Some of you may have seen my twitter post, about how I wouldn’t be around for a bit because my stepfather had passed away. Someone told me I shouldn’t make it public, that it really has nothing to do with anyone, but I thought it’s an important time for me and I wanted to share my experience. I’m sure there are a lot of people who share those feelings too.
I actually received a very heartwarming email today, not about this, but someone who had read one of my blog posts and felt they connected with me on some level with me. This made me really happy, because although some of the posts are a little silly, some are also serious and I’m glad people enjoy them.
It wasn’t until this past month or so that I’ve ever had someone really close to me pass away. My step-grandma died at the start of the year, and although I loved her dearly and I have great memories of her, she had dementia for a long time. The last few times I visited her, she thought I was one of her friends from highschool. It was sad that she didn’t recognise me, but she did remember me. She would sit for ages and tell me about her beautiful grandchildren. My sister and I aren’t related to her, but we’re all family. She told me stories about her “little Ettie” and I realised in her head I was still only 8 or 9 years old. It was cute and sad and I didn’t visit much after because soon she stopped recognising anyone and only wanted to see her husband who had died 46 years previously.
In a way, my grandma as I knew her died years before. Because the lady I saw then didn’t know me, we couldn’t share our inside jokes about how we ate cookies without telling my mum, or ponder what happened to the bird we once rescued. Instead here was a lady who missed a child she would never see again. When she passed away I felt a kind of detachment about her death. I missed her, but I had been missing her for years. I don’t believe in heaven but I think if there is one, she’ll be there with her husband who she never stopped loving.
My stepfather is a little different. I haven’t seen much of him in the past year. When I first met him he was this strange white man my mum told me to call dad. He never wanted children and I never really understood what a father was meant to do. But we ended up becoming just that, father and daughter. And he was a great father. He was always so proud of me, so confident that I would be a great person. He accepted anything I wanted to do, any ideals I had, even if he didn’t share them himself. I remember joking about being an escort to him once recently, and he told me that it was dangerous. But if I really wanted to do it, I’d be the best one ever. Does that sound creepy? He just had a lot of faith in me. He never knew I had become a camgirl, the topic never came up, but I know he wouldn’t disapprove either. He’d just want me to make sure I was a “damned good one”.
Is that a sad picture I’ve painted? I’m not sad. My dad was a wonderful guy, and like my grandma, only reaffirmed my belief that true love exists. Because he truly loved my mother. He didn’t accept them, but he still accepted that he loved her. He loved my sister and I as if we were his own, and he spoiled us and protected us and tried to do everything a father is meant to do.
I don’t know what the “stages” of grief are meant to be. I guess the closest thing I can think is that maybe I’m in denial. A part of me keeps thinking “oh I should give dad a call today.” and then I remember that now I can’t because he isn’t there to pick up the phone. I guess that’s the biggest impact I’ve had from this, realising he isn’t at the end of the phone anymore.
Thank you for reading this. I’m not sure I should have written it or not, because this is the first time I’ve been able to cry since his passing. Weird how these things work.