When you lose someone who wasn’t well liked, it makes your grief journey so much more difficult. Let me try to explain.
My dad did some horrific things to people I love. He may have even done them to me. If he did, I have no memory of it. My dad was a child molester. Although he never admitted it, and never confessed his guilt to anyone, we all knew he was guilty.
As a result of his crimes, no one in the family spoke to him. He had pretty much been disowned by everyone. He lived out his final years alone in his house. My Mother passed in 2015, after suffering from Alzheimer’s. Even before her diagnosis, she never believed the allegations against him. Once she was gone, he was by himself.
Towards the end of his life, I tried to stay in contact with him. I wouldn’t initiate the phone calls, but if he called, I would call him back. I’d say the last three years of his life, I spoke to him maybe 3-4 times a year. I know that must sound horrible, but that was our reality. The last year of his life, I did speak to him more frequently, and saw him a few times.
My biggest fear, was that he would die alone in his house, and no one would know. I didn’t want that to happen. Unfortunately, that’s exactly what transpired.
The last time I saw my dad, a few weeks before his death; he was in poor health. I tried to get him to go see a doctor, but he refused. I stocked his house with groceries, as he was no longer able to shop for himself. He looked very frail, and he was in pain. As I left his house on that final visit, the thought crossed my mind that I may not see him alive again. I was correct.
My dad passed away alone in that house. He would not be found until I flew back and had police go to the house to check on him. He’d been deceased for several weeks.
I know he did terrible things, but he was still my father. It still hurts that he’s gone. It hurts that he died alone in that house, and his body was decomposing on the floor for weeks.
No one wants to hear that though. No one in my family cares that he’s dead. I can’t talk about my feelings with them, because they’re all happy he’s no longer here.
But they weren’t there in his last days, like I was. They didn’t see the broken shell of a man, that I saw. They didn’t see how frail he was, or how his clothes looked way too big on him, because he’d lost so much weight. They didn’t see how disheveled he looked, or how long his hair was, because he could no longer drive to the barbershop. They didn’t hear him crying out in pain, because he had (what I suspect) was an infected diabetic ulcer on the bottom of his foot. They didn’t see his painfully swollen legs, that were draining putrid fluid because he had lymphedema. He was a walking skeleton. His house was in shambles. Yet he refused help. He didn’t want me to clean up the house for him, he didn’t want to see a doctor. The only thing he asked of me was to buy him some food, and to get his mail from the post office. They didn’t see how tragic his life had become.
And no one was there when the police found his body inside the house. No one was there when the Medical Examiner wheeled the gurney past me, to the awaiting hearse. Even though his body was encased in a plastic body bag, I could still smell the stench of his decaying corpse. No one experienced that, except me.
Maybe if they’d seen what I saw, they’d understand how much it hurt me to see him like that. Maybe they’d understand how I had to help him, because no one else would. Because no matter what he did, he was still my dad, and I still loved him. I didn’t like him, but I still loved him, the way a daughter loves her father.
It’s been extremely difficult trying to grieve for someone, who everyone else hates. No one feels the way I do. I’m left to try to get through this by myself. This is much more difficult than I thought it would be.
