It was four years ago that we found out about the cancer growing inside you. You called me and soberly told me the news – that it had already spread, that you didn’t know how long you had left. I was still at university. A parent dying was something that happened to other people, older people. I spent the first few months in shock. My precocious but naive self had always, up until then, assumed I’d always have the ability to control every problem that might come my way. But for the first time I felt powerless. I wished I could just reach into you and take the cancer out. But I knew there was nothing I could do.
We’ve been lucky. You responded well to treatment and you’re still here, though we don’t know for how much longer.
Though we’ve often talked about the cancer and what it means, in all our discussions over the past four years I’ve never been able to say what I really want to say. I’ve always wanted to say that I love you, and that I’m grateful for everything you’ve given me.
But I can’t. The words won’t come. It feels like there’s this unwritten rule in our father-son relationship that prevents it. You’re a man of a certain age, conservative and guarded with your emotions. You keep your feelings to yourself and expect others to do the same.
But I know you care. I’ve seen your proud looks when I’ve told you about my achievements at work and school over the years. I’ve seen your concern when things haven’t gone well. I remember all the offers of help.
You have always been the one person in my life I can count on. And despite our inability to put emotions into words, you have always been the first person I’ve come to when I’ve needed help.
I remember when I came back from working in Africa and I broke down in tears in front of you. I’d been back for several days and spoken to other people about my experiences, but something deep inside was waiting for me to be with you before I could let it all out.
I remember that while my mother and your ex-wife spent most of my childhood writing me off, you nurtured the potential in me. I remember all the times she kicked me out of her home for this or that imagined infraction, and you would always take me in – no questions asked.
You’ve taught me to believe in myself. You have showed me there are people in life who I can rely on. These lessons have made me resilient and they’ve allowed me to see the best in the world. They will stay with me even when you’re gone.
I’m getting married soon and I’m so glad you’ll be here to see that. I hope you’ll meet your grandchildren as well. I hope I can be as good a father to them as you were to me.
I wish we could talk about what I know we mean to each other. I wish I could tell you I love you and you could tell me you’re proud. I wish these absurd notions of masculinity weren’t so deeply ingrained in both of us. Maybe we will still see our way to that conversation before you go. But whatever the case, I just needed to say it – I love you, and thank you.
Yours,
Your son
