Forged with Flames (23 page)

I drew back the curtains of my bedroom and looked out the window. I could see gum trees against an azure sky and red roses blooming in the garden beds beyond. I was in a good place, a place I hadn't been in for a long time. I sat down in the lounge-room, not focusing on anything in the house. This is what I'm going to do, I thought. It will all be finished. Isn't it strange that I don't even care about the girls? So this is how it feels when you're going to end your life. I rolled the thoughts around, then began to say them softly.

‘I'll be free of sorrow and free of pain. I can leave behind all this heartache. It will all be so peaceful.'

I stopped. I had the strong sense that I was not alone. I drew a long, slow breath, listening. I turned my head and looked over one shoulder. There was no one there; no movement, no noise. But suddenly I felt there was a presence with me in that room. At this point, a calm voice that seemed to come from deep within me said, ‘This is not what you're looking for. You don't want to do this. you will find the peace you're seeking, but not this way.' There was no sense of judgement or condemnation, just complete understanding and unconditional love. I closed my eyes and just absorbed the encounter. What if I were to take my own life and didn't find the peace I longed for after all? What if I found myself separated forever from all that was meaningful in my life? I was being given a clear choice. The message transcended all the troubles I'd been experiencing. I felt I was being guided to say ‘yes' to my life, whatever it might hold.
And so that day, a little reluctantly at first, I turned from the option of dying. It no longer seemed to offer the peace and serenity I was seeking. Instead, I decided I would continue day by day, hour by hour if necessary with what had become my existence. Hopefully it would become less of a struggle. Maybe I would become better at dealing with the pain. Maybe I could even become happy again. So after all the long struggles that led to my decision to end my life, I made the commitment of my life: to take this path and see where it took me.

I can't pretend that it was easy from then on. It most definitely wasn't. But never again was I tempted to find consolation in thinking that ending my life was an option. I had stared death in the face once again and replied with a resounding ‘no'.

35

FACING MY REALITY

A
fter the hiatus that followed the end of my marriage, my life assumed a contented plod. It was just head down, keep managing.

I learned to more readily accept offers of support and practical help from friends and acquaintances, and was frequently struck by their extraordinary thoughtfulness. The Prof, who never said much to me on personal matters, discovered one day that Terry and I were no longer together, and rang me at home to ask if I was alright—a gesture that meant so much to me. In the months following, whenever I'd see him in his surgery for check-ups, he'd sit me down, get me a cup of tea and, pushing aside any medical concerns, ask how I was managing. When I expressed my concern about the extra time he was giving me and the patients still waiting to be seen, he would brush it aside and say matter-of-factly, ‘Well they'll just have to wait, won't they!'

I learned to budget my energy the way I did my finances to avoid getting overtired, at times cutting back on social
engagements or going to church. Housework and the garden took up a large part of my time. It could take me all day—interrupted by long rest breaks—to mow the lawns or finish the washing or ironing. I had remained very much my mother's daughter about ironing—pressing sheets and underwear! When I went shopping, which I limited to one day a week, it would wipe me out for the rest of the day. Despite my limited energy, I made sure to spend time with friends, took up Tai Chi, and helped as a volunteer in the library once a week at the girls' high school in Berwick. And of course there was the time I spent with the girls, doing as many mother-daughter things as I could manage.

As Sarah and Rachel grew up, it became more difficult for me to really fathom what effects the experience of the fires and its aftermath had had on them. On one terrifying night in 1983 they saw their mother burn then disappear from their lives, their home ignite, and the pet dogs they loved run away in fright. Even with the steady, faithful care of Terry, family and friends at the time, I knew it must have taken a permanent toll on them. Sarah, who was always the more complex of the two, had a deep need throughout her childhood to talk and write about the events surrounding the fires. This was clearly her way of processing it all, and no detail was too small to be discussed. Rachel, on the other hand, didn't appear to need that at all. One day, concerned that she might be bottling things up, I said to her, ‘What was it like for you sitting in the car with Sarah on the night of the fires?' She looked up briefly from what she was doing, with an impatient look on her face and said matter-of-factly, ‘What do you think? It was hot of course!' And that, for her, was the end of the conversation.

Fortunately, both girls were growing up to be determined and strong-willed, as well as capable and mature for their age; qualities that helped them overcome the challenging early childhood events, including their parents' separation. Ironically, our divorce eventually came through in 1993—somewhat inappropriately on the 25th of December.

A major factor ensuring their emotional development and wellbeing was Terry's ongoing close involvement with them. They stayed with him every weekend and shared their time between both of us during school holidays. Neither of us wanted to quarrel. Terry and I never argued about money or possessions after the separation. We both held the hurt in and dealt with it as amicably as we could. Whilst it was difficult—we'd see each other every week when Terry picked up the girls and brought them back—and it opened up that wound, there was no animosity; it was all very civilised.

One of the biggest things I struggled to accept in the years following the fires was the reality that I was now a person who had disabilities. Before Ash Wednesday it was unusual for me to even catch a cold. Being sporty and strong was part of my being. I valued this highly and couldn't—or wouldn't—get it into my head that it had all changed. It frustrated me greatly that I couldn't play the sports I used to. I'd competed in badminton right up until the fires but now my left hand, in particular, had lost a great deal of its former agility. Other areas of my body were tight, too.

I would reflect back on my years at Nelson Grammar, recalling the elation of being on the winning netball and tennis teams. I remembered the time when my school house introduced a
house cup for sport—the Thursby Cup—and I was the inaugural winner. I pictured myself in my Julie Andrews' haircut holding up the cup on our front steps in Barrowford as Dad took a photo of me with his Brownie Box camera. I thought of the ladies' badminton tournament I'd won as an adult, and my glow of pride as I took out the best and fairest title. I re-lived the exultation of flying around the bend and crossing the finishing line as Rowena Crowther trailed in the athletics meeting. How difficult it was for me to reconcile that girl with her sporting prowess, the joy and confidence with which she embraced this part of school life, and this broken body now, with all its limitations.

After Terry and I separated, I applied for, and received, a Single Parent's Pension which stopped when Rachel turned sixteen. I had appreciated this support, but at the same time resented my reliance on it. When it ended in 1994, I made up my mind that I could get along without aid, even though Social Services had strongly suggested that I apply for a Disability Pension. I hated being on welfare—in my hometown in England you'd somehow failed if you had to go on welfare. I hated even more the idea of being officially disabled. Obviously, I was still living in some kind of fantasyland unable to face the new realities of my life now.

Terry, who like everyone in his family was wonderfully generous, had given me money faithfully every week since we parted, as much as he could; so I decided that the girls and I would make do on this income. Both of them had part-time jobs by that time—Sarah in a café in Berwick and Rachel in a fast-food outlet—and so were able to buy some things for
themselves. But it wasn't long before the bank balance shrank and I was unable to stretch out the money available until Terry's next payment. I knew I was in trouble when I had to ask Rachel to lend me money to buy bread and milk at the end of one week. Even then though, I couldn't admit to myself that I had a disability severe enough to be eligible for the Disability Pension. That was for disabled people, surely.

A timely incident intervened before I ran out of money completely. I answered a phone call from the girls' school one morning: Rachel had been injured during a sports session and needed to be picked up right away. She was lying down in the sick room when I arrived, looking pale. She'd twisted her knee badly and was unable to even walk to the car.

The diagnosis at the doctor's surgery soon afterwards wasn't good. It seemed likely that she'd severely damaged her leg and would need to visit a specialist, possibly for an operation. To my shame, all I could focus on was how much this might cost. Hundreds, surely it would cost hundreds of dollars? I snapped out of it. What on earth was I thinking?

Once the visit to the specialist had been organised, I helped Rachel into the car and we drove home. She was worn out by the effects of her injury and happy to climb into bed for the rest of the day. After seeing that she was settled, I made myself a much-needed cup of tea and sat down to calmly think things through. I had to forget my pride and seek the financial help we needed. I made plans to do it the next day.

The process of applying for the Disability Pension at Social Services was long, with two medicals and an interview, but immediately following it, I was granted the pension. The
financial relief was enormous but just as importantly, it made me finally accept that I could never regain my former physical abilities. I would never play badminton. I would never run fast again. And yet a positive thought occurred. I realised I wasn't a lesser person than before—just different. Some doors had firmly closed for me, but I dared to think that others might open. I'd already had encounters and connected with people who would never have come into my life otherwise. I hung on tightly to that thought.

36

MELTDOWN

E
ver since the fires, the approach of summer had been fraught, my anxiety rising with the temperature. As each season passed I hoped the next would be less difficult and that the fear would subside, but it never did. In the summer of 2002/3 the time bomb that had been ticking inside me since Ash Wednesday finally exploded.

I had learned early on to steer clear of the images that brought back my fire experiences. I was always careful about turning on the radio or the television on days of high fire danger—if I wanted to watch a particular program on TV, I'd tape it and take out all the ads. When I walked into the newsagency I'd avoid looking at the papers in case a fire story was on the front page. But it was impossible to guard against reminders of the fires absolutely. There were hot days when I'd go outside and smell smoke, and it felt then as if my whole body was transported right back to that day in 1983. Terrifyingly, memories would flood to the surface and take over my mind and body. It was completely outside my control.

Over the years I developed various other strategies to cope with such days; some of them quite funny. Soon after the fires, I was given a bushfire survival book. A little late for me perhaps, but I accepted the gesture as it had been intended at the time. The woman who wrote it had asked if she could put something about me in it, and she sent me a copy when it was printed. In a fit of enthusiasm, I followed the book to the letter, assembling all the items necessary to be safe at home in the event of a fire.

I bought three metal buckets. Metal, not plastic, so they wouldn't melt. One each for the girls and myself. I bought protective clothing for the three of us, including thick woollen jumpers, gloves and three woollen balaclavas to protect our faces. These items combined were so warm and heavy that we probably would have collapsed from heat exhaustion within minutes of putting them on, but never mind. I bought three tin whistles, as directed, complete with cords to hang around our necks so that if we became separated in the smoke, we could blow them and alert each other as to our whereabouts. Now, of course, the thought of the three of us running around clad in balaclavas, gloves and jumpers on a forty-degree day, blowing whistles and trying to put out a bushfire with three small metal buckets seems rather ridiculous! But at the time it gave me a little control over future unforeseen disasters. We've laughed about it since, and Sarah said once that she'd always known that if she were ever unlucky enough to be caught in a repeat performance of Ash Wednesday, she would have made a dash for the car and ‘got the hell out of there'.

On one level, although I'd faced and dealt with so many fire issues, I still sensed something hidden on those high fire-danger days; something shielded by my defences waiting to erupt. That
summer, two decades on from the build-up to Ash Wednesday, proved my undoing.

Until then, I'd always forced myself to keep functioning as normally as possible on hot days even when I was nauseous with fear. I never really let anyone see how difficult a heatwave was for me, so I would just push on until the next cool change. I managed like this for nineteen years. Then, bang: a culmination of reminders of the fires led calamitously to what my GP, Wes, called ‘an overload of bushfire stimuli'.

It was a long, scorching summer and bushfires of the deadliest variety had hit Canberra and northern Victoria. Smoke hung constantly in the air. I only had to walk outside the front door and take one breath and I'd be struck by flashbacks. It was also approaching the twentieth anniversary of Ash Wednesday, so there were more reminders than usual—on the television, on radio and in the newspapers, everywhere. I'd even become part of the anniversary myself, involved in a special fundraising event run by the Alfred. I was interviewed for an upcoming Alfred Hospital publication too, and although I was glad to be asked and happy to contribute, it evoked many disturbing memories for me.