We are so anti-ageing that we forget how lucky we are to get older
Words by Amy Dorrington
Content warning
This story discusses death. If you're in crisis, call Lifeline on 13 11 14 or find more contact information on our Resources page.
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Life becomes tainted by the jarring inevitability of death when you lose three people you love at the tender age of seven.
Dad’s sister dies young, at the age I am now.
It’s my first memory of my Dad crying. As he walks into the kitchen, tears streaming down his face, I realise I have never seen a man cry until this moment. Instantly, everything feels unsettling. I catch a glimpse of our reflections in the window as we embrace. What was once solid and sturdy is now fragile, delicate. I realise the window could be shattered into a million sharp, splintered pieces at any moment.
That same year, my maternal grandmother dies at 52.
I remember Mum waking up one morning, a few days after the funeral, and her entire face and body were covered in puffy red welts. I remember wondering if it was her body’s way of screaming for help. The physical self has a peculiar way of responding to emotional trauma.
One month later, my best friend arrives at my house on the morning of her mother’s funeral. Her mum was older than my folks, but she would have only been in her forties when she died.
I can overhear the grown ups speaking in deep, hushed voices to each other, almost as though our seven year old ears aren’t able to detect sounds that aren’t loud and animated. She’s too young to go to the funeral, as though we weren’t yet qualified to deal with death. In my seven year old mind, I assume there must be a particular skill set required to process grief. Perhaps it was like earning a pen licence in primary school once the teacher considered our pencil writing skills acceptable. I figure once we reach a certain age or pass a particular test, we must suddenly become equipped with how to cope with death.
My friend’s older brother and father bury her mother while we create chalk drawings on the pavement and take turns pushing one another on the tyre swing that hangs from the 100 year old paperbark tree in my backyard.
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Shortly after I turn 23, a friend calls to tell me my ex has been involved in an accident and is in a coma.
It makes no sense to me. I bumped into him only a few days ago. I am told he was at a party with some friends celebrating the Olympics closing ceremony when he decided to ride somewhere on his mate’s motorbike. I don’t know why. A car comes around a corner and they collide.
I don’t get much information and it feels weird to ask for specific details. I have so many questions I want to ask, but perhaps part of me doesn’t want to know the answers. The answers won’t change anything now. All I know is he’s on life support in a Brisbane hospital. I’m on a holiday in the Blue Mountains.
I return to Brisbane but I can’t bring myself to go to the hospital. I don’t know if it was because I didn’t want to see him in that state, or if I was just in denial. I check his Facebook page instead, searching for answers, for signs of hope. Friends have written optimistic messages on his page.
‘You better get better right now mister!’
‘Hang in there poppet, I need u round this joint’
‘I know you're gonna pull through this. See you soon. Lots of love xoxo’
‘Hang in there buddy, our thoughts and prayers are with u, looking forward to catching up when this is all over’
‘You will need to come down to Melbourne for a holiday after all this attention has got too much and the nurses refuse to give you any more sponge baths.’
The last message makes me giggle. I know it would make him laugh. He is the cheekiest person I know. I feel reassured. I look at his profile photo and he’s there, that devilish face grinning back at me. He’s going to be okay, I tell myself.
A few days later, I get a phone call. He’s gone.
It’s a different type of grief when it’s a sudden death of someone very young. I’ve never seen so many people at a funeral. I still remember the unbearable pain on the faces of his parents. Nobody expects to bury their child.
Jeff Buckley’s cover of Hallelujah plays as his coffin is carried out of the church. Over a decade later, I still leave the room if I hear that song.
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Fast forward to 2019, and Mum’s ovarian cancer has returned. True to character, she spends the afternoon handing out easter eggs and party hats to her oncology ward nurses to celebrate her final session of chemotherapy.
We snap a group photo together with the nurses in our silly hats to commemorate the occasion. Mum’s got a big smile on her face, and as always, she’s making silly jokes and giggling at herself.
The best way to describe Mum is a ray of sunshine in human form. She never takes herself too seriously, never feels sorry for herself. She will befriend a complete stranger and the following week, they’re at the house, welcomed as part of the extended family. She insists we dance to disco tunes in the lounge room on a random afternoon for no particular reason. I bend down to kiss her head, and as I lean in, she whispers to me: the truth is, it’s my last session of chemo because it’s stopped working.
Her body can’t take any more right now. Cancer cells eventually become resistant to chemotherapy. It spreads into her lymph nodes, her chest. She qualifies for an experimental drug trial and we’re teased with glimmers of hope. It works for a while; until it doesn’t.
One month passes and Dad’s helping me with some odd jobs. Mum and I always joke about him being Mr Fix-it and we nickname him MacGyver because he seems to be able to solve any problem thrown at him. He and I have always enjoyed one on one activities together, whether it’s going on epic bike rides, tossing the frisbee at the beach or swapping cooking techniques. Doing activities together has usually been our way of distracting from whatever is upsetting us.
Today, we’re sitting on the concrete floor at my work and he’s showing me how to fix a broken door. He freezes suddenly, and looks at me with the same pained expression he had on his face when his sister died all those years ago. Tears pool in his eyes. His voice cracks as he tries to break the news to me.
It’s the beginning of the end now. She may not make it to Christmas. My heart aches, heavy with the realisation that this is a problem that Dad just can’t fix.
Mum doesn’t want my brother to know how bad things are. He lives in Sweden and his wife is about to give birth to their third child. Mum worries that if she tells them the truth, it will risk something going wrong with the pregnancy. I feel torn. It’s natural for her to worry about everyone else, but I imagine how hurt I would be if I found out she had been keeping the truth from me.
I clutch my Dad’s hands and ask him to betray Mum’s wishes and tell my brother the truth. If she won’t tell him, you have to tell him or you will regret it forever. If you don’t tell him, I’m going to.
It’s now July and my brother’s wife gives birth to a beautiful, healthy baby girl. Her middle name is Coralie, named after Mum. She has a thick mop of dark hair, identical to the curls Mum had before chemo.
Mum’s planned a week away in August, a final holiday to her favourite place with just our family. The last hurrah. My brother is preparing to fly to Australia with his eldest son to be there for this final holiday together, while his wife remains in Sweden to care for their youngest son and four week old daughter.
Mum’s health starts to decline more rapidly than anyone anticipated. She gets admitted to the palliative care hospice. The holiday is called off. Mum won’t be leaving the hospice. My brother just needs to get here in time to hug her and speak with her. Please, let him get here in time.
I’m at work on Monday morning when Dad calls. You need to come to the hospice now. My entire body starts shaking involuntarily and I collapse onto a chair, a colleague holding me in her arms while another books me an uber. I cry uncontrollably the entire drive to the hospice.
My brother’s flight is due to arrive at midnight. She just needs to hold on until he gets here. Please hold on, Mum. She’s still chatty, and I know she’s holding on for him. We sing her favourite songs as my Uncle plays his guitar. It’s keeping us busy and distracted, and it’s comforting for her.
Dad leaves me at the hospice with Mum so he can collect my brother and my nephew from the airport. I feel sick with worry that she’s going to die without my Dad or brother here. I know I will suffocate under the weight of that guilt. I imagine the fear my brother must be feeling, stepping off that flight after 20 hours of travel and switching on his phone, anxiously waiting for messages to come through, waiting for Dad to show up, hoping that Mum’s still alive.
They make it back in time. I breathe an overwhelming sigh of relief. The heavy feeling has lightened a little. Whatever happens from this point on, I can handle it. We are all here together now.
We share some final words with each other and, in classic Coralie style, she makes me jot down some notes, little bits of wisdom she wants to pass on to me. I cry. She squeezes my hand to reassure me. Even in death, Mum is still comforting me. It’s okay to cry. You don’t have to be brave. For a moment, I am transported back to being seven years old when Mum was grieving the loss of her own mother.
Even now that I’m in my thirties and somewhat ‘practised’ at grieving, I still don’t think anyone is ever fully prepared to cope with death. But I hope that sharing these personal stories might help destigmatise the subject, and maybe even help others feel a little less alone.
Since Mum left this world, considering what’s happened in terms of travel bans and physical distancing restrictions, I can’t even begin to articulate how grateful I am. We were so lucky to be in the one place together, by her side to give her the send off she deserved.
It’s been two years since she died and I still miss her every day. Sometimes when I laugh I am reminded of her – you could always hear that infectious cackle from streets away. ✿
Image Description: An old film photograph of Amy’s mother, Coralie, aged in her twenties, standing outside at an open car boot with her torso turned to face the camera. She has long brown hair that has been straightened and is wearing a white t-shirt, dark jeans and sneakers. She has a big smile on her face.
