by Alison | Jul 14, 2013 | .
Granny Rita apologised for asking as she could not remember how old Laila would be.
I realised that in Australia there is Aidan and in South Africa there was Aidan and Laila.
Not many know that Aidan had a sister and that she would be 18years, so, as I sit this crisp wintry morning I think it’s time the Pirate Chef reveals his sister and adds her to his page.
My first introduction to Australia was when Aidan and I visited in July 04 and I was three months pregnant. On our return to SA our lives were tossed around. There was no one to meet us at the airport, on our arrival at home we were greeted with an empty house and boxes packed with our belongings and waiting for us. So began another new beginning for Aidan and I, and now in retrospect one I’m glad that I was forced to take.
Aidan and I found a new home; we lost friends along the way to many judgements but gained new ones, readjusted to life as a single mother.
Vaun and Renee suggested I have a holiday back in Cape Town and decided to birth Laila there. It was such a relief to be ‘home’ surrounded by my best friends.
Laila Vaun was born on the 9th January 1995 and as she lay on my stomach, newly born, I was overcome with an immense joy and wonderment. Aidan fell in love with his sister before she was born. He had always wanted a sister and had put her on his wish lists to Santa.
He was delighted with her and his gentle, humorous ways entertained her over the years. They were joined together through a kindred spirit and my best memories are of the two of them laughing together.
Laila blessed our lives and she and Aidan filled my heart and soul with love, warmth and joy.
Being a single mother is a struggle but it is also fabulous and it gave me quality time with my children when well or sick.
A few months after Laila turned two we noticed bruises over her body and after asking questions and investigating we ended at her paediatrician who sat with sad eyes and told me that she was ill and that we needed to take her to the Red Cross Children’s hospital for further tests.
The waiting is that time when your heart sits in your throat and your chest constricts and burns not knowing what the diagnosis will be, never really believing that it will be ‘bad’. When the results came back that it was not cancer I felt instant relief but there was a but – more tests were needed to find out exactly what was the problem.
Listening to Laila cry during her lumbar puncture seared through me and left me feeling helpless. Her diagnosis left me feeling more helpless – 50-50 chance – a one in a million disease – not prevalent in small children … I felt disbelief and sadness and then looked around at the children waiting, as day patients to be seen to in the cancer ward, and realised that this would start to become part of our existence. Aplastic anaemia is a disease in which the bone marrow, and the blood stem cells that reside there, are damaged. This causes a deficiency of all three blood cell types, red blood cells, white blood cells and platelets. Aplastic refers to inability of the stem cells to generate the mature blood cells.
It occurs most commonly in the teens and twenties, and also among the elderly. It can be caused by exposure to chemicals, drugs, radiation, infection, immune disease, in about half the cases the cause is unknown. Normal bone marrow has 30-70% blood stem cells, but in aplastic anaemia, these cells are mostly gone and replaced by fat.
Aplastic anaemia is treated with immunosuppressive drugs, typically either anti-lymphocyte globulin or anti-thymocyte globulin, combined with corticosteroids and cyclosporine and regular blood transfusions and platelet transfusions.
The next 7 months were spent having regular visits to the hospital, finger pricks, blood transfusions, overnight stays, spending time at home until Laila’s blood counts got too low, waking Aidan in the middle of the night and packing the car and heading for the ward, watching Aidan do his homework in the ward and play with sick children and so and so until we were living at the hospital.
Aidan was always happy to be with Laila and spent hours sitting with her in her hospital room, playing games, dressing Barbie dolls, watching movies, arranging flowers and reading to her.
One of the hardest days of my life was going to see Aidan at his dad’s house on Christmas morning and instead of being the bearer of gifts I had to tell him that his sister was dying and that I did not know how long we had with her. Aidan howled and so did I internally. He was 11.
Aidan and I were given another week with Laila and she died in my arms on the 31 December 1997.
Aidan and I survived and our bond grew even closer.
I missed my baby with every fibre in my body but I had a gorgeous son to care for, who needed me, who was also sad and suffering and life does go on – and so did I.
Aidan wanted to move and live in Australia, it was calling him and he felt he wanted to finish school and settle here. He came to me with a proposal when he was 15 and after much deliberation I decided to take a chance and give it a go. We sold up, packed up and put everything into storage and headed for Oz, another new beginning and Aleisha.
Aidan met Aleisha at school not long after we arrived and for various reasons their relationship grew slowly into a firm friendship. They finally cemented their relationship at schoolies at the end of year 12.
Their relationship grew and matured and they had fun together, getting their careers going, traveling, celebrating 21sts and then there was the day that Aidan had his eyes tested. As Aidan and I sat waiting for the results of his MRI we held hands. Tumour was the last word I expected to hear.
Aidan and I stood in the street afterwards and looked at each other with tears in our eyes, he saying sorry to me for being sick and I was saying sorry because I felt such guilt. We hugged each other and started the next part of our journey.
I have endured much pain losing both my children to illness but I have been enriched knowing them both, birthing them, cherishing them and just loving them as their mother.
Aidan wrote an essay at school in Australia, it is not totally factual but displays his feelings and details part of his journey, which I will publish here for you to read in his own hand. Laila’s story I have been writing and will publish here when ready.
Aidan’s Story (PDF)
To my dearest Aidan and Laila
Fly together
Laugh together
Be together – forever
Aidan Cale Needham (25/06/1986 – 20/10/2010) & Laila Vaun Rip (09/01/1995 – 31/12/1997)
by Alison | Jul 7, 2013 | .
I read this beautiful article written by a friend of mine from Cape Town and thought I’d like to share it with you.
Enjoy X Alison
My Cape Times column 3/7/13 – Caspar Greeff
The old man and the machine
The old man was tired. He had worked hard. Toiled ceaselessly and selflessly. He had taken the raw substance of life and fashioned it into a thing of greatness. His life was his work and his work was his life and he had completed the task. He had mastered the task. He had done everything required of him. He had risen above everything that was required of him. His life was an act of nobility.
The old man was tired. He ached for rest with every atom of his being. He yearned for peace. He longed for sleep.
The old man had been a fighter. Always. He had fought for what he believed in. He had fought for freedom. For dignity. For forgiveness. He had fought against ignorance. Against hatred. Against oppression.
The old man had won most of his fights. All the ones that counted.
The old man was tired. But he couldn’t close his eyes. His eyelids were heavy. His eyelids were made of lead. His eyelids refused to shut.
He looked about him.
He was still in the same place. A place that was at the same time achingly familiar and terribly strange. The old man had been here for aeons. He had been here for an interminable time. Perhaps he had been here forever. He didn’t know. There were no days here. No nights either. It was always twilight. Or maybe dusk. There was no sun here. No moon. No stars.
There were hills. There was a word for these hills. Ummango. The word rolled like the hills themselves, the hills that were neither green nor brown, the hills that rolled and roiled like giant ripples in an endless dark sea.
Cattle wandered about. Nguni cows and bulls of many shades, dappled and splotched, haphazardly patterned. Behind them was a skinny boy with a stick. The boy raised the stick and yelled at the cattle. He ran at them and the cattle in front ran in the direction the boy wanted them to and the rest followed.
The old man recognised the skinny boy. “The child is the father of the man,” he thought. The old man tried to shout the boy’s name, but nothing came out his mouth. His tongue was paralysed. The old man waved at the skinny boy, but the boy just kept on running after the cattle. Waved his stick at the sky and yelled. There was a look of exhilaration on the boy’s face. Time was his ally, and an endless procession of days and nights lay ahead of him.
Again the old man tried to close his eyes and again he was unable.
In the distance a pinprick of light wavered, flickered, strengthened into a great fire. Men and women clad in blankets and hats appeared around the blaze. Children too. And babies.
The old man tried to focus his tired eyes. The people around the fire took shape. His father. His mother. Grandfathers, grandmothers. Uncles, aunts. Family. Some had been born many centuries ago. Some would be born hundreds of years in the future.
The old man’s family sang a song about the river that leaps down from the mountains and races through the valleys, seeks the sea, finds the ocean, and rises to the sky, becoming clouds, and then rain falling on the mountains again. Always seeking the sea.
The song soothed the old man’s tired mind, took the pain from his aching bones, put hope into his heart.
The old man closed his eyes.
When he opened them again he was in a brightly-lit room filled with green and red dots from machines that hummed gently. His wife was holding his hand.
“I love you,” she said.
The old man smiled at her.
“It’s time,” she said.
One by one the red and green lights went out. The machines stopped humming. Silence filled the room.
And then the singing. Songs of the forest, songs of the grasslands, of the rivers, of the animals, the birds, the insects. Songs of the sun and the moon and the stars and the heavens. Songs of joy.
The old man’s mother walked towards him. She embraced him.
“Welcome home,” she said.
Caspar Greeff
http://www.iol.co.za/capetimes/the-caspar-greeff-column-1.1535588#.UdYRGJM9F8E
by Alison | Jun 24, 2013 | .
Tonight’s moon is full, bright and beautiful heralding in your birthday. Tomorrow is your 27th birthday and I do miss you in my physical space.
I reach out to you in the atmosphere as your energy resonates and your laughter echoes. Time, oh I wish we had more time on this earth with each other and for each other. You sleep in my heart and your joyful vibrancy touches my soul constantly.
Wherever I look I see signs: crosses on the road side, tributes in print, flowers in remembrance, blogs marking personal journeys and in the midst of sadness I see, read and hear of courage and hope.
There appears to be fierceness in us mere mortals. We fight a good fight, meet every challenge head on and even when weary we do not drop until the fight is over. Only then giving into the emotional despair we have felt and carried along with us.
It’s amazing the strength of our will, our tenacity, being able to put someone else first and to hold them there with little thought to ourselves, our own needs or wants.
We just relish every small moment, just love being in the space, willing each other on, buying time.
Tomorrow I will raise my glass to my wonderful daughter in law and wife of Aidan and salute her for her courageous spirit, for her relentless fight of life and her love for Aidan above all else.
Last but not least we will share stories of you A, remind each other of your rumbling laugh, feel the warmth in our memories and together we will celebrate your 27th birthday my beautiful boy.
Love you Aidan always
your mom.
25 June 2013
Laughter is a pleasant sound, it spreads joy all around
Whether you’re young or old, laughter can be like
Magic to our souls, whenever we’re feeling sad
Laughter can sustain us so that things don’t seem
Quite so bad, if we give into laughter, it can be like
A cure for something that seems impossible to endure
So any time your spirits need a lift fill yourself
With laughter and you will find, a much happier
Person with a peaceful frame of mind
Bonnie Ruth Shaulis
by Alison | May 12, 2013 | .
A few weeks ago we were discussing life, death and religion or faith.
The human mind wants to make sense of life, to understand it and to know where to from here. We are always trying to find the answer – we are hot wired to do this. For many, religion gives them an unwavering faith in birth, in life and death. Others have different faiths that offer them the same; some are just constantly looking and for some who have ‘lost’ someone and don’t have faith are stuck in the why.
Death is ahead for all of us. Some of us face death of a loved on during our journey at some point. It is hard to come to terms with death, as the finality of it is painful and non-repairable for us who are left behind.
I know science is out there and valid and for most of me it makes sense. But when I try and relate science to losing my child it sticks in my throat. So, I get stuck in this merry go round of what is – what isn’t.
Then I noticed a post on Aleisha’s wall and thought it worth sharing.
“You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind your sobbing mother about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy gets created in the universe, and none is destroyed. You want your mother to know that all your energy, every vibration, every Btu of heat, every wave of every particle that was her beloved child remains with her in this world. You want the physicist to tell your weeping father that amid energies of the cosmos, you gave as good as you got.
And at one point you’d hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your broken hearted spouse there in the pew and tell him that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you. And as your widow rocks in the arms of a loving family, may the physicist let her know that all the photons that bounced from you were gathered in the particle detectors that are her eyes, that those photons created within her constellations of electromagnetically charged neurons whose energy will go on forever.
And the physicist will remind the congregation of how much of all our energy is given off as heat. There may be a few fanning themselves with their programs as he says it. And he will tell them that the warmth that flowed through you in life is still here, still part of all that we are, even as we who mourn continue the heat of our own lives.
And you’ll want the physicist to explain to those who loved you that they need not have faith; indeed, they should not have faith. Let them know that they can measure, that scientists have measured precisely the conservation of energy and found it accurate, verifiable and consistent across space and time. You can hope your family will examine the evidence and satisfy themselves that the science is sound and that they’ll be comforted to know your energy’s still around. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you’re just less orderly. Amen.”
-Aaron Freeman.
https://www.facebook.com/ScienceIsSeriouslyAwesome
by Alison | Sep 11, 2012 | .
An interesting message was sent to me via a lawyer saying that I’m trying to replace my dead children and initially I was taken aback that such a malicious statement could be made. Then I sat back and pondered from whence it came and realised that anyone who can walk away from their children would have no concept of what it is really like to have the sense of love, responsibility, dedication and loyalty to one’s children that most of us have.
Some chose to leave their children and pursue a different life, or just simply because their new life is more important and leaving is easy because they want to or believe it’s a better option (ask many divorced people…)
I don’t believe that any of the above ever consider, at that time, how they would feel if one of these children left behind should fall seriously ill, or become terminally ill or suffer abuse, become disabled or die.
Why should they ? I think most humans believe they are infallible; not believing that tragedy could happen to them and that they will grow old gracefully and all will be well. How many people do you know who do not worry about preparing a will or saving for their retirement or old age. Or who believe their children will die before them. Most do not like to contemplate tragedy, the blinkers are on and many suffer because of it.
Others never consider the consequences of their actions, just swan their way through life hurting others and their children but never taking responsibility, just living a selfish existence, always blaming others and never looking within and acknowledging that the blame lies inside and not externally. Geoff always told me to be careful when pointing fingers as there are always three pointing backwards towards you.
I was brought up knowing that I am accountable for every decision I make as ultimately those decisions will have a direct bearing on those around me and on myself. I can only blame myself if the decisions I make backfire or don’t work out as expected.
So, I try to live my life so that I will never have to say – if only.
My children have been the most important events, journey, purpose, decisions, parts and love of my life. Whether they were planned or just happened I have accepted the consequence and lived with it to the full. Always making sure that they were ok, working hard to provide for them, organising and arranging life as a single mother to ensure that they were well taken care off, fed, clothed, schooled and happy. Personal sacrifices were made along the way and I carry the scars of some. Then caring for the kids when they were sick and saying goodbye to them, making sure they understood how much I loved them. I made sure that they knew how important they are to me and that I would give up my life for them if I was able.
Replace them. I don’t think so. Children are not replaceable. People are not replaceable. Everyone is different and so we love them differently in different spaces of our hearts and soul. The umbilical cord that joins me to my own children can never be severed and will be with me till I die as will the pain of loss.
My adopted children I love from a different part of my heart which is a learned love and acceptance. It is also a commitment that I make to them. With children you give birth to, the commitment should be there, just in the mere fact that you gave birth to them. For children that you acquire along the way, just as with a partner, a commitment needs to be considered, a conscious choice made and together with the love we experience and share, it becomes intertwined, then embraced, followed with a vow to each other to do this for as long as we shall live.
I know Aidan would be very proud to call the girls his family and to have more sisters. He would support me in adopting and he would never accuse me of trying to replace him or Laila.
So instead of allowing a misguided statement to upset me it has made my resolve stronger as I know that I am doing what was asked of me, and that it is the right thing to do. I made a commitment to these children many years ago and I promised the three of them that I would be there for them for the rest of my life. Whether the law recognises this or not is immaterial so long as we know that the right intent is there. The commitment is real, strong and true. That love is binding and I am proud that they think of me as a mother, their mother and love me as such.
That they have shared those magical youthful moments with me, and with Aidan, that we have shared so many years together, much joy and laughter, many tears and heartache but mostly filled with hope and dreams, love and happiness – has been a blessing.
They have helped me keep afloat, given my life some purpose and kept me busy !
I still have many dark days. Memories float through and cloud my sunny mornings, pain stabs me at odd moments when least expected, songs stray in and upset my balance, thoughts cloud my vision and tears wash my face but I keep moving, mostly forward. One step at a time, one day at a time.
Maybe one day I will make sense of it all but for today I will embrace my girls, celebrate my birth children and not allow another’s remarks to spoil the day.
Onwards and upwards, may the universe give me strength, my heart give me courage and may my soul keep my spirit fuelled.
With love
Alison
Rest easy my beautiful children – Aidan (25/06/1986 – 20/10/2010) & Laila (09/01/1995 – 31/12/1997)
In the evening of my life I shall look to the sunset,
At a moment in my life when the night is due.
And the question I shall ask only I can answer.
Was I brave and strong and true?
Did I fill the world with love my whole life through?
thank you Mr Chips !
by Alison | Aug 12, 2012 | .
I woke in the night and pondered the words ‘to wail’. My mother never wailed when my father died, she went to bed and re-appeared a few months later.
I weep or seep and have only one recollection of wailing. The receded wave of sadness, disbelief, rejection and heartache welled and my tsunami hurtled outward. I had to just let it wash over me and carry me emotionally and verbally from the depths of my soul to the universe beyond.
Why is it that for so many of us we are not taught to wail? Encouraged to show grief and let it out. Not to sob, wipe the tear away or snivel into a tissue.
Looking back I do wonder why I allow comforting others, making decisions and arrangements to get in front of sitting in my grief. Keeping busy is an easy deflection from pain.
It is not easy to keep reminding oneself that this is ‘my pain, my realty, my life’ and not look around at the suffering being experienced by others and feel that mine is not as significant, especially those that know how to wail. Grief is etched into every pore of their face, into the air that surrounds them and is carried on the wind for us to hear and experience.
Oh to be able to bear ones soul so completely.
So, as I am not able to do that… yet, I wrap myself in an emotional blanket and button it down, tight. Keeping the mind constantly busy and occupied so that there is no time to dwell, to reflect upon or to feel sad. These are fleeting moments in my day; a tear wiped away, a memory exposed, filtered, felt and put away. There is no time for solitude or reflection as the pain is too severe and the dark hole too deep to contemplate.
Have you ever experienced that feeling – that if I get in too deep I might never be able to return, to climb out. The flip side is that possibly there is always the ability to get out but the question asked is, are we strong enough to chance that.
Maybe one day I’ll find the space and courage to sit in an empty space and wail and know I’ll find my way back.
Onwards and upwards
Love Alison
“When you are sorrowful look again in your heart,
and you shall see that in truth you are weeping
for that which has been your delight.”
-Kahil Gibran
