Touch (part 1)

Where do I start with this subject? My initial hesitancy about it tells me a lot. Okay, when caring for someone, touch is an important and routine part of your day. Sometimes I have to help dad sit up or stand up. I have to put his socks and shoes on as he struggles to bend down. He needs me to help him with his shirt buttons. At times, I need to help with his catheter night bag. [I don't get involved with any catheter issues above his knees.] There is a lot of touch involved. He does not like it. He needs me and others to help him but he always flinches and scowls when we touch him. He obviously did not grow up with any helpful, kind or positive touch.

So in turn, he did not hug me or touch me much as a child, maybe a pat on my shoulder would suffice for him. My Mum did hug me, gave me cuddles and comforted me when I fell. Thank goodness she did because we all know how important positive touch is for a child. But I think that lack he showed affected me. Surely it had to have done.

[Interestingly, my husband on the other hand grew up in a family who all showered each other with affection and love. That was very different to my family but when I first met them in my teens, I welcomed their affection with open arms as if I had been craving it all my childhood.]

A classic example of my dad's behaviour was when I was about six or seven. We lived in a double storey house that had bottle green concrete stairs. I had been playing school in the upstairs room teaching my dolls and toys the latest maths lesson I had learnt in school that day and dad shouted for me to come downstairs as we were going out. Problem was, I had not finished the lesson yet so I continued playing. The shouts from downstairs got louder and angrier. I apologised to my 'students' and told them we would have to finish another day and I nervously stood on the top step as I knew I would probably get a hiding for not coming straight away.

I took a step and I tripped as I did, my little body rolled into a ball and I somersaulted down these hard, unforgiving bottle green concrete stairs. The staircase had two turns in it, so I banged into the walls on two occasions on my trip down the stairs. I then flew across the parqueted hallway and banged my head on the front door frame. That impact forced me to slide into the middle of the hall. I had either closed my eyes in terror at the start of the fall or I had knocked myself out on the way down so when I eventually came to a stop, everything was dark. I waited for what seemed like a few minutes before gingerly opening my eyes. I remembered and realised that I was probably in for a hiding for not listening to him.

As I was lying on the parqueted floor spreadeagled like a starfish, I looked up and standing filling the lounge doorway was my dad staring back at me. His face was still flushed with rage. He had been there the whole time and had seen it all. I did not move. He asked in a matter of fact voice if I was okay. I said I had hurt my little finger. I think that had been squashed en route. Nevermind the rest of me. I did not want to make too big a fuss as I was still scared of what was going to happen to me. He told me to get up off the floor and we went out. A sigh of relief escaped my little bruised and shocked body. I had escaped a beating. Obviously I would not recommend anyone somersault down the stairs to do that though.