Carly, my sister, drove me home from the hospital at about 4:00am. Her presence through that ordeal was an unbelievable comfort to me. Something I’ll never forget, and hopefully something I’ll never have to do in return.
Carly had a special relationship with Susie. She saw her as the older sister she never had. She’d confide in her, take parenting tips from her, vent to her. But now all that was gone. Both of us were numb with disbelief at what had happened.
Arriving home, I stepped into our house: the first time without Suse there to greet me. Over the coming weeks, the reality of that would hit me afresh every time I’d come home, like a water torture designed to drive me mad. How could she not be there? How could she not ever be there again? It was beyond comprehension.
I walked past the couch. Just 7 hours earlier she was sitting there, taking photos of our cat, posting them on Instagram. From trivial to tragic in mere moments. How? Why? The juxtaposed realities mocked me and I could do nothing but bear the brunt of their abuse.
Oli had come home with Pete and Alison, and the three of them were still awake. Our friend Jill was there too. She’d stayed the whole time and taken on the grisly task of cleaning up. Like the rest of us, she was ashen faced from shock and dumbstruck.
“Oh Scott”, I recall her saying with her grief-srticken compassion. “I am so sorry”.
Poor Jill. She hadn’t known Suse long, only a couple of years. But you didn’t have to know Suse long to be taken in by her charm and kindness. And so Jill had lost a beloved friend. So many people had. I wondered how far the shockwaves of grief would be felt? And for how long? With what degree of damage? The enormity of it terrified me.
I don’t recall my response to Jill. But she soon left us, taking the towels which had been used to keep Suse comfortable with her.
“I’ll clean these and bring them back to you”, she said through her sadness.
I’ve come to realise how much you need friends like that. People who stick around, share your pain, help clean your mess. I’m glad I have people like that in my life.
I took Oli up to bed. I felt so much pain for that boy and I was worried for him. The shock. The trauma. The grief. That’s a lot for a young man to bear. But exhausted as he was, he went off to sleep quite quickly.
I then spent some time talking with Pete and Alison. Again, I have no recollection of what we said. Before long they too went off to bed.
[nextpage title=”Across the world”]
After that, my thoughts immediately turned to our closest friends, the Lovells, in Spain. Jo and Suse were exceptionally close. Just 12 hours earlier I’d emailed John to share some prayer points and to say how much we were looking forward to seeing them in December.
At 4:30am, I tried to call them. No answer. Shortly after, though, I got a text message from John.
“Scotty? Did you mean to call just now?”
A missed call from Australia at 4:30 in the morning? It was either a silly mistake or something serious. I wonder if his stomach began to twist with fear on seeing it. If so, my instant response would have done nothing to allay those fears.
“Yes. Need to talk”
Within seconds he called back.
And I told him.
The despair was instantly evident in his tone. But it did not dominate. Because his love and concern for me rose above his own sorrow in that moment in a way that only a true friend’s can. His empathy flowed through that call and embraced me, even at such a great distance. And while his voice quivered, I sensed his resolve to serve me and my family in our darkness, for as long as it took.
After the call ended, he would tell Jo, then their 6 kids. And they would pray. Their whole family would be in Sydney within 3 days. The storm of grief was rapidly stretching across the world, from Sydney to Spain, but so too was the network of love. Which would prove victorious: love or grief?
[nextpage title=”Breaking little hearts: Annie and Phoebe”]
Following the call to John, my focus then shifted to the next dreaded thing: telling the other kids. How does a father tell his 12 and 9 year old daughters, and his 7 tear old son, that the mum who kissed them goodnight last night was now dead? They’d gone to sleep blissfully the night before. They’d awake to tragedy. And I’d be the one to deliver the blow. How would it be for them to wake up to that news? Those poor kids were about to experience something that neither me or Suse ever had : the news of a parent’s death.
I was exhausted but knew I couldn’t go to bed. I didn’t want to risk sleeping through them waking up, and discovering the new reality without me being there to hug them. So I stayed awake. It was now 5am.
Carly sat on the couch, and I actually curled up in her lap. I was almost in the foetal position. I felt as vulnerable as a newborn child, weak and helpless. I did end up drifting off to sleep but only for 20 minutes or so. When 5:30am hit I got up and started pacing around the house, rehearsing what I would say.
At 6:15am I heard one of them in the toilet upstairs. Phoebe. I went up to see if Annie was awake. She was. I asked her to come into our bedroom. She got up as Phoebe came out of the bathroom. Their intuition told them something was wrong.
“Girls, come into mummy and daddy’s room. I need to tell you something.”
In the dim light I could see the fear flood into their face. I sat them on the bed. On the empty bed. Where Suse should have been.
“Girls, you know how mummy has been unwell…”
That’s all I needed to say.
“No! No! No!” Annie pleaded.
Phoebe went limp.
“Girls: I’m so sorry. Last night mummy collapsed, and the doctors couldn’t wake her up again. Mummy has died”.
“Noooooo!” Phoebe shrieked, as she burst into tears.
“I’m so sorry girls. I’m so, so sorry”.
They cried and cried and cried. Little Sam was still asleep. I’d tell him later. For now, I had to cuddle my girls. I sat on the bed with them and held them tight.
“I hate my life” Phoebe yelled. I didn’t try to correct her. I just hugged her. But then she made a comment which blindsided me completely.
“You’re not allowed to ever have another wife. She was our only Mum”
Why would that be the thought which came to her in that moment? I’ve since come to the conclusion that this was her (very profound) way of expressing the loss. She didn’t just lose a mum. She lost having two parents who were very much in love and committed to one another. In her own little way, she was expressing to me what she’d observed of our marriage. The strength of the bond Suse and I shared in our marriage was very evident to her, and greatly valued by her, and now that bond had been devastated.
We must have sat on the bed for about 20 minutes. I tried to explain some of the things which would happen next, but truth be told, I had no clue. I figured our house would soon be overrun with visitors, and that things would be quite chaotic for a while, but that was about it. I took them down to Pete and Alison. They hugged them, and tears continued to flow.
[nextpage title=”Breaking little hearts: Sam”]
Meanwhile, I paced around upstairs. Being in our bedroom was a monstrous task. The clothes Suse had been wearing the day before were still on the floor. Each first encounter with fond memories was like a fresh stab to the heart. Wherever I looked I was being assaulted by memories of her. Memories? This time yesterday they’d been material realities. And all so quickly they’d be relegated to memories. I resented the word.
When 7.45am rolled around it was time to tell little Sam. He was Susie’s “special little guy”. They had such a special relationship. He loved her “hugs and kisses” (as did I). And she always worried so much about him, not uncommon for a mother’s youngest child.
“Sammy. I need to tell you some sad news”
“Ok Daddy”
“Well mate. You know how Mummy has been a bit sick?”
“Yeah”
“Well last night, Mummy collapsed, and I called the ambulance, but the doctors couldn’t wake her up again. Sammy, Mummy has died.”
“Mummy has died?” He looked at me shocked.
“Yes mate” I choked.
He burst into tears.
“Does that mean I won’t see her again?”
The power of that question stunned me.
“Yes mate. And we are all very, very sad.”
We sat on his bed for a time, while I cuddled him. He was so young. His little mind wasn’t really able to fathom the enormity of death as a concept. But he knew love. Weeks later I would ask him what he misses most about Mum. “Her hugs and kisses” he’d say. When I pressed him for more, after a few moments of thought, he’d go on to say “I loved her love. I miss her love”. He couldn’t sum grief up more perfectly.
And with that the first brutal step of this journey was over. There was a modicum of relief. The task of telling my kids was done. But so was I. That first step had taken all I had and more. And it was only one step of many, many more to come. The great evil of death was forcing me and my family to climb a mountain which none of us wanted and which none of us were fit for.
We’d need help. And lots of it.
