Don’t you know anything? Generation X understood media tools were designed to be used in particular ways that my generation understands only poorly. Like in the same way my boomers understands the differences between a galvanised clout and a bullet head nail, Or a ball pein hammer against a claw hammer. They are made for different purposes, specific to a need.
‘You could have sent that in a text mum.’ she said frustratingly.
I have to thank texts. Texting probably gave us many extra years of good connection. Texts allowed communication to flow more easily. Life un-impinged. Answer at my own pace. Feel in control of your life. Not rattled by the parental tones coming down the tubes, full of longing and expectation and love.
Well it’s a sad burden to live beyond those we love. In a survival of the fittest conceptualised world, the worst burden of human loss is supposed to be a win. Death demonstrates the absolute uselessness of competition between humans. A loss of one is a loss for all. Outliving others is not a win. It can only ever be loss.
Without you my daughter, the words on the page look like they are dying. How do I breathe your life back into the long dead pages? One, two, one two, one two. CPR for the heart. What was the song you are supposed to sing while doing CPR? Bee Gees – Stayin alive. Ha ha ha ha stayin ali—–ive. Does not work for dead people.
And then there is the family, as they spatter out their last respects. Putting on a brave face and distracting themselves by whatever means possible from the way they really feel. It is truly too unbearable to do in public. In my family, family is public, not private. Private is only when you are completely alone because it is hard to find safety in our family. The culture set us up to fight each other for life.
Children were known as Gifts from God.
And then hurled into the maelstrom of our parent’s destroyed lives and told to have a go at life. Go on. It’s all up to you.
It reminds me of being chucked in the swimming pool because I could swim faster than anyone else in my class and therefore, in the competition. No one bothered to ask if you had swum the full length of a 50 metre pool before they put you in a race for it. Well I could do 25 metres easy enough. ‘Oh! you want me to swim the whole way without stopping?’
‘Just swim like blazes to the end of the pool’, was the sum total of my training advice before I was to line up for the event.
Now, I would give myself the additional tips: ‘When you can’t breathe, try not to swallow too much water, or you will feel like you are drowning by the 30 metres mark.’
Well, disappointing but you gave it your best shot. You always were given a cheerio for effort and people’s hope in you subsided just that little bit, glad they didn’t raise the expectations too high, as they settled back to the familiar position of being the loser.
It must be a bad year at your school to have a fat kid to be the fastest in the group, is what my glances hear them thinking.
Well, maybe I was the only one who was even trying. The usual good swimmer had her periods and we were so young tampons were still a mystery. You sat out.
My daughter gave me a singular purpose. At some point in my twenties when I realised I was a mother I made the decision, everything for her. It was a bit late given she was now about ten years old. I realised there was no better purpose than her. But I showed up a little late.
Now I look for a singular purpose again. She is no longer. If I can focus on one thing it will simplify my life. I don’t think I can do complicated.
The future path seems clear, throw yourself into the chaos, author yourself into something. Like the 50 metre pool. Don’t stop till the end. It’s the only way I know how to do something and if there are problems communicating, just send a text. Hold your own line. But also know when you should call. Sometimes you really need to call. Don’t hesitate, just call. Better still show up. Smiling.
Last night I dreamt of Gabs and she looked really well. She had defined biceps, that she always wanted to have, strong and lean. I said to her, I miss you so much, and she said, I have missed you as much as you miss me. She hugged me and held me for a long time. I can feel her arms around me feel her presence and her warmth. Now is the time for action.
When I used to think about things going wrong, like a war, mega-tsunami or an earthquake etc. I used to measure the distance between Gabs and I to plan how I would overcome it. If our systems were failing and she was in Western Australia, how would I get there? Could I possibly walk? How long would it take me? Could I push bike there? Would she know to wait for me, for sure I would be on my way.
I thought if we lost everything, if the shit hit the fan, How could I be close to her? I never thought that when the shit hit the fan that would be because she was the unforeseen calamity.
I have the raw materials, the notebooks, the satisfying verbatim reveals all.
The parents separation is the hardest of all, even for the dead, especially for the dead. Sometimes we think we have no hope before we die. But really, it is only after we die that hope is lost. Before that it is just a feeling not a reality. That’s the truth of it, sad as ever for the suicidalist.
Every day is an effort to extract myself from the rebounding momentum pulling me back to the moment of knowing your death.
There is of course the glug – I want to bathe in the memories, and have the time and the space to embody the loved one. When I walk the dogs now, she walks, when I walk. When I wash my hands, she washes her hands. When I asked her a question she answers with the mystery that was always her, clarity and mystery soaked together.
The glug of the last year of her life. The glacially slow, persistent descent towards her death was noticeable, but thought survivable like every other time she hit the rough.
I didn’t call, I texted. Mistake.