Freida’s unexpected arrival into our world has healed so many deep-seeded wounds.
We were not expecting her. Nor did I expect the magnitude of love I would feel for her. Her presence has evoked conflicting emotions: sadness, yet joy. I say this because her resemblance to Oscar is eerily uncanny. She has very similar colouring and her mannerisms, sometimes they stop me in my tracks. I feel she is meant to be here and maybe that’s why I had a very unusual visit from a very inquisitive magpie, which has me believing that maybe there was some kind of divine intervention.
So what does a magpie have to do with Freida’s arrival?
About a week prior to me hearing Freida was available for adoption, a magpie appeared on the balustrade on the deck of my home. He looked right at me, and when I approached, he remained. I stood right beside him, looked into his eyes, and he stared back with such intensity. I felt a warm, comforting tingling sensation run through my body. Not one of fear, more one of knowing. I felt he was trying to tell me something. I called him Malcolm and he visited for 3 consecutive days: he would arrive, watch me from the balustrade for up to 4 hours, then disappear. Sometimes he would jump down onto the deck, walk inside and stand just inside the door and watch. Stanley didn’t react, he simply watched with interest. On the 4th day, he didn’t arrive. I’ve not seen him again.
A few days later I Googled ‘magpie visits’ and I was astounded at what I discovered. Apparently a visiting magpie is deemed to be intensely spiritual. Here’s a excerpt; When a bird acts in an unusual way (for example is particularly friendly or appears to be looking for attention), or it appears repeatedly (at least 3 times in a short-period of time), it is trying to convey a message from the spirit world to you.
Whilst I’m a spiritual person, I’m not religious, yet also a believer in the unusual and unexplained. So this visit from Malcolm was puzzling.
A few days following ‘Malcolm’s departure, I had the call about Freida. Did I want to meet her? Of course we did and she came into my life and has brought so much light to a very dark place. She is perfect in every way.
Is that what Malcolm was trying to tell me? If so, he was so very right.
Recently I read a book called Denali: a man, a dog and the friendship of a lifetime.
The story of a young man’s unique friendship with his beloved dog, Denali. Following Denali’s death at 14, Moon struggles as his grief is ‘so sustained and intense’. On sharing his grief with a friend he is told: “that’s because your bond was so strong. When you lose your canine soul mate, you not only lose the dog that has been your companion and friend, but you also have to let go of that chapter of your life. It forces you to grow into what you’ll become: it’s the last parting act of friendship.”
I thought of my own grief from losing Oscar, and as I continued to read, I felt comfort in the author’s words. I too have to let go of a chapter, and I know Oscar would want that. Yet moving on to the next chapter does not mean I’m moving on from him. It simply means that I cannot continue to live in his chapter, for he is no longer there. He has completed his journey and now I need to complete mine. And as hard as it is do so without Oscar, it is something I have to do to ensure my happiness.
Bear Dog would want me to run, be free and be happy, just as he was. He would want me to grow and I truly believe it was Bear’s last parting act of his love and friendship. It was the completion of his journey.
So as I now step into this new chapter, I now know I can reread, I can embrace photos, and I can allow my heart to be filled with only love as I relive the beautiful memories of our chapter together. But I cannot go back.
So I shall go forward.
Sometimes I feel the reason we cannot move forward is because we do not want to let go. In moving forward, it is as if that previous chapter did not exist and there is an element of guilt associated with that. We feel we are betraying their being, their memory. I personally feel in moving on, Oscar is left behind. But rationality reminds me that this thought process is completely irrational. Oscar has not been left behind, he is firmly imbedded into my being. He will always be here.
He loved me, I was his person. If he could speak to me now he would be saying, in his gruff little voice, these words:
Remember how special our relationship was. remember the warmth of our closeness. Yes, I have now crossed the rainbow bridge, so please be happy that I am ok. Please laugh again, smile again and do yoga again. That was our thing, remember? I loved it when you would lie on the floor, particularly when you did downward dog, I loved that one the most as it was my cue to chin chew. Without my help you would not have been able to do those complicated poses.
You would also not have been able to go in the right direction without me sitting upright in the car. And the funny way I would walk when I was in a hurry. Particuarly when we were on the way home from a walk. It was as if my back legs had to move faster in order to propel my whole body up the hill. I had a very important walk. But of course there were moments when I had to suddenly stop to sniff. That happened frequently. You would sometimes get mad, well not really, but then we would continue on.
When I was navigating in the front seat, I’d get mad when we stopped. I didn’t always understand that you stopped because you had to: i.e. traffic lights. But I would whine in my own unique way and I would tilt my head to the side, tongue hanging out whilst I looked at you, willing you to keep moving. And as soon as we stopped anywhere other than traffic. Id really let you know I needed to get out and explore the surroundings.
And my Stanley is here, by my side. His loyalty is heartfelt. His calmness his aloofness, his professorship ways as Mum says. He does not bounce like Oscar, he is unassuming, quiet and totally devoted.
Together we now have this new chapter, we don’t know what is written, we just need to be present, with each other and enjoy what may come.
As a young woman I tended to ignore my instincts that suggested someone’s behaviour was not indicative of a positive, fulfilling relationship. Probably due to many years of relentless bullying that mentored a deep lack of self-belief and self-love.
Yet as time passed, many positive experiences and relationships allowed me to nurture self love and as that grew, so did my ability to listen to, and honour my instincts. As such, there were very few times in which I didn’t act on instinctual signals.
Until recently.
For reasons not yet determined, old behaviours surfaced and I found myself becoming that frightened little girl who, many years ago, sheltered from the tormenters, ran from the bullies. Past fears dictated my behaviour and the strong, fearless woman I am now, hid in the shadows of self doubt. I forgot how to protect myself and so I became caught in a web of negativity and narcissistic behaviour.
Then I remembered.
Remembered I was not that frightened, bullied, little girl. I was a strong, independent, loving woman who did not cower to narcissistic behaviour.
So I acted, and closed a chapter that should never have been reopened.
In the background, gentle music fills the chilly winter air. On the floor, my two precious pups lay curled together in front of the heater. Frieda’s dark, shiny head is tucked beneath Stanley’s chest. Their rhythmic breathing, restful and calm. How I cherish them.
Their presence enriches my life and allows me to find contentment in just being, there is no longer any rush to get to somewhere else. I enjoy the Now. Something I had always struggled with. I was constantly searching for somewhere else to be, someone else to be.
Yet now, I feel such freedom. Freedom from that feeling that had enveloped my mind and being for so many years. Maybe it came down to feelings of not fitting in during my younger years. In having those feelings, the need to flee and be somewhere other than where I was dominated my being, thoughts, and feelings.
A couple of weeks ago, we had an intense argument that led to an intense conversation about true feelings, needs and expectations. Afterward, I felt as though I’d been washed clean with honest words and feelings. Years of anguish, doubt and hurt collided with fear and expectations that morning. In the aftermath, recognition and understanding and the need to always communicate with honesty and clarity prevailed.
I feel we moved forward in so many ways. We are family and we love each other deeply, I know that, and I feel so grateful and proud of them.
So where to now? For the moment I will take the Now, second by second, minute by minute, day by day. I do know that sometime in the next year, I will find my forever after place. A place where rolling green hills shape the landscape. A place where birdsong is ever present and a place where I can sit and listen to life. Life in all it’s gentle splendour. A place where I will take those long, slow walks in the company of my precious dogs and nature.
A place where I can sit on a sunlit verandah watching the clouds, listening to the nothing.
A place that will allow me to breathe in my twighlight years with peace, tranquility, and love.
No longer needing, wanting, or yearning.
For I have found all I need in who I am, and in the few beautiful, precious souls who complete me.
I yearn to call, to share, to listen and to speak with the one person who really understood.
For there were no boundaries, no walls and no pretence.
No need to impress, no yearning for approval, no feelings of inadequacy.
With you, I was always me.
Sometimes I lose that woman who shone in your light. The woman who bathed in your wisdom, bathed in your strength. That woman who, in your presence, allowed herself to breathe, to believe, to shine.
I took a drive to the ocean the other day. It was a day you would’ve embraced. For you loved the ocean, particularly on cold, stormy days. You often said that’s when the ocean was really alive.
When waves crashed on hardened sand, and heavy, black clouds weighted the sky with intensity and fury. That was when, you said, the ocean was truly alive.
On those days, when the weather raged, you’d forage for shells, often finding those that hadn’t fallen victim to the endless pounding of fierce waves. You’d always find those that remained whole, pure and as one. A reflection of you perhaps.
The morning after you left, I took a walk by the ocean. The sand was scattered with shards of broken shells, I paused for a moment and at my feet lay a perfect shell. Did you place it there?
I took it home. It now sits in the frame of your picture.
She did not use words to voice her excitement, rather, Mum’s excitement was shown through expression. Her smile grew wide and her eyes sparkled like those of a toddler who delighted in the gifts that lay beneath the Christmas tree. Her fingers glided over the electronic buttons embedded in the armrest, and her eyes rested upon the menu that was placed neatly on her seat alongside the amenities pack.
As she began to settle in her Business Class seat on a Qantas flight bound for Frankfurt via Singapore, tears began to glide down her cheeks. She turned toward me and slowly mouthed a simple, ‘thank you’.
I will never forget that moment. She was so happy, so thankful and so excited. I hugged her warmly, then together, we chinked our chilled glasses of champagne, took a long sip and revelled in the moment.
Adjacent to us, my boys then 10 & 12, were excitedly exploring the gadgets, gifts and myriad of entertainment on offer in the expansive seats that made them look very small. And whilst Mum’s excitement was contained, theirs was not, and with every new discovery, squeals of joy permeated through the cabin.
Watching my family’s happiness, I was thankful. Thankful for being a Qantas employee whose benefits included free Business Class tickets to any destination in the world, and thankful that I could share those benefits with those I loved.
I had surprised Mum with the tickets after previously speaking with Dad. He did not want to come, rather, he felt a trip with Mum and my two sons was a perfect idea. Knowing Mum adored Europe, I knew that was the perfect place for us to go, and as I believed, as did Mum that the best experiences were those that happened serendipitously, our itinerary was unplanned. The only sure thing was the month long booking of a hire car that we’d collect on our arrival into Frankfurt Main, and from there, who knew.
Many hours later, with Mum and Rob in the back of our hire car and Max, as self-appointed navigator in the front, we set off through the dark, underground car park in search of the exit. This simple task turned into a laughter filled adventure when the boys spotted a sign with the words Ausfahrt splashed across the vivid, green background. Farting noises and giggles followed and despite discovering it was german for exit, throughout our journey, it was a constant source of amusement for them.
On Christmas morning 2007, with giggles abated, we finally emerged from the darkness to find ourselves immersed in a spectacular, snow filled landscape.
It was indeed a very merry Christmas.
For the next few weeks, the laughter was in abundance and the adventures numerous. You loved that trip and in the years following, you spoke of it often.
Lake Annecy, France
It has now been 14 years since that wonderful adventure, and as today is the anniversary of my first year without you, I felt sharing some of our adventures is a fitting tribute to honour the beautiful, funny, crazy and incredibly loving woman, mother and grandmother that you were.
I’m so grateful for our relationship, so grateful that I was always there for you and so grateful you were always there for me. I’m so happy I took you to Europe, Bali and many other destinations we found ourselves in. So grateful we spent the afternoon of Christmas Day watching the world go by at Mooloolaba beach from the comfort of the car. Dogs on laps, we laughed as you did a running commentary of people strolling by. You loved that. You loved it when we took many leisurely drives through the countryside. We would stop many times to take in the quiet, and simply to be.
Mum, I could write for hours about all the things we did together, and I love that only we shared so many crazy, laughter filled moments.
‘Slipping’ on rainy streets in Singapore, crazy ‘mattress rides’ in France, being the ‘pied piper’ on Austria’s winding roads, sipping vin chaud in quaint bars, and feeling like fugitives in Switzerland. How could we forget Delphine throwing cooking oil on unsuspecting drivers in Germany, then the laughter filled snowmobile rides on France’s glorious snowfields. At home, those endless hours chatting downstairs, whilst Dad sat snoring happily in an adjoining chair. How we laughed when in unison, we would say, ‘Ken/Dad, go to bed…’.
I am so lucky to have so many memories and so many photos of our life together.
I won’t pretend to say I’m not sad, I am, I’m heartbroken knowing I can no longer create memories with you. Yet despite my sadness, I know you were so happy that we were so close and that replaces all my sadness with joy.
Mum, you were my best friend and my greatest support.
IF only there were a guidebook that prepared you for the emotional trauma the IVDD journey invokes. Yes, there’s an abundance of information and support out there, however when IVDD invades your reality, confusion, despair and grief wash over you in ways you’d never imagined.
As a dachshund owner for nearly 20 years, I believed I knew enough about IVDD to ensure I’d taken precautions to reduce the probability of this insidious disease entering our home.
I now know that despite my knowledge and preventative measures, IVDD was destined to crash into our lives and the emotional trauma left in its wake had me feeling bereft and at times, inconsolable. I’ve blamed myself, rehashed scenarios of the should’ve, could’ve, but the reality is this, there was simply nothing more I could’ve done to change both mine and Oscar’s life path.
What follows is our IVDD journey and the emotional trauma it forced upon us both.
Oscar came into our lives as an 8-week old, bundle of standard wire-haired fluff. At the time my Dad was an All-Breeds judge, and his contacts in the dog world were varied and vast. As such, Oscar’s breeder was well researched, well known and above all, well respected. Over the years her dogs had very few litters and IVDD was totally absent in her bloodlines. From a background perspective, the chances of Oscar succumbing to IVDD were remote. Of my four dachshunds, Oscar was the one I was least worried about.
On the night of September 15, 2020, Oscar went to bed without showing any sign of pain or discomfort. At 5am the following morning, I woke to see Oscar struggling to get off his bed. I shot out of bed as I thought he was ‘stuck’ on something. A stupid thought I know, but at that moment IVDD did not enter my head, particularly as he did not appear to be in any pain, moreover, he seemed to have his normal, happy disposition. I looked around him and could see no reason for his inability to move – it was only on lifting his back end and have him collapse back onto the ground that panic set in.
I was terrified. I scooped him into my arms and raced down the stairs and frantically started knocking on my 24-year old son’s door. As the door opened, so did my emotions. I began to sob uncontrollably, and I could barely get the words out. Max was confused, yet somehow managed to understand my garbled mutterings about Oscar being paralysed. I placed him in the car, and with sobs racking my body, I somehow managed to get him to the emergency vet, 10 minutes later.
After what seemed an interminable wait, it was explained Oscar was Deep Pain Negative and they suspected Stage 5 IVDD. She explained he would be transferred to North Coast Veterinary Service (NCVS) at 0800 and would undergo a CT and MRI to confirm their suspected diagnosis. They brought him out for a hug before asking me to await the surgeon’s call later that morning.
At that point shock had numbed my reality. I was floating in a fog of confusion and concern and all I wanted to do was be with Oscar. I wanted to hold him and comfort him, despite my all-consuming fear. I wanted to take him in my arms and run as far away as possible. Shield us both somehow with the ‘if you can’t see us, then we can’t see you and all of this is just a horrible dream’ approach. Denial was hijacking my thoughts, in all its ugly glory.
As I waited at home for the surgeon to call, I begged my memory to recall the previous nights events. To play a movie in my mind so I could see if it was my fault, if I missed something. I vividly remember him doing his nightly ritual of heading outside to wee, then plodding past the bathroom as I showered. My memory clouds when I attempt to visualise him in his bed, and keeping to my nightly ritual of kissing my boys goodnight before climbing into my own bed. I’m sure I bade them all goodnight, in my usual manner, however not being able to have an absolute recall of that moment, I fear I could’ve missed something. Did he look comfortable, or did his disc explode as he settled on his bed? Was he in pain then? Surely I would’ve known that right? Yet the thought he may have been in pain and suffered through the night was terrifying. I’ve read countless stories about other IVDD cases and majority state there were notable signs, yet Oscar did not display any signs, of that I’m sure.
Later that day, as I met with Dr Nima, a surgeon at North Coast Veterinary Service (NCVS), I felt terrified and lost – just as Oscar would’ve been. And whilst I listened to her heartfelt words confirming Stage 5 IVDD and all the possible complications, tears fell silently, and the helplessness intensified.
She began to speak of progressive myelomalacia (PMM), words I’d not heard before. And as she explained that it presented in only 5% of cases, I felt nausea rise in my throat. My heart raced, yet I did not want to appear weak and vulnerable, so I nodded quietly whilst digging my nails into the palms of my hands in an effort to distract myself from the wave of fear her words triggered. My nails dug harder as she relayed her concerns for Oscar, for in light of his diagnosis, the chances of myelomalacia presenting rose to approximately 30%.
Conservative treatment was not a favourable option, so Oscar was scheduled for surgery later that afternoon; a hemilaminectomy and durotomy for a severe disc extrusion at T13, L1. It was then that Dr Nima revealed the ugliest of truths – IVDD could in fact, be fatal. She reassured me that the possibility of this was slight, yet I needed to be prepared as Oscar’s condition was considered severe. Despite my despair, I appreciated her honesty. She was kind, empathetic and clearly cared about Oscar’s well-being. I will be forever grateful for her kindness and I cannot fault her care.
Yet as I continued to listen, I felt the nausea rise again. This could not be happening; I’d done all the right things and why my Oscar? My soulmate, my heartdog, my everything. Once again I felt the need to find Oscar and run. Run far, far away.
When I returned home, I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, and I paced the house not knowing what to do with myself. I couldn’t help him, I couldn’t protect him and now, I couldn’t hold his paw, stroke his silky head and tell him I loved him. He would be scared; he would be confused, and I couldn’t be there to support him. Not being able to be in the surgery with him, or be there when he woke was for me, the epitome of helplessness. My best friend was hurting and there was nothing I could do to ease his fear or alleviate his pain.
When Dr Nima called me later that night telling me Oscar had done really well in surgery, my heart soared. And when I saw him the next morning, I felt so relieved. They said he was doing well and even managed to walk, albeit aided with a specially designed sling to support his back legs and spine. Whilst I felt so happy to see him, he looked despondent and confused. Nurse Tegan reassured me and said he was on heavy painkillers and a little confused with what had occurred.
The following two days showed promise. There were no neurological deficits presenting, he seemed alert, responsive to physio, yet still no response to deep pain stimulus. Dr Nima was hopeful and on Friday, September 18, said he could be expected to go home the following Monday. Nurse Tegan sent me regular texts when I couldn’t be with him. I will always be grateful and thankful for the love and care they showed Oscar. Knowing he was in such caring hands made this traumatic time a touch more bearable.
The following day (Saturday, 72 hours post op), I had a mid-morning call explaining Oscar had deteriorated overnight and was beginning to show signs of ascending myelomalacia.
I cannot begin to articulate the level of despair I felt at hearing those words. I had spent the last 2 days heavily researching and I knew what this diagnosis signalled.
I hung up and fell to my knees and sobbed inconsolably. I was alone, I had no one to share this pain with and I felt so, so lost. I had experienced loss of incredible magnitude several years earlier when my little girl died from heart disease; at that moment, as I lay weeping, the grief I felt was measurable to losing Meg. That may be hard for many to understand, but Oscar was my everything and the thought of losing him was beyond comprehension.
Over the weekend he continued to deteriorate, as did I from an emotional perspective. I spent hours at the hospital in his crate, lying by his side comforting him in every way. I held him, played music and fed him pieces of chicken and finely diced frankfurts. I felt so helpless and whilst I didn’t realise at the time, the nurses must’ve known he was now palliative as they were so kind. On the Sunday I spent most of the day lying in his crate with him. The nurses would come by and offer water and biscuits and generally just ask if I was ok. At one point, one of them gave me a huge hug, which simply allowed the tears to flow more quickly.
By Monday, Oscar had lost the use of his front limbs and was unable to lift his head. Dr Nima said he was not in pain and she assured me he was comfortable. I clearly remember her saying that even if there was only a 5% chance of him surviving, she would do everything in her power. Yet, deep down, we all knew the reality. Myelomalacia was fatal. And I’d done enough research to know that after paralysis of the thoracic limbs, which Oscar now had, paralysis of the respiratory muscles would present. I did not want that for him, so I knew I would soon have to say goodbye to my precious Bear.
Overnight, Oscar deteriorated rapidly and on Tuesday morning, the 22nd of September 2020, I was told our only kind option would be to send him across the rainbow bridge. As per his clinical notes: Oscar has deteriorated overnight with progressive myelomalacia after severe disc extrusion at T13/L1 with flaccid paralysis of both fore and hindlimbs. Panniculus reflex is absent.He is mentally depressed and less responsive than yesterday. I have had a long discussion with his owner and unfortunately advised euthanasia and the owners have accepted this recommendation.
I knew this was coming, yet when those words were spoken, I broke. I was about to lose my precious boy and that was unfathomable. I asked how long we had before myelomalacia would begin to affect his respiratory muscles. I was told maximum 24 hours.
I decided to take him home as we wanted his last hours to be surrounded by those who adored him and in a place he felt safe and loved. I bundled him in my arms and held him close as we drove home. I opened the window and as his head rested against my shoulder, I felt his breath quicken as he tried to sniff the passing air.
Being in the car was one of his greatest loves and he would sit upright, with ears flapping, nose sniffing and a look of joy on his beautiful face. As we drove home, I made sure he was doing just that and I sensed he knew I was helping him, and I knew in my heart he felt safe.
As I walked inside, Stanley and Eddie walked slowly toward me. I knelt down so they could see their brother and they gently sniffed him before Stanley gave him a slow lick on his face. I sat on the couch and cradled Oscar and noticed his breathing slow as I believed he knew he was home and he finally felt at peace. My heart was breaking, yet I felt comfort in knowing he was home and that in his final hours, he was bathed in love. As the afternoon drew to a close, his breathing became more difficult and we knew it was his time to leave. We had hoped to say goodbye at home, but sadly and despite our best efforts we had to return to NCVS.
Oscar crossed the rainbow bridge at 4.51pm on Tuesday, September 22, 2020. As he crossed, I held him close and through the uncontrollable sobs, I whispered that I would love him forever.
The emotional trauma IVDD invokes is both individual and undeniably painful.
There is no BandAid for the wound it opens, no aspirin for the pain it places in your heart. It simply breaks us in ways we could never imagine.
Many years ago, after the loss of my daughter, I read the words: ‘when tragedy strikes your life you can be one of two things – bitter or better – I choose better…’
Losing Oscar broke me, and I have had moments when I felt I would never recover. On writing his story, in detail, something changed. I realised I had been so lucky to have known him and in knowing my precious Oscar aka Bear, I had become a better person. Yes, his loss is indeed a tragedy, and in moving forward, he would want me to continue to be better, and he would want me to embrace life just as he did: with love, laughter and light.
I will love you forever my precious Bear…
What I discovered in writing about my own emotional trauma was this: it opened the door to healing, and for the first time in the 6 months since Oscar died, I began to feel the wretchedness of his loss easing. There is no doubt the pain is still raw and tears flow randomly, but I also began to fully identify with a passage I read in Ben Moon’s book. He says: “When you lose your canine soul mate, you not only lose the dog that has been your companion and friend through so much, you also have to let go of that chapter of your life, and who you were then. It forces you to grow into what you’ll become, the last parting act of friendship.” Denali: A Man, a Dog, and the Friendship of a Lifetime
It’s 0730, around the time I normally call, and knowing I can no longer continue this mutually enjoyed ritual of ours, one week after you passed is surreal.
In the few weeks leading to you leaving, I knew something wasn’t right: and it was as if you somehow knew your time here was coming to an end. You didn’t speak in a negative voice, for you never complained about your life, on the contrary, you were so happy, particularly these last 7 months. But I believe you somehow knew your stroke was pending, and you were at peace with that. You had completed your journey and now it was time to start another. And as I held your hand last week, I knew you struggled knowing you would soon leave me. I told you I would be ok if you needed to go and my words, I believe, gave you peace.
I didn’t want you to leave, but you were so frustrated at not being able to communicate or move your body. Yet you maintained your humour: pulling faces, poking out your tongue, albeit sideways and we could see the joy in your eyes at knowing those who truly loved you, were there, holding your hand.
You said many times how happy you were. You spoke of your happiness at being so close to me, the boys and the pups. You spoke of how you were now free of fear. Fear that came from worrying if they would find you. Once reassured they couldn’t & wouldn’t, your fear dissipated.
You did not harbour hatred for what they did, rather, you released them from your life without bitterness. We both did. We released those you trusted for deceiving and stealing from you. Yet whilst you were at peace with the deceit, you didn’t forget. Didn’t forget how those who were once family, used your money at whim and depleted your once healthy bank account. Your anger centred more toward the fraudulent use of Dad’s credit card and how they had used his card and spent over $5000. This discovery was painful because we knew Dad felt little for them in his final years. Their lack of communication and lack of visits fuelled his feelings – it hurt him, yet Dad did not allow that hurt to define him. Yet when we were heard ‘S’ claim she was the only daughter who received all his love – oh how we laughed at that Mum, for we knew differently. As he, like you, had released her from his life. Yes, on the rare occasions they were spoken of, their audacity, stupidity and hypocrisy gave us endless entertainment.
Yet we took their deceit for what it was and found their blatant audacity in leaving their digital fingerprint across countless transactions the epitome of stupidity. Such ignorance made it so easy for detectives to find and create a fraud investigation. Pages and pages of transactions showed over a period of 3 years, $30,000 was spent without your consent or knowledge. We wondered why you spent so much on cigarettes when you didn’t smoke, and found it highly amusing that you bought sperm from Seattle. We figured that was for when you found that man your searched for with the E Harmony account you somehow created without internet access. Yet what intrigued and amused us most, was the fact you spent thousands, at age 89 years old, to undergo IVF.
Oh how we laughed at that IVF discovery Mum, we laughed at their blatant ignorance at believing their expenditure of your money would not be discovered. And we rejoiced at knowing it had, knowing they were exposed. Rejoiced that one day, their time will come. You won’t see that now, but it will, even if it does take the detective’s estimate of 8 years to come to court, I will see it through for you.
Most of all we rejoiced at being free, being together and being so, so happy. We forgot about them and simply lived happily. You, just as Dad did, would speak of having 2 daughters and 4 grandchildren. You were not sad at seeing their evil words in emails and how they had stated they wanted nothing more to do with you, conversely, you were at peace with that. Just as Dad had been at peace with their lack of presence in his life.
Whilst sorting through your clothes yesterday, I found a t-shirt you wore often. It reads; No Regrets. You definitely did not have any regrets and I love wearing that t-shirt as it smells of you and that makes me smile.
I’m so grateful for our relationship, so grateful that I was always there for you and so grateful you were always there for me. I’m so happy I took you to Europe, Bali and many other destinations we found ourselves in. So grateful we spent the afternoon of Christmas Day watching the world go by at Mooloolaba beach from the comfort of the car. Dogs on laps, we laughed as you did a running commentary of people strolling by. You loved that. You loved it when we took many leisurely drives through the countryside. We would stop many times to take in the quiet, and simply to be.
Mum, I could write for hours about all the things we did together, and I love that only we shared so many crazy, laughter filled moments.
‘Slipping’ on rainy streets in Singapore, crazy ‘mattress rides’ in France, being the ‘pied piper’ on Austria’s winding roads, sipping vin chaud in quaint bars, and feeling like fugitives in Switzerland. How could we forget Delphine throwing cooking oil on unsuspecting drivers in Germany, then the laughter filled snowmobile rides on France’s glorious snowfields. At home, those endless hours chatting downstairs, whilst Dad sat snoring happily in an adjoining chair. How we laughed when in unison, we would say, ‘Ken/Dad, go to bed…’.
I am so lucky to have so many memories and so many photos of our life together. Ironically, they are now requesting my images – maybe if they’d spent more time in yours and Dad’s company, more frequently, they would have their own images to reflect upon.
I won’t pretend to say I’m not sad, I am, I’m heartbroken knowing I can no longer create memories with you. Yet despite my sadness, I know you were so happy these last months and that replaces all my sadness with joy.
We can rationalise, question, rationalise and question again, but we’re never prepared to say that final goodbye.
Then you realise it is his journey, not yours. Realise you have to let go. Realise it’s time to say goodbye. But it’s okay.
It’s called grieving. It’s called love. It’s called loss.
Bottom line though, my heart is breaking. Breaking into a million pieces. Breaking as though its never been broken before.
You’d think it’d get easier. But it dosen’t. Hurt is hurt, pain is pain, grief is grief.
And there was so much hurt, pain and grief at being told 8 weeks ago that our beloved Simon has a highly aggressive cancer. In the 8 weeks following, we have seen our beautiful boy succumb to this ferocious disease.
Our beautiful Simon aka Big-bigs came into our lives 6 years ago as a happy go lucky 9-year-old dachshund whose attitude was simply divine. He was in need of a new home following a divorce, and from the moment he set his furry paws on our doorstep, we became one and our family was complete.
Over the last 6 years we have been so lucky to have shared our lives with this beautiful, quirky, funny soul. He has lit up our lives and given us so much more than we have given him.
And now it’s time to let him trot, as only Big-bigs does, across the rainbow bridge where his soul will be forever free. Free to dig for bugs hidden deep within the dirt. Free to grumble at any other souls who try to take a favourite toy. Free to bark as loud as he can when playing in the pool.
We will love you forever, special soul. We are broken, but we are so blessed to have shared our lives with you.
Today I had to go to work. But today was different, very different, as along with 4 of the most amazing, beautiful and honest women I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with, it was our last day.
The company we worked for, like thousands of other businesses, has closed as a result of the economic downturn brought on by Covid19.
Sadly though, we have not been asked to take paid and or unpaid leave with the hope of returning in the future. The company went into Voluntary Administration, and along with all stores Australia wide, our store has been permanently closed.
And whilst I feel immensely sad that I’ve lost a great casual job and I’ll no longer share my working hours with those fabulous women, we all still have our health and our families, a sentiment countless thousands of others around the world cannot share.
Unfortunately, this scenario is being repeated, not only in Australia, but throughout the world. So many people have lost their jobs, and as I walked through Sunshine Plaza with my son today, to drop off my shop keys, the reality of those job losses was evident.
The massive shopping plaza that houses over 340 stores, was deserted. Over 95% of stores were closed.
Yet, I consider myself one of the lucky ones. From a financial perspective, I am able to comfortably stay at home and share this difficult time with the best family anyone could ask for. I am not alone; I have food on the table and an abundance of love from human and canine family alike.
So please, whilst it may be difficult that we cannot travel, go on holidays, see friends or simply do what we took for granted, be mindful of what you can do.
You can simply take the time to embrace what is really important. Time. Time spent with those you love and who love you in return.
Stay home, think about those not as fortunate, and embrace this new way of living…
stanley & bear 