My father had a good six months, although he had spells were he was readmitted to hospital because of complications. It was on one of these stays in hospital that he was told his cancer had returned. I never really believed it had left him, but now it was in his lungs and there was nothing anyone could do. A few short months later he returned to hospital in great pain, but he never admitted that. He always put on a brave face. He came home for a couple of days and was then admitted to a hospice where he probably had the best ten days of his life since the diagnosis of cancer.
We saw him regularly every night. He was so proud to have the care and commitment of the staff there. He put his little gadget to his neck and pointed to one of the many pots of tea he had had that day. ‘They treat you like royalty,’ he said. ‘I can have as much tea as I like, it’s fantastic.’ He looked so peaceful that day, the staff had managed his pain relief and for once in such a long time he looked well, if that’s possible. Two days later, he slipped into a coma. I kept a vigil by his bedside, spending nights there, sitting with Carolyn and Robert watching him die, the last tiny draughts of breath drifting out of him. It was at that moment that I began recalling the events in my childhood, events that he had caused and witnessed. I talked to him silently so that the others would not hear.
‘Why, Dad? Why did you do it? Why did you not stop? Why did you not help me by keeping me safe from Bill? Why didn’t you talk to him, tell him what you knew, tell him to leave your daughter alone?’
I sat there listening to the pump click the next shot of morphine into him, knowing that he could die at any moment. Once my sister and brother had left the room to go and get a drink, I stood next to my father’s bedside, talking to him in a gentle whisper.
‘Why, Dad? I hate you for what you have done to me. You could have stopped Bill, but you didn’t. You could have stopped touching me when I asked you to but you didn’t. You stole my life, and cancer is paying you back.’
Within seconds, I was trying to claw the words back, trying to push them back into my breath. I sat at the side of the bed, leaned over him, kissed him gently on his forehead and apologised for what I had said. ‘I’m sorry, Dad. I don’t want to lose you. Please don’t go.’
That morning, six days after falling into a coma, he died. My father had gone, and so had his guilt and shame.
After sitting and writing, recapturing all that has happened to me, I have to admit that at first when I actually read it out loud it all seemed so unbelievable. How could three men contribute to the destruction of a life so young? And do it without a care in the world.
I know that what happened to me is nothing new. And I know only too well it will continue to happen regardless of what I write. I just wish that one day the adults who prey on children will, just for a split second, stop and think about the effect they have on that child’s life.
Children have voices; voices speak, making words that should always be listened to.
If I had succeeded when I was fourteen with my suicide attempt, I would not have discovered the people who are important to me, the people who can still love a broken, traumatised person and nurture, mend and tend their scars enough that they become whole again. My life is now full to overflowing with people who love me. I have a wonderful family, amazing sons and an astonishing husband.
I have a sister who has not only been a sister to me but a best friend. Without her, some of the years I have faced would truly have been unbearable. My family is full of people who care very deeply about me and have shown me immense love. It is through them that my strength has grown enough to face all the demons that were hiding in my box.
They have been given their eviction orders.
I hope that this book helps others who, like me, will gain their own immense strength to stand up and say: ‘Stop. No more. This life belongs to me.’
Acknowledgements
MY DEEPEST GRATITUDE goes to my husband, a wonderful man who for the past twenty years has been my shoulder, my strength and my saviour. There were many nights through all of this when he gave me space alone to write. If he heard the computer keyboard being energetically tapped, he would go off and do other things, quite often at two or three in the morning. But no matter what time it was he always kept me topped up with fresh cups of tea at regular intervals!
If it weren’t for your encouragement and belief in me as an individual, I don’t think I would have ever become the strong person that I am today. You are truly a miracle for me: I feel blessed that you have opened up your life to become a part of mine, sharing each and every wonderful moment with me and our boys.
I love you forever.
I would also like to thank my boys. Without them, my life would have been so unfulfilled. They each have brought exceptional, precious moments that I have cherished and put in my memory box to treasure forever. You have all become such remarkable young men. Every minute of every day I truly have been blessed to be your mum. Thank you.
Thirdly, I would like to thank the other people, both family and friends, who have made memories with me that have left me aching with so much laughter inside I thought I would explode. Each one of the memories we made together added strength to my heart. Each one of you are extraordinary: my in-laws, my sister and my special friends, M-L, D, G and J, K, and S. I have been so privileged to be a part of your lives. Thank you all for all your blessings. I hope other people are as blessed by you all as I have truly been.
Finally, to Mum, remember one thing: I’ll always love you.
About the Author
SARAH PRESTON spent her childhood at the mercy of abusers, but through love has put her life back together. She now has a successful career and a wonderful family.
Copyright
Published by John Blake Publishing Ltd,
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First published in paperback in 2008
ISBN: 978 1 84454 537 7
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Sarah's Story Page 11
