The death of my alcoholic father

This isn't a lighthearted post, in fact if you're feeling sensitive then I would recommend you stopped reading.

I am not even sure why I feel the need to publish this but I know that it helps me.

My 54 year old father died on the 24th November from an upper gastrointestinal bleed caused by alcoholic liver failure.

20th March 2010

The details are horrific, as was the state I found him in at 10pm on the Wednesday night when I made the trip to Manchester to see him. He was in so much pain that he couldn't keep himself still. It was a struggle to talk and he was shaking so much it rattled the bed against the apparatus around. He was only being given paracetamol at this point. I, along with my auntie, his youngest sister, made it our mission to get him pain free and calm. By 5am he was able to sleep, the first time in 48 hours apparently.

What then followed was a three day vigil by his bedside whilst he slowly slipped away from this world.

None of it was pretty, nor did it look comfortable for him. I have since read that dying from alcoholic liver disease is one of the worst deaths a person could experience.

I am not sure I can ever touch an alcoholic drink again.

As many people unfortunately do know, having an alcoholic parent generally means an awful lot of heartache. My parents split up when I was 7, due to his drink problem. Even I remember the unpredictable nature of my dad. What time will he come home? How will he be? Will I need to keep out of his way to avoid the wrath of his foul temper or should I revel in his over-the-top happiness?

The inconsistency, the many broken promises and the lies were exceedingly difficult to cope with.

I loved my dad with all my heart and he loved me too. But I had to protect myself from the deep sadness caused by him so when I was 11 I told him I found it too difficult to see him anymore. I actually hoped he would see sense and become a better dad...what actually happened was he gave up on me. And so did his side of the family. I was persona non grata to them. Not all of them I have to say, but I was no longer part of the family and I wasn't allowed to see them anymore.

For years I carried around a deep and painful void. It was so difficult to understand how grown-up's could do that to me.

Over the years I tried to make contact again which was very up and down and always resulted in me pulling back to protect myself. In recent years I have been in touch with some members of the family, especially my youngest auntie who I get along with really well. I have had stages of being in contact with my dad and had even met up with all the family at my brothers wedding. That was amazing for me as it was the first time since I was 11, I had missed them all so much. 

After the wedding, my dad and I had enjoyed better conversations over the phone, this lasted a good few months. Until he upset me considerably on my 30th birthday. Always the birthdays!!!

So I hadn't spoken to my dad for a whole year until I saw him at the hospital. He had tried to though, he didn't stop ringing me, up until about 6 months ago. Which I now know was because he was deteriorating -  badly. He had stopped eating a few weeks ago.

When I knew he was in hospital, I knew this was the end. He had been an alcoholic for 38 years. I suddenly despised alcohol and could see that this disease had wrecked the whole of my dad's life. I was heartbroken. The hope I had held onto all my life was hope no more. I was now never going to be daddy's little girl again, like I had been before he left home. I stayed beside him for the last three days of his life.

I told him that I love him, that I'm sorry and that I forgive him.

His family, my family, have all said such lovely things to me too. The ones who hadn't realised his problem could suddenly see why I found it so difficult. I feel that they no longer blame me.

I have made amends. But now he's gone and it is all too late for him, it is too late for us.

And now the guilt is creeping in. What if I'd have answered his calls, would I have recognised his dwindling health. Would I have driven up with concern to try to get him into hospital? I know he would probably have refused but I keep asking myself these questions and I feel that I have let him down.

Apparently when I first saw the bedsit he had had to move into when my parents first split up I cried my eyes out all the way home as I couldn't bear to see my daddy living like that. When I saw him that Wednesday night with the fear of death in his eyes, my heart ached for him. I wonder if it was a similar feeling to the bedsit situation.

The saddest thing is, I miss sitting by his hospital bed, holding his hand and stroking his hair. I have never felt so close to him in all my life. He couldn't even talk to me though. I even stayed in a recliner chair so I could hold his hand and watch him all through the night.

He did respond to my voice at one stage, and he lifted up his hand when I tried to let go when I needed to nip out the room. Also, on that first night when he could still just about talk, he called for me twice when I left his bedside. I feel so happy that he did these things.

I have such conflicting feelings now. Along with the intense sadness, loss of my dad and loss of hope...my void seems to have been filled in with the amends that were made.