A Father's Day Letter: Vicky Phelan writes to her dad about how cancer made them closer
Vicky Phelan and her dad, John Kelly.
Dear Dad,
Cancer may very well be what kills me and takes me from this life far too early, but it has given me two things, which I am so very grateful for: A love and appreciation of life and really living for the moment, and the courage to openly express my love for the people who mean the most to me,
including you, Dad.
While we were always close, Dad, these past few years of living with my cancer have brought us closer. Time has become precious and we don’t waste a single drop! Sometimes, we don’t even exchange a word. Like the day you drove me in for one of my chemotherapy sessions. I drifted in and out of sleep all day, while hooked up to the drugs. You just sat there, rubbing my hand or my head. It reminded me of those weeks in France following my car accident, when you sat with me while I drifted in and out of an induced coma. You kept talking to me and rubbing my hand, willing me to live. I just needed to know that you were there to feel safe and loved.
This journey has been no different, Dad. You are always there for me when I need you and even when I don’t. Being a dad doesn’t stop when your kids leave the nest and make their own way in life. Being a dad is a badge that you wear with pride, always. I am so privileged and grateful that you are MY dad and that my cancer journey has emboldened me to tell you, and show you, how much I love you while I am still here. Love is what brought me into this world and it will be love that will help me to leave this world when my time comes.
I love you, Dad. Happy Father’s Day!
Love Always,
Vicky
Dear Dad,
If Carlsberg made fathers, you’d probably be the best.
When invited to write this letter, I immediately turned to my sisters for their input and we had a raucous online chat, sharing individual and group memories from our collective childhoods. As the middle child, I’m sandwiched between two very strong-minded women, one
a solo parent, the other a widow, who still rely on
support from my parents, as do I.
Growing up, ours was the house that had all the sleepovers. Cousins, friends, exchange students: All were welcomed and enfolded into the Burke clan. I love you both for the fact that when it came to our home, every child was equal and I think I speak for all my cousins on that one. When they stayed with us on the weekends, they were one of us, like
another sister or brother. It helped the three of us learn to do the same for our children and gave us the blueprint for parenting. It also helped give me the tools to be a dad.
Growing up, Sandycove, Killiney Hill, and Cabinteely Park were an extension of our back garden and, later, Greystones and its environs. We did road trips around every byroad, with picnics in the middle of nowhere and adventure and fun around every corner. Because of your ability with motors, Da, I still love to tinker with cars. To this day, it’s not unusual to find us under the bonnet of something with four tyres, as we try and resurrect it from the dead, together.
That’s the thing. You’ve
always used your head in order to use your hands: Building bunk beds, an assault course from pallets in the back garden for one of my birthdays (definitely one of the best birthdays ever!), block sheds, and, eventually, your own home. You’ve taught me not to be afraid of power tools and to give DIY a go. I think Aleesha got the painting and carpentry skills and Jess got your perfectionist streak. You were always logical and seldom angry. I know this because, as a kid, I liked smashing noises; those smashing noises were usually me breaking up something that belonged to you, but always you had the spin: “He likes to see how things work.” “If all else fails, he will have a fantastic job in demolition,” you’d say.
You and Mam worked so very hard to give us all the things we dreamed of: Horse riding, tennis, music and dancing lessons; we were in every club and activity possible. The crowning thing, of course, for me, was being sent to drama lessons. That’s where my world opened up and, unbeknownst to us all, where my adult path was set.
You always made our time together so special. You and Mam filled my head with stories of wonder. The old flight bomber jacket in the wardrobe with a hole in it was a reminder of when you and Mam both were shot down by enemies over the Amazon jungle and you took a bullet to the chest, so Mam (all eight stone of her) had to carry you on her back for days. After that ordeal, you were chased by a tribe of headhunters and that’s how you ended up with the spears (I cringe now, as I believe they were family heirlooms) that my cousin Tom and I used to throw at each other out the back. The stories had evidence, so they had to be true. So true, in fact, that I used to regale my pals in primary school with them. We wonder why they all thought I was weird.
I love that my childhood has so vividly coloured my adult life and that I get to enjoy such a strong adult
relationship with you. Also, witnessing the relationship you have with your grandkids is amazing. The mutual admiration club is fully paid up and they, like each of your children, know that they have the best cheerleaders in their corner. I know you’d give your last cent, your right eye, and all that you have for each of us and I’m so proud to try and follow in your footsteps. My Dad. My hero. Des the ledge.
Love you,
Your blonde bomber x
Babies, it’s Daddy.
For Father’s Day this year, I’ve decided to subvert the tradition where fathers receive gifts, and will, instead, impart this to you, my boys. At nine and seven years of age, I expect your aptitude to be proficient enough to read this, or, at least, for your mother to read it to you.
The prospect of becoming a father terrified me. To be honest, it still does. When your mother told me she was pregnant, I panicked. How could I become a father when I was clearly an idiot? Thankfully, as you have learned, anyone can become a parent — especially idiots.
When baby Matthew finally arrived, you were the most beautiful addition to our little family. You were an easy going, fun-loving little blob. You loved your feed and you loved your sleep. Just like daddy. You were beautiful, too, like your mother.
This joyous first-baby experience lulled us into a false sense of security and, in the midst of this bliss, we rashly decided to go again, and were “blessed” with you, Andrew. Bliss and joy eluded us in your early years, however. God gave you a forceful personality, like your mama. And in the early days, you weren’t especially good-looking, either. Just like Daddy.
But in spite of my involvement, you’ve both grown into amazing young men. Kind, talented, gorgeous, caring, daft, hilarious, brilliant, silly, and smelly. As I tell you every day, you’re two of my very favourite humans, and although this was intended for you, really, I got the best Father’s Day present I could hope for.
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