I don’t like physical intimacy but if someone dear needs it, or in the off chance I needed it, I feel like it’ll have even bigger impact when shared.
I wrote about how my father never liked physical intimacy either. By force or choice; each of us for different reasons.
In January though, I held hands with dad enough times to fill the entirety of my 34 years of life.
Sometimes I held it and he didn’t mind when lucid. But by the end, on a certain pain-filled day, he held it up towards me to hold.
And then there was that one time.
Dad, even though by the end didn’t breathe through his nose/mouth but through a hole in his neck, kept breathing through his open mouth. One nurse told me it’s because out of habit, we can’t stop using our upper breathing system.
And thus, his lips kept getting dry and chapped. With his very low count of platelets, his lips and gum used to bleed easily too. He needed mouth care over four times aday.
I’m writing all this from memory of what I’d seen myself. But also, what I had felt by touch.
That one time, he had his eyes closed and my right hand was in his left. He pulled my hand closer and kissed the back of my bended fingers in-between his tired ones.
It wasn’t a kiss really. Just a cold touch. Just a weak placement of on part over another.
I can’t explain my emotions then nor now.
I think this memory with its sounds, time, weather and incomprehensible emotions will forever be a mental visitor. A tear jerker.