I was your first baby girl. I remember everyone would tell you that I looked just like you, and you would swear onto every God that I didn't. When mum first told me this story, I thought it was because you were ashamed to have a kid like me. I'll admit that I was wrong; you were just trying to protect my femininity, because you didn't feel like I'd want people saying I looked like a man - my father - when I was older. I appreciate that, even though I would never take offence to being called my father's daughter anyways.
Why? Because you're strong, amazingly strong, and you raised kids that weren't even yours out of the goodness of your heart. You and mum are happy, I think, albeit petty arguments here and there. You used to be the sole income of the family. Isn't that just great? 10 people in a household, too small for the amount of things going on, and you financed it all. I can't believe someone like you, a man who didn't even go to college, made living for us easy. Even with my mental illnesses (which, even though you think I don't know, put us thousands of dollars in debt from hospital care to medication,) you gave up yourself to feed our hungry mouths and to clothe our bodies.
I'm so sorry. I'm sorry that everything you tried to do, tried to give us, from Black Fridays to Christmases, and Birthdays to Graduations, made you sick. I'm sorry that having to hospitalise your daughter because she tried to off herself so many times caused you stress. I'm sorry that you now don't have enough money to pay medical bills. And I'm sorry you're dying.
I'm sorry because even though this is how the world works, I can't get it wrapped around my head that my dad - the man who taught me to ride bikes, the man that bought me my first car, the man that taught me how to drive said car even though I so urgently insisted that I didn't know a stick shift - is going to be leaving me. Everyone tells me it's okay, that 'God Has A Plan For You And Your Father' but the only plan I wanted that involved you was you walking me down the aisle and being able to share my child's first memory, especially since I will be able to have children when I choose to, now. I wanted to introduce my future spouse to you, and I wanted you to meet my online friends and it sucks.
It sucks because I feel so so selfish, I feel selfish that even though it's YOU that is dying, I still feel like the world has personally wronged me. And I'm being unfair. Yesterday you told me that when you saw me after birth that I was so so small, born at the high witching hour of three AM. I had a full head of hair and you just fell in love with me, your little girl. And I was the closest to you. I went to you for everything instead of my mum. Whether it was my first menstrual cycle to the day I lost my virginity.
I can only hope that even though we argued a lot that I can change things now. Our time is limited, I know. But I'll make things right. I don't know how, just yet. But what I do know is that very soon I'll be going to college, and very soon I will make sure that you'll be proud. I want you to see me how I see you. Perfectly strong, confident, unwavering.
Today, as I was talking to my teacher in Chemistry. Often this last class of the day turns into a discussion class instead of the learning we should be doing. I yearn to hear the opinions of others either way, so I do not mind. My peers and classmates brought up death of a loved one and how that affects others. Sometimes you get people in my class that will argue and not have the same opinion, but today. Today, on November the 8th, we came to just one opinion, altogether; death is an incredibly agitating and saddening thing.
I will say this: while death is discouraging and desolate thing, it's also a way of life. This does not make it easier, in fact I must say it makes it even harder. I find it is harder most because I feel I cannot change how the world works. And no matter how I may try, you are of old age, and I cannot change that you will die. Regardless of this, I will make sure that I visit you everyday in the hospice. (As a matter of fact, I've just returned from you now.)
I also promise that I will acheive my dreams, and I will take care of your younger children. I'll make sure Mum eats every day. Right now I feel fragile, as if instead of being an adult, I am just a little girl. My therapist, Dr. Duncan, told me this is natural. I'll cut this message short, not because I do not want to write more - as a matter of fact, I want to write the whole world in this little space - but because my eyes are slightly misty, and I've already cried twice during writing this.
I love you, dad. Never forget my promise to you, or the love your family has for you.