Grieving my Father

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On the morning of the 2nd of March 2021 my father, Antony George Foord, died at home of cancer. Prostate cancer which had spread to his bones and chest. He was due to be moved to a nursing home that morning. I went to see him the night before and told him I loved him and that I didn't want to say goodbye and that I'd miss him. He was lucid but couldn't speak. Such a lot is now done and gone.

I remember family holidays in Wales where the sun shone and we played on golden beaches and raced snails with strangers on the campsite. I remember a holiday in Wales where it rained ever day and we huddled in the caravan and a hurricane blew the awning away. I remember his love for engineering and visiting the Dinorwig power station inside a mountain. I remember fatherly love and idolising him for most of my life.

But I also remember being so unhappy in his house and under his rule, with no way out, so desperate to escape. I remember him throwing me out of the family home and then choosing to send me to prison when I was homeless. So complicated feelings. He didn't think men should have feelings I think.

Not many years before he died he said something to me which explained the difference between his religion and mine. "I didn't know you were supposed to experience God" he said. 

That distance never really faded and he didn't want to talk about the difficult stuff and I don't really do not talking about things. I was reconciled to him as best as I could and I'm at peace and I hope he is too.

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes Awww!” 

― Jack Kerouac, On the Road

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