It was an emotional journey returning to a place of so many good and painful memories of childhood, reconnecting with friends of my parents and hearing all the good stories and having to live a lie, having to make up a fake and happy family dynamic with my father. I remember travelling to see him after getting off the plane and he was lying in the bed at the hospital and we just looked at each other without speaking. I remember him telling me he was glad I came, and then he just spent long periods of time sleeping and a strong sense of calm. I don’t remember how long I would travel up to the hospital to see him but it was probably only a couple of weeks after I got there and once I arrived it was clear he wasn’t leaving the hospital and over the next couple of days his condition deteriorated rapidly.
I remember just sitting there when I visited and he would drift in and out and smile when he saw me, a couple of times I would make the trip with some of his friends but it was painful for them to see him like that. The great and heroic footballer that they had idolised so frail and dying. The day before he died he woke up and looked and me and started to apologise and I knew what he was going to say and I couldn’t bear it, I couldn’t have that conversation, I couldn’t have him say the words out loud because for me I knew once he had confused and put spoken the words I would never survive and my protective shield would not serve its purpose. I just stopped him before he could continue and told him that it didn’t matter and it would be okay and to just go to sleep and I told him to just let go and that everything would be okay. He died that night and part of me died with him, I thought the pain and suffering would be over when I was finally free from him in the real world but I was so wrong, it lasted a lifetime.
