Real Life Becoming an adult orphan
With both her mum and dad gone, Nadia Smoczynski is learning to navigate her way through life without parental support and guidance
‘I STARTED TO NOTICE MUM CHANGE’
Taking a photograph of my two daughters grinning into the camera as they sit together on the sofa, a moment of sadness washed over me. I would love nothing more than to send the photo to my mum and dad, to show them how much their grandchildren, Izabelle, 11, and Emily, four, are growing.
If they have a tummyache, I want to call my dad and ask him what he did when I was ill as a child. And when birthdays and Christmases come around, I feel acutely aware that there’s two people missing at the table.
It’s an emptiness that, no matter how old I get, will never go away. My parents were snatched from me too soon and, at 32, while I’m an adult and I can look after myself in the physical sense, emotionally I wasn’t prepared to be an orphan.
In the early years of my childhood, there was nothing out of the ordinary about my family’s home life. My dad, Mick, went out to work as an engineer, while my mum, Carol, stayed at home to look after me and my two younger siblings, Elliot and Lucy. Everything in my life seemed so solid, our family unit immovable. But in 1998, when I was 11,
I started to notice Mum changing. She became withdrawn, spending days in bed and covering her arms with long sleeves.
Soon after, Mum was admitted to hospital for a few weeks. By then, I’d turned 12, Elliot nine and Lucy five, so we weren’t told much about why Mum was ill, and Dad held the fort, juggling work with school runs and chores. When Mum was discharged, her behaviour could be erratic.
Mood swings
One afternoon I came home from school and she was frantically packing her belongings into a suitcase. ‘I’m leaving,’ she said. But when she got to the door, she stopped in her tracks, turned around, smiled at me and said, ‘Did you have a good day at school?’
Unnerved, I stayed silent. There was no warning when Mum’s mood would change. Some days, she’d be withdrawn, others she’d seem like her old self. I had to grow up quickly, stepping into her shoes with chores when Mum was too ill to get out of bed. After starting my first year of high school, I came home one day to find Mum sitting in the kitchen.
‘I need to talk to you,’ she said.
I listened as Mum explained something had happened to her when she was little, and she was struggling to come to terms with it. I took it as her way of explaining why she behaved the way she did, and it was only then I noticed the scars on her arms.
When I was 13, Mum and Dad split up, and Mum moved out of our house and into a flat of her own. We still saw her often but, with Mum no longer at home, I tried to help Dad as much as I could, making sure Elliot and Lucy’s school uniforms were ready and encouraging them to do their homework.
In June 2001, I was with my friends in the park when Dad called my mobile. ‘You need to come home,’ he told me.
Instinctively I knew it was about Mum. I stood, frozen, begging Dad to tell me what it was. He said Mum was gone, she’d taken her own life at the age of just 38. I screamed into the phone, the grief hitting me straightaway. One of our neighbours came to pick me up, and I sat in the car in silence. Walking into the house, amid all the pain was the very real
‘DAD HAD SIX WEEKS TO LIVE’
and tangible feeling that nothing would ever be the same.
Going back to school after Mum died, I became more insular, refusing to talk about what happened. To me, it was something that should be kept private, and I didn’t think anyone else would understand. Dad became our hero, working full-time and juggling parents’ evenings, our hobbies and chores around the house. As the eldest, I did everything I could to help him.
Range of emotions
In November 2008, when I was 21,
I had my daughter Izabelle, and Dad became a doting grandad. There were times when I felt sad, thinking about how much Mum would have loved to meet my little girl, but I had flashes of anger, too.
Now a mother myself, I struggled to comprehend how Mum could have left us. When Izabelle was two, I moved out of my dad’s and into a place of my own, but I was always popping home to see Dad, Elliot and Lucy.
In February 2016, I gave birth to my second daughter, Emily. But, not long after, in November 2017, Dad told me he was having trouble swallowing. He was referred for a biopsy, and the results confirmed our worst fear. Dad had oesophageal cancer at the age of 66.
Elliot, Lucy and I rallied around, making sure there was always someone there to go to every hospital appointment while, at the same time, I was juggling starting my own business making baby clothes. Dad had round after round of chemotherapy and, in June 2018, he had a major operation to remove the tumour in his throat. But just two months later, we learned the cancer had spread to his adrenal glands, and Dad was given six weeks to live.
In November 2018, Dad was admitted to Leicester Royal Infirmary, and doctors soon told us he had a matter of days left. Elliot, Lucy and I all sat at his bedside, there for him until the very end, just as he had been for us.
Empty feeling
After Dad died, I felt lost. On autopilot, I called our relatives and his friends to tell them the sad news and I set about organising the funeral. I had no idea what I was doing, I was only in my early 30s and struggled to comprehend the thought that both my parents had gone.
I still needed my dad – his help, his support, his advice – he’d been taken far too soon. At the service, I shook hands and murmured ‘thanks for coming’, all the while thinking about how Dad would have introduced me to these people, having kept in touch with them on our behalf.
More than 18 months on, I’m still struggling to come to terms with losing Dad. I miss the days when he would sit with me at my sewing machine, giving me ideas. There are moments I think to call Dad and ask him a question, then I remember he’s gone, and the grief hits me all over again.
And I can’t help but notice other parents my age at school nativities with their own parents next to them, and I wish I could share those moments with my mum and dad. Not having them there to share life’s highs and lows often leaves me with an ache I don’t think will ever go. Luckily, I have my brother and sister, and our shared grief has given us an unbreakable bond, but there will always be a hole where our parents should be.
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