Last week around this time I was being prepped to have my womb scraped. Now I am sitting in Ministry of Legal Affairs waiting to register the death of my father.
Oh, what a week....
The journey with my dad has been a love story like none other.
When my eldest brother was conceived some 46 years ago, my dad proudly declared, “If it’s a girl we name her Marsha Loraine Riley.” He then made the same declaration with my two other brothers, waiting patiently on his girl.
Eleven years later, Marsha Loraine Riley was born, and I became the apple of his eye. When my mother said my hair was too difficult to comb, he took over the job. He patiently sat every day combing through the curls. I heard stories of him buying me a new dress every weekend, as a toddler, just to take me for a drive.
I remember asking mum why is it that there were so many pictures of dad and I and so few of us, she confidently responded: “You were HIS child.”
I remember wheezing a lot as a child and having trouble to sleep. Dad would sit up all night on the single couch with me on his lap. The sitting position helped me breathe and therefore sleep. After such a night he would still dress himself for work as though he had the best rest ever.
He never seemed to tire. I genuinely believed he was Superman. I witnessed him save a grocery from being robbed. During the coup, I saw him face to face with a gun, not even a blink of fear in him. I watched him scale a wall in one swift movement and I remember him painting the entire house in a weekend as if it were the size of a tiny apartment.
Every time I straighten the cushions on the sofa at our home, I will remember him. His very particular ways for keeping a house has certainly been passed on.
When he moved in with us five months ago, I did it out of obligation. The Bible called me to honour my parents and so even though my fairy tale childhood was ripped apart in an instant at the hands of one misled young lady, I stepped up to the plate, put all the hurt aside and welcomed him into my home.
Daddy made it his mission to work his way back into my heart and my soul. As my husband said last night, he needed my love and even though change at 70 years old felt impossible, he was willing to do whatever it took.
Even at 35, nothing trumps having your father fight for your love. He seemed to have needed it even more than the air he breathed. None of his amputations seemed more painful than the days I walked past him straight.
In the last two weeks dad and I got so close. I heard “I am sorry” and he heard “I forgive you.” I sat with him every day reading to him, praying with him and helping him through a process of repentance and confession.
What I did not realise is that the restoration was not a fleshly one. God was redeeming him indeed but in a far more lasting way than my mind could have imagined.
I was so confused when he passed in his sleep, but now I know. God wanted me to love him as he was. Not out of pity, not on the days when he was sick and couldn’t speak, but on the days when he spoke hurtful words without even knowing he did, on the days when his personality rubbed mine. He wanted me to love and forgive him unconditionally.
He strongly came into the kitchen the morning he died. He made demands on what he wanted to eat and rather than responding, “listen, this is not the Hyatt,” I complied.
I did his split peas soup, without the provisions. I walked into his room, gave him his soup. He held it strongly. No shaking or weakness as I had gotten used to. He ate it all, then leaned back onto his pillow, took a nap and never woke up. He never hurled in pain, he didn’t even seem to know.
Food was always daddy’s love language. I know in my heart that serving him a meal in such a specific way as he asked, was our last moment of love together.
I held his hands as it turned from warm to cold. I am eternally grateful that God gave you the health to come home from the hospital, so that your last two weeks were spent creating final memories of love.
To anyone out there with a rift in their family. I can’t say what it feels like to have someone go without making amends, but I can certainly say how it feels to know peace was made and I implore everyone reading this to make that peace with those you need to.
None of us knows when we will breathe our last breath.
I am eternally grateful that I can lay my daddy to rest knowing that God not only redeemed his soul but redeemed our love. A love that will live on in my heart for as long as I walk this earth.
Daddy, I know you are reading this in heaven. I love you and I am so proud to have been called your daughter.
The funeral service for the late Peter Denis Riley takes place on Saturday, 27 October, from 8 am at the St Patrick’s RC Church, Marval Road, Newtown, followed by cremation at the St James Crematorium, St James, at 11 am.