English Original
Growing up at a distance – geographical and emotional – from her chilly father meant Katherine Burdett always doubted his feelings for her. Until his final few days…
By Katherine Burdett
I grew up bereft of hugs. Neither of my parents was the cuddly type. Greetings involving kissing caused me to wince, and hugging generally just made me feel awkward.
Then one hug changed all that. One month before my 40th birthday my dad had heart surgery. As he came round, days later, he grabbed me and hugged me so hard I had to push with all my might to keep my head from pressing down on his newly stitched torso. It was a hug to make up for all those we had never had. Days later as he slowly started to gain strength he told me for the first time ever that he loved me, and through my tears I told him I loved him too.
I began planning how to bake him better – with carrot cakes, victoria sponges, jelly and ice cream. My maternal streak kicked in and I fantasised about wheeling him through the park and feeding him home-made goodies. Then he died.
I felt cheated. All my life I had wondered whether my dad cared for me and loved me – I doubted it. Just as I got proof that he did, he passed away.
My parents split up when I was two years old and, while I had monthly contact with my dad, my bitter stepmother and my father's old-fashioned stiff upper lip meant we never became close. In fact, I used to dread the visits to see him and count the hours until I could go home again.
When I was very little the weekends at my father's house felt cold and unfriendly. During my teens the trips to a hostile house became a dread on the horizon for weeks beforehand. Each stay culminated in an uncomfortable peck on the cheek from Dad as he said goodbye – a moment I cringed about for hours in advance.
And yet standing beside the hospital bed watching the life ebb from my sleeping father was painful. I felt like a little girl at his bedside, unable to talk to him yet again. I became fixated with his fingers – fat and soft, lying gently curled beside him. Slowly they transformed from plump sausages to stone – white and immovable. It was his fingers that told me he had gone from this life, not the bleeping of monitors or the bustling of nursing staff.
Losing a father whom you have no recollection of ever living with is difficult. Grieving is tricky; I didn't have any obvious close father-daughter memories to cling to and mull and cry over. Most of my memories were of stilted meetings and uncomfortable times together. But I desperately missed him being alive.
As time moved on my grief and anger at his untimely death began to recede. I realised that his affirmation of me from his deathbed had filled a gaping hole of insecurity I had constantly carried around.
To a child a hug says so many things. It tells you that the person hugging you loves you, cares for you. A hug also confirms that you are a lovable being. Months after Dad's death I realised with a jolt that his lack of hugs said more about him than me. My father was not a demonstrative man and I was, therefore, perhaps, a lovable being.
Once I digested this insight my feelings changed from those of a needy child to ones of a very proud daughter. Looking at my father more objectively allowed me to view him clearly: he was a man of few words; he was intelligent, kind and extremely modest. Ironically I began to feel closer to him in death than I had while he was alive.
With this new-found wisdom came the freedom to give up trying so very hard to gain the affections of others and to concentrate on finding me. I shattered the family taboo of silence about the break-up of my parents' marriage. I also felt the need to speak out about the detrimental effect I felt my step-parents had had on my life.
In some ways the consequences have been quite dire and I no longer have contact with my mother. However, Dad's hug had a profound effect on me. It carried me along a path from childhood to adulthood. At last I am my own woman and one who loves nothing better than a good old-fashioned hug.
中文翻译
凯瑟琳·伯德特在成长过程中，与冷漠的父亲在地理和情感上都保持着距离，这让她一直怀疑父亲对自己的感情。直到他生命的最后几天……
作者：凯瑟琳·伯德特
我在成长过程中缺乏拥抱。我的父母都不是那种喜欢搂搂抱抱的类型。涉及亲吻的问候会让我畏缩，而拥抱通常只会让我感到尴尬。
然而，一个拥抱改变了一切。在我40岁生日前一个月，我的父亲接受了心脏手术。几天后，当他苏醒过来时，他抓住我，紧紧地拥抱我，我不得不使出全身力气推着，以免我的头压在他刚缝合好的躯干上。这是一个弥补了我们从未有过的所有拥抱的拥抱。几天后，当他慢慢开始恢复体力时，他第一次告诉我他爱我，我含着泪告诉他我也爱他。
我开始计划如何用烘焙让他好起来——胡萝卜蛋糕、维多利亚海绵蛋糕、果冻和冰淇淋。我的母性本能被激发出来，我幻想着推着他在公园里散步，喂他吃自制的点心。然后他去世了。
我感觉被欺骗了。我一生都在怀疑父亲是否关心我、爱我。就在我得到他确实爱我的证明时，他却去世了。
我两岁时父母就分开了，虽然我每月都和父亲有联系，但我刻薄的继母和父亲那种老派的坚忍克制意味着我们从未变得亲近。事实上，我曾经害怕去看望他，并数着时间直到我能再次回家。
在我很小的时候，在父亲家度过的周末感觉冰冷而不友好。在我十几岁的时候，去那个充满敌意的房子的旅程，在几周前就成了地平线上的恐惧。每次逗留都以父亲告别时在脸颊上令人不适的匆匆一吻而告终——这个时刻我会提前几个小时就感到畏缩不安。
然而，站在病床边，看着生命从我沉睡的父亲身上流逝，是痛苦的。我感觉自己像个小女孩站在他的床边，又一次无法和他说话。我变得专注于他的手指——胖胖的、软软的，轻轻地蜷缩在他身边。慢慢地，它们从丰满的香肠变成了石头——苍白而僵硬。是他的手指告诉我他已经离开了这个世界，而不是监护仪的哔哔声或医护人员的忙碌声。
失去一个你对其没有任何共同生活记忆的父亲是困难的。哀悼是棘手的；我没有任何明显的、亲密的父女记忆可以依恋、回味和哭泣。我的大部分记忆都是生硬的会面和尴尬的相处时光。但我极度渴望他还活着。
随着时间的推移，我对他英年早逝的悲伤和愤怒开始消退。我意识到，他在临终前对我的肯定，填补了我一直背负着的不安全感的巨大空洞。
对一个孩子来说，一个拥抱诉说了太多。它告诉你，拥抱你的人爱你，关心你。一个拥抱也确认了你是一个值得被爱的人。父亲去世几个月后，我猛然意识到，他缺乏拥抱更多地说明了他，而不是我。我的父亲不是一个情感外露的人，因此，我或许是一个值得被爱的人。
一旦我消化了这个领悟，我的感受就从那个需求得不到满足的孩子，变成了一个非常自豪的女儿。更客观地看待我的父亲，让我能清晰地审视他：他是一个沉默寡言的人；他聪明、善良、极其谦逊。讽刺的是，我开始觉得在他去世后比他在世时更亲近他。
随着这种新发现的智慧而来的，是放弃如此努力地试图获得他人喜爱、转而专注于寻找自我的自由。我打破了家庭中对父母婚姻破裂保持沉默的禁忌。我也觉得有必要说出我认为我的继父母对我生活产生的有害影响。
在某些方面，后果相当严重，我不再与母亲联系。然而，父亲的拥抱对我产生了深远的影响。它引领我走过了从童年到成年的道路。我终于成为了一个独立的女性，一个无比热爱一个美好的、老式拥抱的人。