Member-only story
Today will be the last time my father dies
…and by my reckoning, his fourth.
Right now, I’m meant to be 422 KM (266 miles) further south, visiting my dying father in the hospital in which I was born. However, at 4:53 AM this morning, just as I was rising early to make the drive, I received a text from my father’s second wife: “He has gone”.
The first time the words “He has gone” were appropriate, were shortly before my ninth birthday. My mother turned into a fierce lioness, expelling my father from the family home because of sexual abuse revelations. I didn’t understand what I had seen, nor the ramifications of my whistleblowing.
The second time my father died was all in my mind, a metaphorical assassination based on deep, justified anger I had never experienced before. My sister had rung me one evening and we spoke until dawn. I recalled details I had suppressed. I finally reorganized my childhood memories as an adult. I had several truth responses, causing my face to erupt in pins and needles several times.
The third time was in a courthouse, where a sad old dejected figure pleaded guilty to sexual abuse some thirty-three years prior. My sister and I were asked if we would like name suppression, and we said no. We both want this story to be told. A story where secrets, previously a foundation of power, are shared…