Take my hand

One of my earliest memories is when I was two or three years old. My dad and I drove to the shops and he would park up across the road from the shop. He would open the door on the roadside for me to get out. I did so and he had trained me to 'stick' to the side of the car until he had locked it. I remember trying to keep my back touching the body of the car and finding that difficult to do. But it was a very busy road with lorries and buses and I also remember being terrified of being squashed by those huge tyres if I moved the slightest bit. Now, you are probably wondering why he did not park on the shop side of the street or let me out of the passenger side when he was ready but it was my dad and 'ours is not to reason why'.

He would then tell me to take his hand and we would hurriedly rush across this big wide busy road. Well, I think I was dragged as my little legs were not fast enough to keep up with his rushing. But at least he had hold of my hand. I have always wondered why this memory has stuck fast in my mind. My Mum used to take me shopping there too but I have no such memories of her. I wonder if it was the fact that I was petrified of the whole situation - being with him on my own, scary traffic, etc. I felt safe as he had my hand, yet I was also overcome with fear. But that was my dad's version of keeping me safe and it continued throughout my childhood.

I realised very early on that there were different versions of feeling safe. When I was with my Mum on our own, I felt completely safe and secure knowing that she would protect me under any circumstances. Unfortunately the same could not be said for when he was around. But on her own my Mum was the bravest and fiercest woman I have ever met.

Thinking about it, that busy road experience is probably the first and last time I can remember ever feeling safe-ish around my dad. There are numerous experiences over the years where he did not keep me safe. He was always too wrapped up in his own world. One such incident was on a beautiful beach when I was about thirteen. We were on holiday with one of my friends and my friend was poorly so my Mum stayed home to care for her but sent my dad to look after me. I was not too happy about it. Firstly, he was never a cool beach Dad, playing and having fun with his child in the sea. No, he would sit engrossed in his book, blissfully unaware of anyone or anything around him.

Secondly, he could not swim. My Mum was a really strong swimmer as she had grown up at the beach but my dad had never learnt to swim. So I did not hold out much hope for myself if I got into difficulty in the sea. The waves were large and the current was strong but I was determined to have fun so out I went and swiftly got brought back into shore by the sea. I did not return to the beach gracefully. Oh no, the current rolled me into a ball like shape and somersaulted me back to the shore.

In the midst of this turmoil, I peeked and saw quick recurring flashes of the sun, sea, sun, sea. And then the ocean dumped me face down into the sand. It was all dark and for a second I thought I had died with half the ocean in my lungs. But then I heard the wonderful sound of children playing and the waves breaking and I realised I was still alive...just.

I lay there coughing and spluttering for a while, trying to wipe the sand out of my eyes as I searched for the person who should have been watching out for me and keeping me safe. I was still disorientated but eventually I was able to get up and stagger in his direction. I needed someone to tell me I was okay. I found him, his pale skin blaring in the sun. His attention was unsurprisingly focussed on the pages of his book. In fact, he did not even glance up when this drenched, spluttering, sand covered creature spoke to him. It was as if I did not exist. I told him what had just happened and without looking at me, he just said 'oh'. He had no interest in what had happened to me. I yearned for my Mum. She would have cared.

I think I had always known he did not care but that day sealed it in my mind. He was incapable of empathy. When we got home I told my Mum and she was horrified. That put pay to me being allowed back on the beach again until my friend was better and my Mum could be there for us. I was disappointed but also relieved. I had one of my many near misses that day.

Back to the present day, now I have to care for him. How does that sit with me? Well, the name of this blog rings true. I am the unwilling carer. But I will still do everything I can to keep him safe. I never want anyone to feel the lack of empathy and care that was bestowed upon me by him. I hope he knows that if he needs it he can always take my hand.