On 29th May 1974, I was born at 9.25pm after a hideous and drawn-out forceps birth.
Today I turn 43.
On 29th May 1993, my Dad died at 9.25am, on my 19th birthday, after a hideous and drawn-out cancer ridden illness.
He was 43.
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I am now the age my Dad was when he died. I have no idea how to feel about this except for having ALL of the feels:
- I'm upset
- I'm angry
- I'm annoyed
- I'm pissed off
- I'm sad
- I'm devasted
- I'm thankful
- I'm pleased
- I'm motivated
- I'm depressed
- I'm thinking 'fuck you world'
- I'm thinking 'holy fuck world wahoo I'm still here'
- I'm happy
- I can't believe it
- I'm saying 'WTF' and 'WOW'
- at the same time.
Maybe I'm just being a normal complex human. I maybe thought that I'd die at 43 so didn't give a fuck - which has now left me fat and annoyed and ALIVE!! 'Sake.
Or maybe I'm just trying to process the sheer devastation of losing a parent to a hideous illness before having had a chance to process becoming an adult myself.
I was raped when I was 17, just as Dad was diagnosed terminal, and I wasn't really sure what an adult was or did but I was forced to become acquainted pretty fucking quick! I made sure my Mum, Dad and Sis never knew what had happened to me. I thought it would break them to have to deal with this too so it was best to keep it to myself. I also thought it would take attention away from Dad and he was actually dying. I was not dying!
I became a young carer and helped my amazing #MamaRaw as much as I could. I learned to empty catheters, administer morphine and transport a 200lb man, in a plastic carry harness, from a commode into a stairlift and then into another commode. Me and #MamaRaw definitely didn't ever drop Dad cos of laughing too much and needing to piss. Definitely not. We also never, ever, caught his balls on the plastic 'lifting harness', nope not at all, definitely not.
I had no idea how young '43' was when I was 19.
I organised a lot of the funeral arrangements - #MamaRaw had lost her soulmate, and my wee sis had lost her best pal and partner in crime. It was the least I could do. I took over as 'protector' and 'person to phone'. It was cathartic for me as I felt I had a job, a reason for being and could actually 'DO' something to detract from everything else. I continued in this role for quite some time. Although I'm the drama queen of the family, I'm a fucking good shout in an emergency, FYI!
I supported Baby Raw and Mama Raw back then and they held me up when I went through my marriage collapse, breakdown and bankruptcy years later. That's what amazing and close families do and I'm so lucky to be part of one. When one is strong they hold up the others. The roles just keep switching as time goes on.
Papa Raw left many legacies/shitaches:
- Never trust a fart
- Always get a full bottle of whisky before agreeing to fix a bread bin
- A cunt will always be a cunt
- If asked to behave at an event, don't
- If asked to not embarrass a child at any time, do
- Support the ladder you built into the loft so folks don't fall
- Tell people, asking stupid questions that make no sense, to fuck off
- Follow the instructions when building the 'twatting' Sindy House
- 'but Dad, he says I'm a mong and ugly' 'tell him to fuck off and give him my phone number'
- 'Dad, please don't pick me up outside the venue, park round the corner' OKAY 'picks up outside of venue, right outside, wearing deer stalker hat and superman cape
My Dad was mostly a cunt and he was fucking ace.
43:19:93
