to stick around. To feel the emptiness in her absence and to let her know it wasn’t fair. She wasn’t just a memory on a plaque. She was a little girl who was loved.

When I reflect on this moment and think about Satsuki’s description of grief, I can’t help but analyse my own. I think about how deeply I feel the loss of my Step-Dad (who I will refer to in this blog as my Dad because that’s what he was). I think about how living in Papua New Guinea makes me feel so close to him yet so far away. About all the ways it hurts to work right next door to the building that he isn’t in anymore. Not because he retired or moved, but because he’s no longer with us. He’s not a phone call or a 3-hour flight away. He’s not a 6-hour drive to the farm. He is simultaneously everywhere in this country and nowhere all at once. Which doesn’t help me in the slightest because none of that puts him where I so desperately need him to be.

Here. With me.

There are things you don’t fully understand as a child. Like why your Dad is adamant you can’t go swimming with your friend across the road. Why he’d prefer that you swim under his watchful eye in the perfectly good pool he just had built and fenced for you. At this point you’re too young to know that a family drowning incident made him hypervigilant about children around water.

There are things you don’t register until you’re older. Like how the air in a room changes as soon as he’s in it. The way people jump to greet him. The silent hopes they can get a handshake or a minute of his time.

It’s not until you yourself start working and mixing with the same people that you hear stories of what he’s done. Respected by name because of his nature. Hard working, fair, humble, honest and smarter than any person you’ve ever met in your 34 years on Earth (and you’ve genuinely met a lot of extremely intelligent people).  

My Dad did business the old school way. If he shook your hand or wrote it down on a napkin, the deal was as good as done. Mum always said that his word was his bond and from all accounts, she was right. Dad didn’t need to see your financials or credentials to know if you were worth the investment. He didn’t need to sit in a boardroom to hash out the details. He just knew. He read a person like he read the land and the sky. Using his eyes and his gut instinct. Neither of which ever steered him wrong. It’s something I always admired.  

But why am I telling you all of this?

Because it’s just what’s on my heart right now and in some ways, it always is. Because when he died I felt like the rug was pulled out from under me. Like my centre of gravity was gone and I was fumbling around looking for something to hold me up. And even though I’ve remembered how to stand again there are so many times I’ve forgotten how to move forward. They are the moments when I crave the safety and comfort and advice of the one man I could always rely on. No matter what. Someone who would only have to say, “I wouldn’t worry about that Jazzy darling” and all my concerns would melt away. Dad never spoke with hidden agenda or ego and he never said anything that wasn’t worth hearing. I trusted him more than I’ve ever trusted any other person in my life and as a result, have felt the absence of his wisdom so heavily these past few months.

So I guess that’s why I’ve been crying a lot. Because I’m in a difficult season of life and it’s showing me once again that the void of a Father can never be filled by anyone or anything else. There is a bond between a Dad and his Daughter that is formed through his quest to become her ultimate protector. His uncompromising attitude towards her safety, the way he opens her doors, him never breaking a promise, him always being on time, him always following through. The way he answers her questions, takes an interest in her work and calls her darling. For my Dad it was all those things plus the simple gestures that showed me how much I meant to him. How he always wore the clothes I bought him. How Mum knew exactly what to iron if he said he was going to wear “Jazzy’s shirt”. The way he proudly introduced me to people as his Daughter. The way he asked for me the day before he died.

In closing I don’t really know what to say. Perhaps because this story of grief never actually ends for me. There will always be a part 3 and 4 and I know that when the time comes, I’ll want to share those chapters with you too. But until you’ve felt what I’ve felt, these will just be words on a screen. You don’t know what it’s like to cry and cry as if all the moisture in your body has turned to tears. And I hope you never do.  

With love, always

J