Mothers Day nightmare - 2013

During COVID lockdown as I try to rekindle some old hobbies (such as writing), I came across this blog I forgot to publish many years ago. 

A Mothers Day to remember - 2013

About a month ago, I read the horrific news of a young teenage boy in my area who died as a result of an injury he sustained on the rugby field. As a mother of two boys playing Rugby League, my heart skipped a few beats, but then relief soon came over me as I realised that this will never happen to my child.  

Because my children are mine. Because my children play for clubs who care. Because, because because.... because I didn't want to think that this could ever happen to my child. 

Today I kissed and stroked the lovely head of my 17year old son as he slowly woke from surgery. A Mothers Day afternoon rugby accident and I wasn't there to see his game because I was with my other child at the time. They both have such a love of league and their games were on at the same time. A struggle as a mother, especially on Mothers Day. 

My son had the ball and was tackled. A young player from the other team decided to tackle him with his shoulder even after the ref had called "held". Jack was already down on the ground, but the other player threw his shoulder into Jacks back - because thats what big boys are allowed to do. He was taken to the emergency department by ambulance and the Xrays could not find a fracture so they discharged him and referred him for an ultrasound. Then it was a CT Scan, and then he was sent right back to emergency.

The CT found a seriously nasty injury; extremely uncommon and the result of an extreme trauma. Not a soft rugby tackle kind of trauma, but a deliberate and heavy trauma. A posterior dislocation of the sternoclavicular joint which is the joint where the clavicle meets the sternum. Such an injury poses high risks of puncturing a lung, or an artery - because all those fancy bits of our "life" engine are held behind those bones. We're so lucky. One centimetre to the left and this would have been his spine. One centimetre upwards, and this would have been his neck. 

The orthopaedic surgeon explained the procedures to us and then scheduled Jack in first thing in the morning. Wednesday morning, three days after the incident. I mention this only to highlight that despite Jack being taken by ambulance to the emergency department, and then having surgery nearly three days later, no one from his Rugby club had called us to find out how he was doing (or from a crisis management point of view, how exposed they were for their insurance claim!). 

So I contacted them. I didn't have the phone number (not on their website), so I emailed the manager of Jacks team who also happens to be the secretary of the club. He called me back with three seconds of me clicking the "Send" button. I explained that Jack had been in surgery all morning, and then went on to explain that he probably wont be playing for the rest of the season. I also told him that I wanted the team and the player of the illegal tackle to be educated in the seriousness of their action and how something in the moment can go so horribly wrong. I wont say he grunted at me, but he did interject quite loudly that there was no illegal tackle because the ref didn't call it. Therefore nothing wrong was done on the field on Sunday afternoon. He also reminded me there were two linesmen, and no video ref - but that as far as he was concerned, nothing wrong was done by anyone that day. And the incident report? Well, there wasn't one, because nothing wrong was done. I wondered if a post match incident report could be written - no......... I wondered how an ambulance could be called without an incident report? Grunt. I wondered if a session to educate players on the longer term personal impact after such tackles could be considered - no....So, I then told him that I would like the details of the insurance policy the club held because I intended to activate this to claim for ongoing sport physiotherapy, and any other therapy my son would require as a result. I'll have the policy details by Monday. 

Not once did this manager of the team ask how my son was doing. Not once did he express any empathy towards what my son was now going through. Because, he really didn't care. I was absolutely aghast at how little this manager cared about one of his players. My son, who I had believed was being looked after in a sport he absolutely loves. 

Tomorrow Jack will be having another CT scan with the potential of more surgery. I will again be the mother patting her sons head as he wakes from the anaesthetic - groggy, swollen and bruised. I will comfort him when he is so depressed that he wont be playing a sport he adores. And I will be forever grateful that my son lived with injuries that could be healed by skilled professionals, that he is not a child whose life was lost as a result of a game. 

I sincerely hope the National Rugby League can start an education process teaching kids about safe tackling.

Postscript
My beautiful 24yr old son is not playing Rugby, but is healthy and happy. The Junior NRL was helpful and thorough in their investigation and made efforts to educate the teams. The club manager made no further contact.

Our Last Days Together

I know grief, I've been here before and I'll be here again. Grief is a way of honouring someone we love and I embrace this feeling, but it doesn't make it hurt any less.

The sadness is so deep it's painful. It hurts to breath. It hurts to think. It hurts to be.

And it happens at inconvenient times, like this morning. Out of nowhere, I remembered back to those final days we spent together unaware that these were our last lucid moments together. It makes those days all the more beautiful because they were authentic and kind.

I'd taken the week off work to spend a few days alone with my mum while my dad had some respite. What a beautiful opportunity to care and love my mum in her final days, I will be forever grateful that I had this time, just the two of us.

We sat together and talked and laughed about life while watching insipid TV shows which she loved. Neighbours, Home and Away, The Project. Her mind was slowly going and she thought the characters were her friends and family; it gave her comfort watching these characters and connecting with their lives. It gave me comfort that she had something like these shows to look forward to.

That week I cooked for her. I loved my mums kitchen and it was brilliant to have an excuse to make her some meals with love. I made chicken and mushroom risotto, and then I baked a chocolate cake.

In the weeks prior she wasn't really eating, so it was a surprise and a pleasure that she ate two plates of my risotto and then an entire slice of cake. My mum was an amazing cook, and sadly I didn't inherit her skills. I'm not known in my family for my culinary skills, so her appetite to my cooking made me feel really proud, I genuinely loved preparing that food for my mum.

I also bathed and toiletted her, just as she would have done for me many years ago. As an extremely proud woman, this would have been so humiliating for her so I performed my duties with absolute love. I made sure she knew that nothing was a bother. I hope she felt it.

One afternoon after her nurse had left, I massaged her feet and legs with essential oils and moisturising cream. Slowly and lovingly, it was such a beautiful moment and I felt proud that I could do something for her that gave her some relief from pain. I loved her so much in that moment, and I know she loved me back.

What a beautiful memory for me to have of those final days with my mum.

It's been 6 months and I've done everything in my power to avoid the grief cycle.

Extreme dieting. Extreme exercise. Extreme distraction.

And now it's hit me with one small trigger of the memory of those final days. As I write this with a face full of tears, a dear friend sent me a link out of the blue about depression and disease (Depression and Disease) which reminded me that its normal to feel sad and lost.

Happy Birthday Mum

Well, here we are. Another milestone. Another reason my heart is hurting.

Happy Birthday Mum, the first birthday where you're not here to cut your cake.

You've come to me in my sleep every night this week and its been a comfort to hear your words and see your face, animated and full of life. Happy, laughing, talking.

But they're just dreams.

Sitting in our old childhood dining room, the table beautifully dressed in a white lace tablecloth and filled with cakes and cups of tea. I'd brought a Tiramasu (obviously not home made, possibly a David Jones purchase) and couldn't find a space on the table for it.

You were there, smiling and entertaining us. When I woke, I wanted to be back there again with you but no matter how much I willed myself to go back to sleep, it didn't happen.

A lady sat staring at me on the bus this week; opposite me her gaze was compassionate and sad. Unnerved, I touched my face and met with wetness. Behind my massive Prada sunnies, I was crying and I had no idea that for possibly ten minutes, while music was blasting through my headphones, I had been crying alone along the journey to work.

So I got off the bus.

It hits me often and mostly I can fake it, cover the deep sadness that I'm now motherless but this week has been difficult. Mid sentence I lose my train of thought. It takes me an hour to read a paragraph. I found myself wandering for nearly two hours after work looking for the perfect birthday card for you.

I found the card. I came home. Alone, sad, grieving. And wishing again for just one more day.

Happy Birthday Mum. Thank you for teaching me the power of independence and thank you for coming to see me in my sleep.

I hope you visit often,

L xxx

"See Ya Later"

Funerals suck. Cancer sucks. Sometimes life sucks.

This year I had the humbling pleasure of celebrating the life of a truly rockin' chic - Oumani Browne. Sadly, she was only there in spirit. She had taken her final breath the week earlier surrounded by her beautiful and cherished son, her mother and her sister.

Being part of the day to honour her life was humbling. I learnt so much sitting there listening to others speak about this beautiful lady, she was and is surrounded by love.

I was in awe of her for so many things. Least not that she was who she was, no pretences, no judgments - she was Oumani. Real. Raw. Energetic. Generous. Beautiful. Funny. Intelligent.

And I hope she knew this.

See Ya Later Mani Browne. 

Rock Chic Oumani Brown

I'm dreaming of a Grief-Free Christmas.

The day is fast approaching and I'm feeling the strain of grief, guilt and anxiety as I prepare for the first Christmas without my mum. I want to spend it without the immense sadness and guilt I'm currently feeling. 

Sadness is a given. It's still new and raw and there is not a day where my heart doesn't feels heavy with loss. Sadness has given me an excuse for manic moods and "out of character" behaviour. Sadness is easily masked with a burst of energy and a distraction.

I can deal with the sadness because I know it's not my fault. 

It's the guilt that is playing games in my head. 

I'm guilty of avoiding so many of my mum's Christmas Day's, her favourite day of the year. And it's only now that I realise how I must have broken her heart year after year.

The lead-up months to Christmas were incredibly stressful with pressure on ensuring the day was perfect. Every detail was meticulously planned to craft a day resembling the Marcus Neimen "catalogue perfection". 

The tree would be put up on the 1st December and decorated beautifully with expensive baubles. Gifts were lovingly wrapped with the "theme of the year" wrapping paper and assembled underneath the tree. 

There were fairy lights. So many fairy lights.

A feast would be planned months in advance. Cold meat platters. Hot meat platters. Cheeses. Salads. Trifle. Fruit cake. Chocolates. 

Fortunately we never spoke of which brand of champagne because my parents didn't drink alcohol and this meant I could bring my own. It was Moët or Veuve. 

But even with the champagne, I dreaded the day. It didn't feel like "me". I was uncomfortable with the consumerism. I didn't like the stress of having to "perform" for a day.

When I became a parent, I used to plan on a one to two month trip from December to January just to avoid the fanfare and commercialism of it. I'd take my young family to remote destinations for a few months and make the phone call on Christmas Day and New Years Eve from some exotic location, thankful that I wasn't being consumed by a festival I didn't believe in. 

Last year, I realise that I'd missed the entire Christmas message. I lost what it meant to my mum that I was there sharing in her favourite day of the year. It wasn't about the Christmas tree or the feast or the beautifully wrapped and thoughtful gifts.

It was about having her family all together for one day. That was it. Nothing more. 

Fuck guilt. 

It breaks you heart and there is nothing you can do about it. 

Fuck grief. 

It creeps up when you're not looking and destroys a face full of makeup at really inconvenient times. 

Fuck anxiety. 

It stomps on your chest without warning. 

Fuck Christmas. 

Take me back to last year when we knew it was mum's last special day and we sat around in her living room, really living - laughing and loving each others company. 

Once again, I'm not looking forward to the day. 

Bali Healing

What a week I've had!

A last minute trip to Bali for work (sucks to be me), but actually right now, it does suck to be me. I lost my mum a few weeks ago and I wasn't sure being on this trip was going to be right.

With a last minute trip, that means last minute scheduling which makes it all a bit more stressful. For me though, this is the last week I could make this trip before March 2016, so it had to be done and I decided to view it as a nice distraction from my sadness.

And it worked.

Bali has been the most healing place for me to be this week. Not only have I ticked off my work schedule with honours, I've had the time and distance to heal.

Like so many Australians, I cut my teeth on overseas travel by coming to Bali when I was 18. I came with my bestie Kylie and we partied hard after getting over the culture shock. I've been returning back for work or play for the past (cough cough) 20+++ (++) years

I love Bali. I love the burning smells of incense and the earthiness of everything. I love the humidity. I love the gentleness of the Balinese people. I love the motorbike noises. I love the tripping hippies (but not the bogans). I love the frangipanis in the swimming pool. I love the sunset on the beach. I love the heady fragrance of holidays.

When we landed on Sunday, it felt like home. I felt wrapped in comfort.

And even with my heavy schedule of appointments, and sitting in traffic jams for hours - I was surrounded by truly kind and nurturing souls who kept an eye out for me.

I detox'd from caffiene, carbs and sugar (and still allowed myself some decent cocktails). I was massaged and skin-loved and had my nails done beautifully. In black - to honour my grieving.

I was checked in on. I was talked to. I was looked after.

The inner hippie chick has surfaced once again. I'm zen and blissed out.

My heart is in a good space.

Dedicated to a beautiful and nurturing nurse (Tamara) who accompanied me.

Grief, Distractions and Healing

Grief sucks. 

Its irrational and unpredictable and unreasonable. 

My mum died two weeks ago and I don't think it's hit me yet. I haven't sobbed uncontrollably or broken down on public transport. Sure I'm deeply sad, but I haven't consumed my days with looking at photos of her, rehashing old memories. Listening to music to remind me of her. Listening to my voicemail to hear her voice one more time. 

I haven't sobbed until my eyes were dry and my ribs were aching. I'm not filling my days with thoughts of the future without my mum. 

I didn't go out and get a tattoo. 

The taste of my tears is not a constant. 

This is what grief is like in the movies and I haven't done this and yet I'm not the same as I was three weeks ago. My mums death has shifted something so deep in me.

I've changed. I'm different. 

I've had conversations I wouldn't normally have had. I've used language I wouldn't normally use. I thought things I've never thought before. I've felt things I never felt before. I'm not even making sense to myself most of the time. This may be all a distraction to avoid the process, but I have no idea why I'm being like this. 

I'm in Bali for work, only a couple of weeks after my mum fucking died. How is that normal? Who goes overseas after just burying their mum? 

What the fuck is wrong with me? 

Being in Bali feels so zen and peaceful and right. It's work, but my downtime is nice. I'm being kind to myself. I'm being healthy. I'm focusing on only me. I'm ok with swearing. I'm ok with my thoughts. I'm ok with where I'm at and what I'm doing. 

And yet it all just sucks and I'm preparing for the flood of grief.