Running away to find out about my family
I ran away when I was eight years old. I ran away because my semi-large Italian family wasn’t listening to me. I was trying to tell them about the brilliant idea I had which was to attach an electric scooter to a wheelie chair to get an instant motorised vehicle. I just wanted them to stop talking about parmesan cheese for a few seconds and listen to my revolutionary idea, goddamnit. But they were more focused on the food. Shocker. It was pouring rain, and I was a little fat, so the idea of going too far away from a source of food made me uneasy. I ran about 300 meters down the road and sat under the tree until my family came and got me. I ran away because I didn’t like that my family wasn’t listening to me. Ten years later, I’m doing the same thing, but not for the same reason.
‘Running away’ seems like a dramatic term, and this time, it’s a little different than before. There are no revolutionary motorised vehicle ideas involved, unfortunately. And Instead of going 300 meters down the road, I’m going more than 16,000 kilometres away, to Italy. My Mum is also coming with me, so is my best friend, which I suppose defeats the whole ‘run away.’ When I was younger, I didn’t care much about anything. I had a few obsessions; which seemed to take up all my energy, stopping me from caring about anything else. Such as my brief “emo/punk/evanescence/I am totally old enough to wear black lipstick leave me alone” obsession, along with my obsession with the TV show ‘Charmed.’ That involved me running around saying “I’m going to vanquish you!”
Unfortunately, due to my extreme stubbornness as a child, I missed out on getting to know the most important person in my life. My Dad. I knew him as the man who used to take my mouse ‘Cupcake’ down to the beach every weekend in his front pocket so “He could see more of Australia.” The man I knew as Astro Elvio Vecellio. My father was diagnosed with terminal cancer when I was two years old. The doctors gave him two years, which gave my mother and me two years left with our little family. We spent those two years traveling and going to many hospital visits, none of which I remember of course.
I was a happy child. That isn’t a surprise to me as I was two years old and had no idea what toilet training, sexism, or death meant. All I knew is that father was a bit older than other parents, and because of that sometimes he couldn’t do as much. Our family in my eyes was as average as any other two-year-olds. I am told my father took me everywhere. I met up with a friend of his recently, she said: “Your father drove me crazy, he brought you everywhere and spoilt you rotten. You were the light of his life.” I don’t recall any of this, I suppose as a child you don’t realise the important things in life until later.
Two years after his terminal diagnosis, the doctors gave him another two, and then another two. He was deemed a medical miracle. Defying all odds to keep our little family together. It continued until I was 13 years old when he could no longer fight anymore, and the cancer got worse. Just like the two-year-old me, the 13-year-old me could not fathom death. It’s incredibly hard to imagine the person that made you, that has been there since day one, the person who would take your mouse to the beach just not being there anymore. There’s no checklist for children with dying parents. Nothing that tells you what you need to do. Nothing that said “Ask what their political beliefs are?”, “Ask what they would like you to study at university?” Or “Ask about your family history?”
At the age of 14 when my father passed away. There is no way I could have known the things I should have. I was barely a real human yet. I had to start life again, a new beginning. I went and completed high school, had numerous jobs and started university. I was too young, I didn’t realise what there was to know about my father. I knew that everyone loved him deeply. I still get people coming up to me and saying how much of a wonderful man he was. But it’s not enough anymore. So, I’m running away from my life. The life I created after he left. I’m running away and flying to Italy to find out about my family history. Just as my father said: “It’s never too late as long as you do it.” I ran away when I was eight because my family didn’t listen to me, now I’m running away because I didn’t listen to my family, I hope my eight-year-old self realises how much my running away skills have improved.
Find out more about the rest of the QF team here.
