Passing on the News
I looked up. Tears clouded my vision as the fog of despair descended on my mind. I mustered a thank you to the doctors for their efforts. And I walked away. The treacherous task of having to let people know quickly raised its ugly head. Time mocked me with its relentlessly insensitive march, dragging me into a future I had no desire to be a part of. My will to live evaporated in an instant. That’s not to say I had a will to die. I did not at all. But my motivation for moving forward became nonexistent.
The first to officially know would be Oliver. He was still waiting at home for my call, and so I rang and told him and said he should come to the hospital. It’s impossible to describe how awful making that call was. But even within that moment, despite my extraordinary numbness, I could already feel my love for that boy soaring to new heights.
Susie’s parents were already on their way down from the Hunter Valley. Before leaving home I’d called them to say what was happening. But now, I’d have to tell them their first-born child, the daughter they loved so dearly, was dead. I’d have to wait until they arrived though.
Beyond that, things got blurrier still. My head swam with all that must come next. Telling our other kids loomed large. I’d tell them in the morning (they’d slept through the entire ordeal at home). Organising a funeral; writing a eulogy; letting everyone else know. How would I be able to do all these things?
But then, the bigger question: living life without Suse, without my love, without the one person who really knew me, how would – how could – I do that? It’s a question I’ve come to learn has only one real answer, and it’s an answer which is as unsatisfying as it is true: just one day at a time. Unfortunately, though, days often take weeks.
