There’s nothing like putting your hand inside your Dad’s and feeling his entire hand wrap around yours. From my very earliest memory I remember how protected I felt by my Dad. I remember feeling emotions that are described by words that we do not use frequently because they mean something so illusive. I felt cherished. I felt adored. I felt like I belonged. When my Dad engulfed my hand with his it meant I could pursue anything and achieve everything. He quite sincerely believed that I would be successful regardless of the goal.
When his hand gloved mine I would look up into his eyes and his pride shone back at me. It was overwhelming because I had no concept of what I was capable of and, even though I didn’t know it as a child, there was every probability that I would fail eventually. In fact, I did fail many times over but his hand was still encasing mine reassuring me that this was not the perfect opportunity, the right time, the circumstances needed for success and I believed him so I kept on trying. It did not seem to matter if my goal was to get promoted, to live in another country, or to cycle a century, he would look me in the eye and say “I am so proud of you”. My Dad was a working class lad from an industrial city in the north of England and his Dad died in a building accident when my Dad was in his early twenties. He did not have the chance to say goodbye and he was not born of the generation where a son told his Dad that he loved him. My Mum told me it broke his heart. She told me he was not the same again until I was born and I stretched out my hand and he took it protectively in his.
At any age and every age, my Dad held my hand. The physical act became more infrequent as time passed and I no longer lived at home but when I was on the phone needing reassurance or discussing a plan over email, I could feel his hand firmly around mine. When my Dad told me he had been diagnosed with lung cancer he held my hand from afar and said that I was not to come home. He did not say the word “yet” but we both heard it and I squeezed his hand from a distance and respected his wishes. A couple of months later it was time to make that trip and when I walked into his hospital room his face lit up and he proudly introduced me to his nurses and said, “Nic’s here” as if that fixed everything. I realized in that moment that my Dad needed me to hold his hand; a daunting task that required both my hands to shroud his one. I was not ready for this but I could not fail this man I did not want to live without and who believed I was capable of everything.
I sat by his side for two weeks as the body of this big, strong man failed and the periods of sleep grew longer. One morning, he told me he was ready to die and I clung to his hand willing him not to want to leave. Perhaps if I held on tight enough my good health would flow through his hand and stream into his body. Not many days later we moved him the short distance from the hospital to the hospice and with that desire to organize that masks feeling out of control, I unpacked my Dad’s toiletries and spare pajamas before being stricken with the realization that there was not a moment of hand holding to waste. My goal was that my Dad would know that I was right by his side communicating my love by stroking his hand the entire time. As his breathing became more difficult I squeezed his hand and counted him through the tough spells that lasted about thirty seconds but were getting more and more frequent. This lasted for a couple of hours I think and then almost magically his breathing seemed to even out. My hand relaxed a little around his as his breathing became so shallow he could barely be heard. A few moments later I realized that his breathing could not be heard because he was no longer breathing. He had slipped away with his hand tightly encased in mine.
Everything I feared came flooding at me and I wept for the loss of unconditional love, my guiding star, my one true advocate and in the days and weeks that followed I felt the need to fiercely guard him and his memory as if we were under attack. I wanted everyone to know him as I had known him but that was impossible. It took me a while to understand that the power of that love did not stop it merely took a different shape. As time has passed, the rough edges of the pain of losing someone I love and admire so much have smoothed and I have relinquished my hold to allow my Dad’s hand to take back its rightful place, warmly around mine. It gives me strength and determination and it lets me fail without being a failure. There’s nothing like putting your hand inside your Dad’s and feeling his entire hand wrap around yours.
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