Ol’ 55

It’s been a long time since I’ve posted anything on my blog.

Last month, I turned 55 years old and next month is Clea’s 12^th death day.

When Clea died, I couldn’t imagine being 50 without her (I was 43 when she died) and now I am surprised that I have survived to 55. In those early days of fog and pain, I could not imagine growing old without her. Now, 12 years later, I am growing old without her.

I miss Clea. I mean I really miss Clea. The heaviness of missing her hangs onto my body and soul every day. It is a constant ‘friend’ that never leaves my side from the time I wake up saying ‘good morning’ to the photograph on the bedside table until the time I wish her ‘good night’ before I close my eyes.

Clea would have turned 18 years old last January. This year is the year she should have been starting her adult journey; going to university, working or whatever she had set her mind to do. Her friends are training to be nurses, teachers and mechanics. They have begun their journeys into adulthood. They are navigating the ins and outs of a pandemic world.

We are all navigating this pandemic world. I think a childhood on a farm has set me up well for life in a pandemic. I don’t mind so much. I would spend all summer holidays on the farm, not once going into the local town in the entire six weeks. I didn’t feel the need to go out, to socialise. My sister did (funnily enough, she’s the one who lives on a farm now and I live in a city).

I’m not doing too bad for 55. I’m fitter than I’ve ever been. I dedicate at least an hour each day to exercise plus about half an hour each morning to yoga. And I’m learning to meditate – only 20 minutes a day so far. It’s amazing how much calmer I feel. I’m trying to focus on the here and now. I focus on what is in my control.

I am post-menopausal which is fantastic (believe me it is fucking fantastic to be post-menopausal). It was an awful, degrading and confidence slashing experience which lasted longer than I would have liked but has been over for a few years now. I’m surprised how little people discuss menopause and its effects on people’s lives. It not only affects the women going through it but the men who can’t cope with it as well. My mind finally feels less chaotic.

I’m looking forward to growing older. I am interested in how I will cope and what I will do; it’s like a new chapter of my life which reveals different opportunities in myriad ways. I am thinking about retirement (I can retire anytime within the next five years) and what that would mean to my family and to me. My sons have 18 months of school left and then, they are free to start their adult journeys as well. They don’t need me hanging around. No one needs me hanging around, so I am freer than I have been for 25 years. It’s refreshing.

It is difficult in a pandemic world because I have always been a great traveller. This does limit what I would like to do but not entirely. It’s time to nail my principles to the wall and try to leave the world a better place. I want Clea to be proud of me as I often feel that I live for her.

I tend to focus on the unethical and amoral nature of all religions; on climate change and the damage it is doing to the future lives of our children; on wilful ignorance and those who prey on the ignorant; and, on men and the unequal (and sometimes unbalanced) amount of power they have throughout the world.

I still visit the cemetery regularly. My father is buried beside Clea. I take flowers from the garden. It’s quiet.

14 years

Tomorrow is Clea’s death day. Today, 14 years ago, was her last day of life.

I try to remember how happy she was that day on Lalomanu Beach in Samoa. We stayed at Taufua Fales right on the beach. We spent the afternoon snorkling and swimming with the reef in the distance. It was a beautiful sunny day and everyone was having fun. And, of course, we all ended up sunburned.

14 years seems like a long time when you break it down into smaller parts. What have I done in 14 years besides get older? To where have I travelled? USA, Mexico, Spain, France, UK, Singapore, Hong Kong, Vietnam, Turkiye, Vanuatu, New Caledonia, Chile, Bolivia, Peru, Bali, New Zealand, Fiji, Belgium, Portugal, Iceland – and that doesn’t include where I have travelled for work.

I’ve also holidayed in Australia too – Tasmania, Western Australia, Cairns, south coast NSW, Sydney, Melbourne etc etc.

My sons have started and finished school. My nephew has daughters and I’m a great aunt. I have nieces and nephews who never met their cousin. My father has died.

I’ve changes jobs a few times. I’ve been promoted. Governments have come and gone. Events have happened throughout the world for good and bad. I know more people who are bereaved parents than I had ever wanted to know.

All these things have happened without Clea. And yet, 14 years feels like not time at all. It feels like yesterday that Clea was here.

At one of the first meetings I went to for The Compassionate Friends, a man spoke about how his daughter had been dead for 13 or 14 years, and that he was at peace with that. I thought that was horrible and couldn’t fathom how anyone could reach a level of peace after the death of a child.

I feel a bit like that man now. I feel more or less at peace. I would choose to have Clea alive if I could. I would sell my soul to the devil (if it existed) to have her alive. But that is not to be and this is it.

Sometimes, I have flashes or images which bring me to tears. In Iceland, we drove past a sign for ‘Heidi Road’ and I remembered that Clea had been reading my old copy of ‘Heidi’ and I started thinking about all the childhood books I still have that she will never read.

Sometimes, I think of her small body in the morgue wrapped in palm leaves with sand in her hair and I wish that I had asked to be able to wash her body and prepare her body for burial. But I didn’t.

Mostly, I think of my princess smiling at me with love in her eyes. My last image of her alive is smiling at me as we walked on the beach.

Every so often, I meet other bereaved mothers or even people I already knew who are now, like me, bereaved mothers. And I have to tell them that it never gets better. There is always a hole in your heart. You always feel as though you died with them. But you do learn to manage your grief and you manage to find peace within your grief. It is not your choice.

Happy Mothers’ Day

In Australia, in particular, people talk about restarting 2020 because we began the year with catastrophic bushfires and now we have a pandemic.

I would still like to restart 2009.

It’s been a long time since I posted anything. Now we’re all confined to our houses, working from home, school from home, no going out to restaurants, no domestic or international travel. We had to cancel our trip to Thailand and Cambodia. One of my sons was announced in the Australian Muay Thai Kickboxing team but I doubt there will be any world championships this year.

The restrictions are starting to be lifted slowly which is good – better to be safe than sorry and have to return to lockdown if there’s another outbreak.

During this time of confinement, I find myself spending a lot of time in Clea’s room. It’s the place where I work from home. It’s my yoga studio. It’s painted a light purple/pink colour. It’s a light and sunny room and in the autumn afternoons it is very warm.

The boys are schooling from home and my husband is working from home as well. We have all found our own ‘space’ in the house. One boy spends most of his time in his bedroom, the other has taken over the loungeroom, my husband has part of the kitchen/dining room and I have Clea’s room.

Someone from work did notice during a video conference call that the room was very pinkish but the conversation didn’t go any further. Maybe she knew, maybe she doesn’t. I don’t know. I almost said that dead children don’t need their rooms but happily I kept my mouth closed.

There’s not a lot of things in this room that are Clea’s; what things I have kept are in the wardrobe behind the closed doors. There are drawings on the wall that Clea produced – a Fathers’ Day one (I have the best Dad in the world), one about where she had lived (which did not include any place where she had lived) and another for Santa and his reindeer. There is also Clea’s calendar left open at September 2009.

I stare at Clea’s photos throughout the house and still can’t quite fathom her death. How could she have possibly died in a tsunami at six years old? How is it possible that my daughter is not here? Then I start to wonder whether it was all a dream; that I dreamed I had a daughter and I dreamed up her life. But the sign on the door in her handwriting says ‘Keep Out Clea’s Room’.

I pick the roses outside her room and find myself looking up at the window half expecting her to smile and wave at me. And I burst into tears because that’s not going to happen. I have found myself crying a bit more often during this confinement. I’m not sure why. Stuck at home, nowhere to go. Baking lots of biscuits. Although, I can go to the cemetery – the dead don’t carry COVID-19 and no one goes near anyone else at a cemetery.

Happy Mothers’ Day.

10 Years

I’m not sure what to say … yesterday, I was trying to work out what I should write for a 10 year post.

On 29 September 2009, my daughter, Clea, drowned on Lalomanu Beach, Samoa in a tsunami along with about 200 other people. Her father, mother and brothers all survived. The last time I saw my daughter alive, she was holding my hand running from the water. I’m not sure whether I saw her in the water.

On 30 September 2009, we had to identify her body in a makeshift morgue in Apia, Samoa. That was the last time I saw my daughter.

There was a ceremony at the Taufua Fales on Lalomanu Beach in the early hours of 29 September 2019. I chose not to be there. Maybe I should have planned something for such a milestone but I didn’t. I took flowers to the cemetery as I do almost every Sunday. All days are the same.

I think of us as survivors not only of the tsunami but of life. I didn’t think I would survive this long. I didn’t know that life would simply continue whether Clea was here or not. In the early years, when I thought of 10 years ahead, I couldn’t imagine that I would make it and I didn’t want to make it without Clea. I don’t live in the fog of the early years or in a state of shock. I have learned to live with a broken heart; with part of me dead.

I still don’t fancy live a long life but I am better able to cope with the pain deep inside. Part of me died with Clea and there is a hole in my heart that will never be filled. We would be very different people if Clea had survived. We would lead a very different life.

A lot has happened over the past 10 years. Clea’s brothers are now 15 years old. Clea’s friends are all turning 17 and have their driver’s licences. They are all contemplating their futures.

We have travelled (probably not as happily) and our lives have continued for good and bad. My father has died and is buried next to his granddaughter. I hardly even noticed his passing.

We are trying to live as best we can. It has taken awhile but we do want life to be fulfilling.

Recently, a young woman at work lost her daughter suddenly. She is starting the journey which no one wants to be on. She said she is already tired of being the mother of a dead child. It is tiring. Grief is exhausting.

You become someone you do not want to be. You go from being the mother of a child full of life to the mother of a dead child. No one wants to be that person.

Unfortunately, that is who some of us are. We are people we do not want to be and we have no choice but to be those people. We manage as best we can.

Clea is my daughter and will always be my daughter. The depths of my pain are impossible to describe. I miss her like I have never missed anyone else.

That is all. 520 weeks, 10 years. It’s been a long 10 years without Clea and I presume there will be many years left without her.

500 weeks

Today (30 April 2019), it is 500 weeks or 3,500 days since Clea died. I don’t really know what to say.

I was listing in my head all the places we have visited in the past 500 weeks. It was a rather long list of places internationally and within Australia. I stopped as it was becoming clear that there were many, many places where she had not been with us.

Clea would be 16 ½ years old now. Her brothers will be 15 in a few weeks’ time. They are both taller than me. She would have been taller than me (but I am not very tall). She would be in Year 11. What else can I say?

I have been trying to create a life for myself. I am trying to find one that is not based on shared grieving but one that is based on a shared life, honesty and common interests. I think we are all responsible for our own pain and our own happiness. You can’t continue to blame others for what they have or have not done and they are not going to help you anyway. Life can be a lonely journey sometimes but that’s OK. Grief, in particular, is a lonely journey.

Over the years, we all learn to manage our grief and deal with it in different ways; in our own ways. It is important to grieve in your own way. Peace is hard to come by. You may be stronger and more confident that you, or others, may think.

Miss you.

Love you.

 

Another Year

On Tuesday more milestones will be passed. Clea’s brothers will start Year 9 and Clea’s friends will begin Year 11 at new schools. And it will be 489 weeks since Clea died.

We’ve already had our 10th Christmas without Clea and she missed her 16th birthday. This year will mark 10 years without her. It doesn’t seem possible to have not seen my daughter for nearly 10 years. I think of her all the time so how could it be that I haven’t seen her for 489 weeks?

Time plods along and our lives move and meander. Over the past few years, I think I have moved from being a grieving mother who has no interest in life to a grieving mother who would like a life; I actually think that I might deserve a life even a good life.

I do not accept Clea’s death but I have learned to live with my pain. I seem to cry suddenly out of the blue and sometimes I am astounded that her beautiful life no longer exists. There are many people in my life, particularly at work, who did not know me before and, some who have no idea what I have been through. I tell some people and I don’t tell others, it depends.

I have been reaching out to others who have lost children trying to be a good listener, if possible. I don’t like to think of the pain these people are suffering especially those who are in the early years of grief when life is wrapped in mist and fog and nothing seems to make sense.

I still wish on stars for my daughter’s life. It’s a complete waste of time but I seem to like to do it. Often it’s at 5:30am when we go swimming or to the gym; it isn’t very often at night (not with long summer evenings anyway).

I am trying to focus on my work and be a better manager of staff. I’ve decided that it’s not my career anymore that needs support, it’s the careers of those who follow me. I am trying to support as many young women as I can; after all, it’s time to stop old men making all the decisions.

I am hoping that this year (2019) brings me some happiness and a little bit of peace. I am hoping that my sons emerge from their teenage angst (that may take some years yet). I am hoping that my husband finds some peace within himself. I am trying not to dwell on the past but I do hope that seem people have a shit year and that karma gets them in the end.

 

Year 10

It’s almost the end of yet another year. Time keeps ticking away.

In September, we marked nine years of life without Clea. Soon it will be Christmas and in less than one month, Clea would be 16 years old.

Clea would have finished Year 10 at the end of last week. Through the glories of social media, I have watched the many and varied formal events of her friends and acquaintances – all the beautiful young women and handsome young men.

Last Tuesday,  we attended the Amaroo School Year 10 awards ceremony – Clea’s year 10 awards ceremony. I went to represent my daughter. It gave me some pleasure to see how much they had all grown and to watch her friends presented with awards.

I presented the Clea Salavert Wykes Endeavour award recognising a student who has demonstrated consistent application and enthusiasm for learning.

I was very glad that the recipient of the award was someone we knew and, more importantly, someone Clea knew. It was also an honour to present the award to a family who has been very kind and generous to us over the past nine years. Well done to Macy.

It was also nice to be given the corsage that one of Clea’s friends wore that day – thanks Laura.

 

Fight or flight

I’m like everyone else, I’m waiting for me to feel better about myself. Unfortunately, I’ve come to understand that I am not going to feel better and that these past eight years of being relentlessly sad have taken their toll on the way my mind works.

I never accepted that I had post-traumatic stress disorder because all I was sad about was that Clea was dead. I couldn’t have cared less about the trauma of the tsunami or how many other people had died. I only cared about Clea being dead. That is what I was and am so very sad about.

I have done everything that is advised – I keep fit, I eat healthily, I don’t drink too much alcohol, I practice mindfulness or meditate, I sleep OK, I still work. But none of it has managed to keep the demons at bay. What would I be like if I didn’t do all those things? Locked up in an institution (with my father)?

I have to accept that being sad all the time and being very, very sad some of the time is not normal for others but it is part of my life. I have to accept that not being able to make decisions and not trusting my own judgement is a result of the tsunami, after all it was my decision to stay on the beach that day. I have to accept that decision. I have to accept the theory of fight or flight in the face of extreme adversity and I am beginning to understand how my brain functioned or did not function that day. What I did was shut down in order to survive which is why I didn’t try to save my daughter or my sons. It is what I do on a daily basis – decide whether it’s fight or flight (I’m sure many of us feel that way).

I am depressed. I have been depressed for many years. It is affecting my personal life and my working life. I cannot make decisions. I was rated as underperforming at work at the end of last year (topping off a shit year) which I guess means that I have been found out as the interloper I have always felt myself to be. But it also means that people think that I should be ‘better’ or ‘over it’ by now. Or that they’re very mean to people over the age of 50!

I think I was also in that frame of mind, I was thinking like them. I was beginning to think that I should be fine, that I should be able to cope when something hits me from the side. I know that I’m not the best worker. I wouldn’t be in the top group ready for promotion. I do not volunteer to work for the sake of working. I try not to stay back late and work like a dog. I do my job and I do it competently. I do not tell them that my life unravels every now and then or that I cannot even begin to feel fine when I miss my daughter so badly. And I know that those choices really annoy my managers, but those choices have kept me sane for the past eight years and I would like to keep it that way. I will never be like those people and they will never understand people like me.

I have always been wary of people thinking that I am using my daughter’s death as an excuse particularly at work. But I must be strong to have managed some semblance of control for the past eight years without acknowledging the complete mess beneath. I have kept it from my husband, I have kept it from my work mates. I do not want anyone to feel sorry for me because I always believed that I could cope. And I still believe that.

I did go to another counsellor not long ago. They said the same things that all counsellors have told me, and I know what I have to do. I have to be kind to myself. I have to find time for myself. Step by step I will feel as though I am creating a space of peace. One day. But that does not mean that something won’t up set the apple cart. Something always throws you off the path – a lie, a judgement, petty things or important things.

Today, Clea would begin Year 10. Her brothers rode off on their bikes not long ago to begin Year 8. And I have decided to work from home today to create for myself a small space of peace.

How to Talk to a Parent who is in Grief

This is a great blog post. Thank you to Rebecca Carney.

Grief: One Woman's Perspective

Ran across this article today by Samantha Hayward, and thought I would pass it along.  “How to talk to a parent who is in grief. From someone who’s been there.” Samantha’s oldest daughter, Ella, died at 19 days old. I hope you will take time to read it. It’s certainly a good place to start/continue this conversation of what to say to bereaved parents. Good suggestions, all, but I will pass on these three:

1. Four years on I get up every day with the exact same sadness I had the day Ella died.

The only difference is I’m more skilled at hiding it and I’m much more used to the agony of my broken heart. The shock has somewhat lessened, but I do still find myself thinking I can’t believe this happened. I thought that only happened to other people. You asked how I was in the beginning yet…

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WORMS (white, old, religious men – sad)

It frustrates me more and more each day to see how old white religious men still maintain control over our world. They can’t let go. It’s a sad, sad world run by old white men. And I should point out that, in general, these are conservative old white men who want the world to remain as they know it. Conservative in that they want to conserve life as it is; to remain stale and in control.

I always considered that my political thoughts were not appropriate for a blog about my daughter but I have come to realise that it is appropriate as this is the world we must live in, the world of her brothers and parents, the world she would have had to live in had she lived.

I know that I am generalising and stereotyping but how else do we categorise our world? You don’t have to be old or religious but it seems to help if you are male and preferably white and on the conservative side of politics.

Men have been in control of the world since time immemorial mainly because of their testosterone (and, hence, muscle power) and their aggression (anger and being competitive helps when you’re trying to laud it over people). Men have taken advantage of the toll on women that child bearing and all that goes with it has – menstruation, pregnancy, labour, hormonal imbalance, iron depletion, menopause etc etc. As with worms, these WORMS have burrowed into all parts of society and have taken hold.

Men have created a world which suits them just as they created religion (all religions) for their own purposes. It’s a great way to ensure that men are placed first in the hierarchy and that the poor and ignorant are kept poor and ignorant.

Men get important benefits from an adversarial government system where the conflict and aggression keep many women out. Look at the numbers, men (white men) outnumber everyone else in our Parliament and probably the world over. What about proportional representation across all types of people – gender, colour, etc – and consider a more consensus driven system? Wouldn’t that increase community participation in the machinery of government? Generally, the only response is that this is a democracy and look how great it works. Well, there are many forms of democracy and some are more democratic than others.

Our Indigenous guide in the Northern Territory explained that the way his people were governed was through people who had female characteristics – not necessarily female but also males who were more caring, considerate and thoughtful in their decision making. It was a more communal way of governing and leading people.

In Australia, we have a governing system which applauds mediocrity arising from the combative method of democracy (is it really democracy when the ‘c’ graders rule?). Members of Parliament are not there because of merit, they are there because they were able to work within their political party to rise up through the nepotism and then they were able to convince a hand full more people in one part of the country (their electorate) to vote for them. How does that make you eligible to be a minister of a government department?

Isn’t it time to rethink the way the world works when half (or more than half) the population are women?

It depresses me beyond description to see how many old white religious men are in power – Trump is a fine example. He may not be overly religious but he definitely plays the religion card whenever he can (God bless this one and God bless that one). He is old. He is white. And he is male. But it’s not only Trump and the USA. Take a look around the world. You don’t have to be white or Christian but being old and male certainly helps to maintain control. Take a look in our own backyard.

Stop voting for these people. They are not doing us any good. Why can’t we let younger people take more control? I hear people argue that you should vote for experience but these old men have experience in a past that doesn’t exist anymore. What sort of experience do they have for a future in which they will play no part (we will all die)? They are not invested in the future, they are invested in the past and in their entitlements. Call me harsh but I am not that young myself. I would happily let younger people have more weight in voting. It is their future not mine.

Don’t vote for WORMS.