To sir with love on Daffodil Day

He was thirty seven years old when he died.
Cancer claimed him quickly.
He had six months from diagnosis to death.
Lightning speed to live out the last days of your life.

He was my teacher at high school. He taught maths mainly.
He had a sense of the goofy about him. His enthusiasm was infectious.
An easy laugh and a keen sense of humour made him popular school wide.
Kids loved to learn from him and he instilled respect as readily as he taught calculus.

It was coaching volleyball that he really came into his own.
Throughout my high school days, he was coach and volleyball mentor.
He wasn't a gifted volleyball player himself. In fact his regular awkwardness afforded many a team giggle.
But my oh my he could coach. Motivate, teach, push, direct, inspire.

With school days over, we continued to play volleyball together.
The team was a mixed bunch of ex-students, teachers and housemates.
Success was varied but we had the time of our lives playing each week.
The game regularly followed up by a parma and pot at the local pub afterwards.

His cancer diagnosis was devastating to many.
Fit, strong, non-smoker. It made no sense.
There is no reason in the cancer and young person combination.
None.

I spent many hours with him in the last weeks of his life.
Thin, weak, barely able to eat a lemonade icypole.
His attitude remained defiant to the end.
One of the hardest things was watching his ageing parents shrink with the knowledge that they were going to outlive their beloved son.

There were hundreds at his funeral.
Tears and roses.
They played "To Sir with Love".
Students in school uniform formed a guard of honour.

The words that have stayed with me since that day are worth sharing here, penned by another of his mourning friends:

The pain is over.
A muscular frame.
One so fit, fluid and full  of sun.
Bent, angular, tormented.
Sparkling glances that warmed and wooed.
A wide eyed knowing spare.
Pleading yet defiant.
Incomprehensible courage.
I shall carry the message of our friendship into the future.
Our laughter shall ring in the ears of the next children.

Garry, beautiful Garry.
Know that you are loved and remembered nineteen years on.
Your battle inspired and touched so many.
Proudly donating to the Daffodil Day appeal in your honour today

I want to go with her

 

They spent almost their whole lives together.

He, gruff, sometimes cranky but with a heart of gold beneath the bluster.
She, gentle, with a ready laugh and a finely tuned sense of the humour and ridiculousness of life.

They loved each other. It was always clear.

They raised a family. Two sons, one of them my father.
They worked, cared, grew vegetables and tended snapdragons and stocks and marigolds in their garden.
They welcomed and deeply loved four grandchildren.

There are cherished memories of vegetables in the garden, of trips to the royal show, of playground visits, tram rides and a thickly iced pink match filled with cream from the cake shop in Puckle Street.

Then came 1983 and with it cancer. Insidious, painful lung cancer. She hadn't smoked a cigarette in her life.

She struggled through treatments but the cancer spread and pain bristled cruelly all over her body. You could almost see it, creeping through, wreaking its destruction. Fucking cancer.

They came to 1984. Late May. She could fight no more. Palliative care would be her last tram stop. She lay there, unconscious, her bed surrounded with love and hope. He sat beside her, holding her hand, willing her to go on, but knowing she didn't have it in her. Much love, but little hope.

Next day. Etched forever. He fires a bullet from his boyhood shotgun through his brain. Kitchen floor, the worst discovery. He dies at midday.

She lives on, for another 17 hours. Not conscious but still breathing. Something within her knows it's time to let go. She dies peacefully.

Some months later, there is a note, found tucked inside his favourite gardening book. I don't remember the exact words but the message was clear.

"Forgive me, I want to go with her."

They loved each other. It was always clear.

Nan, wherever you are, Happy Mother's Day. I miss you and I wish you could have seen your great grandchildren. They are sunshine.

Pop, I love you and I miss you too. And I understand, I do.

Image

United in grief, strong in love

I lost two little babies, miscarriages early in pregnancy. One was the Batsman's twin and I look at my big four year old boy and I wonder, still, what his twin would have been like. Boy or girl? Fair or dark? Reserved like the Batsman or boisterous like the Bowler? On the road to giving myself some peace after the losses of the little ones we never came to know, I have met some of the most extraordinary women one is ever likely to find.

Grief stricken.

Fearful.

Brave.

Sad.

Hopeful.

Courageous.

Generous.

Strong.

Kind.

Awe inspiring.

You all know who you are don't you? Sal, Carly, Sophie, New Year Mum, Angie, Catherine and so many many more. Too many women with so much sadness.

I am proud to know you. You inspire me to be a better person.

On International Babylost Mother's Day I acknowledge you. I will always stand beside you, online and in person, in your grief, your hope, your sadness, your joy.

Extraordinary women who wish they had never been brought together by loss but remain always, united in grief and strong in love.

If you want to know more about International Babylost Mother's Day, go here.

The first lemon

When the Batsman's twin died eleven weeks into the pregnancy I felt such a mixture of emotions. I was so sad to lose a precious baby but so happy that the Batsman battled on in-utero and appeared likely to make it into the world. Part of me wanted to curl up in a ball and just weep for an eternity, yet I also knew that I needed to nurture the babe within and take care of myself. It was confusing. It was bittersweet.

Both the Captain and I wanted to plant a tree to commemorate that time. We went to a beautiful plant nursery and wandered until we found the right one. We chose a gorgeous (but little) lemon tree to live in a big blue ceramic pot on our back deck. The lemon tree is still with us but has taken quite a bit of time to "find its feet".

And here it is...our very first lemon on our angel's lemon tree.

We will always love and remember you little one.