Sad Clown, Sad Day — But Not for the Dying

I spent last night at the hospital.

Not for someone I love. Not even someone I respect.

But I was there.

I kept vigil beside a man who is dying of cancer — not because I wanted to be there for him, but because I wanted to be there for his children. Some of them are mine. The two older ones— aren't. But they all mattered enough to me to stay.

And now I’m home.

Emotionally gutted. Angry. Unsteady.

And I spent the day painting a sad clown.

It’s going to become a mosaic — my way of dragging emotion through my hands until something honest comes out.

Because this was a sad day.

Not for the dying.

But for the living.

---

The Kind of Grief That Isn't Clean

I’ve talked before — vaguely — about my past.

But today, I’m not going to talk around it.

When I was three months pregnant with our second child, this man strangled me.

He abused me in ways I’ve spent years trying to forget and more years trying to process.

He abused his children — physically, verbally, emotionally.

I could never leave them with him. Not if I wanted them safe.

Not if I wanted them fed.

The last time I trusted him with custody, I came to pick them up and found him passed out on a mattress in a bare room.

All four kids were outside in nappies and underwear, playing in the dirt.

I called the mother of the two oldest children — my stepkids at the time — and said, “Come get your babies.”

I took mine and never looked back.

For a while, he had supervised visits. Until he started abusing me again during visitation.

Then came the drugs — ice and alcohol, always more important than his family.

He started doing drug deals into my home.

They sat on my couch, refused to leave.

I screamed until they did.

This man chose destruction — over and over again.

And yet, somehow, here we are.

At his deathbed.

And it’s the people he hurt the most who are holding vigil.

Who are tired.

Who are trying to find closure where there’s never been real healing.

---

 

He Deserved So Much Less Than What We Gave Him

His youngest daughter — mine — still has hope.

She’s too young to remember the worst of it.

She sat by his side last night, holding on to a version of him that never really existed.

The older ones? My babies from another mother.

They remember enough to feel broken in more complicated ways.

My eldest already said her peace weeks ago — yelled at him, released herself, walked away.

His oldest is trying to manage the care, because she always has. She was the one who protected the others, back when it was his job and he didn’t do it.

Then there’s the boy — aching for a father he never really had. Still being belittled by him, even now. Still not hearing “I love you.” Still not getting a hug.

I wanted to punch him.

Instead, I stayed the night.

Because the kids wanted me there.

I made his partner and their eldest sleep. They hadn’t in days.

I stayed up.

My partner lay on the floor nearby — I asked him to be there, and he came.

And I gave that man water. Held the cup and straw. Helped him sip slowly so he wouldn’t throw up.

I calmed him when he woke up confused.

I kept him company so the others could rest.

He woke up better. Alert. Loud.

Immediately insulting his son. Barking orders. Bragging about how hard his life has been. How great he is.

He didn’t thank anyone. Didn’t show love except to the girls.

Just resumed being himself.

And I thought, I should’ve let him dehydrate.

If he’d gone quietly in the night, maybe everyone could’ve started healing by now.

Instead, he took up more space. Again.

---

Enter: The Clown

So I came home.

And I painted this sad clown.

Red mouth. Painted eyes. Thick, drooping lashes like tears.

A bright blue ruffle that feels too heavy for the figure wearing it.

It’s not subtle. It’s not gentle.

But neither is trauma. Neither is this grief.

It isn’t mourning someone who loved you — it’s mourning the love they never got.

It’s wishing a man who hurt so many people hadn’t been allowed to keep hurting them all the way to the end.

This piece will become a mosaic.

I don’t know what I’ll call it yet.

Maybe just “Sad Clown, Sad Day.”

Or maybe something longer — something honest like:

“I Stayed for the Kids, Not for the Dying Bastard Who Tried to Kill Me.”

Because I did.

And I won’t again.

I have nothing left for him.

But I have everything left for the ones who still believe they deserved better.

Because they did.

And they do.

---

Final Notes 

If you’ve read this far — thank you.

This wasn’t easy to write, and it won’t be easy to publish.

But it’s real. And sometimes art demands truth.

If you've lived through something like this — you're not alone.

You're not crazy for feeling relief, rage, grief, or nothing at all.

I don’t know what kind of mosaic this clown will become yet.

But I do know it’s for me.

And for the kids.

And for anyone else holding pain that has no tidy place to go.