I am trying to remain my normal positive upbeat self, but the flashbacks of the images weigh my heart, as does the sadness of the families who I know are now suffering a significant loss. I know from trauma counselling that these thoughts are not helpful, so today I have tried to distract myself with exercise, cooking, cleaning the house, watching a movie and chatting on my beloved twitter. The thoughts and images are there today because of the recent crash and there is no escape. I have written about this before and its very likely will write about it again because it has been the single most life-changer for me; raw, emotional, painful but also something that has allowed me a second chance to appreciate my life and do something wonderful with it. So I am throwing my words out to the universe.
The thoughts.
I can still see the body bags, contorted shapes in thick black plastic of my colleagues. Laying deathly still on orange plastic basket stretchers as they are lifted out of the rescue plane. Gone. Dead. No longer here but in spirit. My breath is gone as they emerge covered in tropical flowers. Women around me are singing mourning songs of the Highlanders and holding me. I remember catching my breath again as I sobbed, using my pink silk scarf from Cambodia as a tissue. Tasting the salt of my tears. Feeling the heaviness in my chest and ribs. Reviewing the hangar space around me, I see some of the ugly people who have been unhelpful in my efforts of orchestrating the retrieval of the bodies. The local government departments who wanted to photograph the charred remains. The high commissioner with a huge ego who disrespected the deaths by putting her ego ahead anything else. The media who somehow bribed their way into the hangar despite my efforts of keeping them at bay. The security men I had contracted to ensure some privacy. And finally the four ground ambulances I had arranged to be backed into the hangar to receive each body to take to the morgue for identification.
I had spent some time at the morgue the days prior with the Australian consulate. It had to be done, and I was the only person to do it. They were unlikely to be able to deal with the identification but would be able to prepare the bodies for international repatriation of mortal remains sufficiently. The morgue was cold, it smelt like formaldehyde and bleach. There were garish plastic flowers, crosses and tiny baby clothes on display. It hurt to look. My local colleague waited outside because he feared coming in with me. Most of my visits inside the morgue I spent alone. I hated every minute. I hated having to arrange this. I hated that I had to arrange this by myself. I hated speaking to the mortician who had seen too much death in her young years to show any kind of empathy. I hated it - the whole lot.
At night I would go back to my hotel room alone. I tried to stay as long as possible at the office to avoid being by myself but there came a time in my day when I had to go back and maintain a routine before a global conference call with the crisis management team. I drank a lot of coffee. I made a lot of phone calls. I watched a lot of TV. I wrote a lot of emails. Anything to keep me from thinking about it.
A few days later I found myself at the airport flying back to Australia. A memory of myself in the business class lounge with a glass of wine talking to someone. Then boarding my plane, taking my seat and looking at the view. Thats when I realised I was about to fly. I cried, I felt so alone.
The "incident" was with me 24/7 for months. I wore the same pair of diamond earrings every day incase I was on a bus that crashed and they needed to identify me. My colleague was wearing a gold Orthoodx cross which I had cleaned up in case his wife wanted it. She wanted him buried with it and I arranged it. I stopped thinking about it every day after a while, and then I only thought about it on a Tuesday. (It happened on a Tuesday). And now, eighteen months later I hardly ever think about it unless I see a news report of another plane or helicopter crash in Papua New Guinea.
So that was then and now I have to focus on the positives. I have learnt a lot from the experience.
I didn't die in a plane crash in Papua New Guinea. I did a brilliantly professional job of managing the repatriation of the remains, of project managing the disaster victim identification and getting them home to their families for an honourable burial. I did an amazing job of keeping it all together.
I came home to my beautiful family. I am grateful every day for this luxury and I don't stress about the little things anymore because they just don't matter.
The memory of that time is still very painful and when I hear of another crash in PNG it breaks my heart. Putting it in words is healing.
To the Hevilift victims, may you all rest in peace.
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