Today, on the 26 October 2010 @ 2.00 pm we met and said our public farewell to Aidan.
So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, Adieu, adieu, to yieu and yieu and yieu
To remember today I thought I would share a few photos of my boy – to make us smile…
xOx
I sit at my computer and for once I’m short of words.
Its a beautiful day, blue sky and sunny, calm and warm. My phone beeps to remind me of the text messages coming in remembering A.
We celebrated Aidan last weekend on the hilltop with champagne and a wonderful sunset, surrounded by friends and family.
Thank you all for being a part of Aidan’s life. For loving him and for remembering him.
Time does not stand still, new memories are constantly being made, life needs to be lived, new life continues the cycle and adds joy to our lives.
So, today I will remember my boy, his love of life, the joy he brought me and you, his strength of spirit and determination and celebrate him.
To my boy…
I salute you
X Alison
As I sit bathed in the early morning sunlight I fell battered and bruised. Burning eyes and a dense sadness constricts my heart. Staring out over the water to the island in the distance I should feel joy at just being alive, and healthy in such a beautiful place.
Last night I sobbed as if my world was at an end. Wounded by words and lack of. I did not think that I could hurt that much anymore – and I did which was a surprise! Realising that I can break more…
I know that the dawn of the 20th is on my horizon and that these weeks of October are huge, unspoken obstacles that I need to face and climb over annually. But it’s not just about October. It is about losing my children. Not just my blood children but all of them. Adopted children of the heart will always have three parents. Two blood and one other. It is always being the other that is tough and comes with no guarantees. With blood children love is unconditional and it is only the journey of life and the choices made that can tear it asunder. I hope that the unconditional love I have shared is enough and a future will unfold. I cannot get over, and on, with my grief and unmentionable sadness. I have lost both my blood children and their unconditional love.
Now I watch other journeys from a different spot and yearn for what was mine.
As I remain in my chair and the sun warms and spreads I’m gently nudged to look and listen. The birds are singing, my immediate world is waking and a new day is on its way – for better or for worse. The gentle breeze wraps itself around me as it moves past and I hear Aidan whisper ‘ hello mother’
I have fought and struggled so hard to still be here, and standing. Living and breathing each day. I cannot allow grief and words to strike me down and destroy the brittle thread that anchors me – or I will not survive. I might look solid but my will is fragile.
My life is full of wonderful people. Friends, family and adopted heart family.
– It is full of ‘moments’ to be remembered
– It is full of sunshine and passing days
– It is full of memories that sustain me
– It is full of laughter and tears
So I need to stand tall, breathe the sunshine and be still within to find my strength and fight, so that no one can destroy me, except me (or my body!)
One of the greatest lessons I have learnt is that I can only be who I am. I can only do my best and if it isn’t your best well I’m sorry about that. The universe never gave me a book on life as I left the womb. But I have always tried to live my life, to care for others, to give of myself, to stand in my own shoes, to be independent and always, to pay it forward. To give my children a good life and to be with them when they suffered and to comfort them when they had to leave.
I’ll toast the evening of my life tonight. I’ll welcome the dawn tomorrow. I’ll cry and rejoice for Aidan and for all those who love him… and then I’ll soldier on.
To my boy, I thank you for being you, for being so open with that love, for trying to shelter me in my dark days when we lost Laila, for pushing me to journey on, for our move, our new life, our laughter and warmth, honesty and for just loving me as your mom.
I miss you every day but carry you in my heart – always. X
I sometimes sit and write and then scrunch it up and throw it in the bin, yes, I still write on paper ! Reason being is that I think the general public get tired of hearing about how sad I am or how difficult life is. Even though I say and write the words I still get told that time will heal, or that I must toughen up, or that it will get easier.
The truth is that it will never get easier, or that time will never heal me as I will carry this with me till I no longer breathe on this earth. But I am toughening up…
I attended a conference recently and one of the speakers spoke of losing her ability to speak when her son died. My initial thought was why did I not crumble, collapse, lose my speech, go to bed for months and just be a heap? Because that is not who I am. I get up each day and face what lies before me and have done this since my father died when I was 16 and my mother took to her bed.
So I think I toughened up in 1975.
Not knowing what the future holds is a blessing and so I forged ahead and collided with sadness again and again and again. Grandparents, mother, daughter and son.
But what joy and fun I have had in between and continue to have, and what incredible friends and family I have and have gained along the journey without which I would not be able to stay in this world.
When a fire sweeps though the land, everything is scorched and bleak. Months and years pass and the beauty slowly emerges and joins with the darkness showing its splendor. This is how I feel.
My darling boy showed me his darkness, his courage, love and his light. My darling daughter was magnificent in dealing with her suffering, pain, darkness, love and understanding. I owe so much to both of them for being my children and for teaching me so much and for sharing their love and journey with me.
It is because of them that I do get up everyday as they would expect this from me, to always be there for them and for those that I love. So I will celebrate each day and allow myself to cry, be sad, miss them and be miserable yet still smile, laugh as loudly as I can, drink a few and remember my wonderful children.
To Laila and Aidan – my love always
your mother
A colleague, who lost his toddler to a rare and painful illness, and I were sharing our stories and discussing how many parents lose a child/children to illness and how difficult it is to witness.
When Laila died I was crippled. Aidan was a beacon of light in my darkness and we became tightly bonded in our pain, grief and sadness. He was eleven at the time, young in years but old in spirit.
We moved forward, tightly bound together, and his beautiful soul guided me and gave me the strength to keep getting up each day. Having Aidan to care for spurred me on and kept me grounded and we cried, laughed and slowly moved onward.
Over time the tightness of our bond slowly unraveled, slackening, yet flexible, strongly connected and firmly joined. We found a rhythm and had fun together when we could and I watched my son mature and grow with unbounded pride.
When Aidan was 17 he talked to me about how Laila was not often on his mind much anymore and if this was okay with me. I remember smiling at him and explained to him that that was fine and normal. She was his sibling and his life was moving in different directions but that she would always be in his heart and I would carry that grief as her mother.
I thought losing Laila was the worst thing that could happen to me in my life but losing Aidan broke me. It left me not knowing who I was anymore. I could not find my fit in life. Losing both my children made me feel that I was no longer a mother, left me feeling very alone and not fitting into life as I did before, not sure what I was anymore and that I no longer had a role. I felt adrift with no anchor.
I did not want to move on, to feel joy; I just wanted to be in my pain and just be.
So hard to explain, so different losing a child but having another still with you, so inexplicable to comprehend that both my children had to die, so unfair having been a single mother, just so awful to lose my boy.
But I have always been supported by friends and family and as much as I wanted to collapse into a heap and disappear from life I could not. My heart adopted children needed me, my beautiful daughter in law needed support in her loss and my friends and family wanted me to stick around.
I’ve come to the realisation that a part of my life will not move forward, it’s stuck in the time of when my children were alive, and it’s also something I will never truly be able to deal with but will just have to live with it.
I try hard every day, not being able to verbalise this as it wears the people around me down so, I keep my pain close and I soldier on and try and see the positive in each day, to have a laugh, love and enjoy those around me.
Then out of nowhere a thought, a remark, a memory, a photo, a celebration will make me crumble and take me back to the beginning, the memories fresh and focused, my grief as stark as it was then.
Once again I will find some energy and dust myself off, get back on my feet and stand tall, take a big breath and look at the morning and greet the day.
To my two beautiful children,
To all the mothers who have lost their children, and to the fathers, I send you many blessings.
The mother
Today Laila Vaun would be turning 19.
A few days ago I was chatting to our 16 year old and we were laughing as I was telling her that as she walks her path there will be times when she remembers the words of her folks, she will silently acknowledge as the truth of life unfolds that we spoke many a true word.
Thankfully our youth shelters us from believing anything untoward in the future. We dream and aspire but refuse to take advice having to trip and fall ourselves before believing.
One of the pitfalls of youth is the selfishness and hurt that is bestowed on the parents as they find themselves and mature into adults. Some of us never do, others do it early and a few are late bloomers.
When I look back on my life I am grateful that I had no idea what lay before me. Turning 16 seemed a natural and obvious occurrence but little did I know that it would be a turning point in a life to follow of much tragedy, sorrow and pain.
Even as the highway of my life unfolded it never entered my realm of thinking that anything more could happen or that I could endure more.
Yet, I kept travelling those miles, at times my vehicle of life was fully laden, at other times empty and parked at the kerbside, sometimes just idling or switched off, or taking off again back on the road following its white line and path with an eye on the horizon.
I’m grateful to the mechanisms of life, that we accept and embrace the abundance and the hope of the day without pondering on what will be, so that when we are struck down it is a surprise and unexpected.
We bleed, we hurt and we bundle our pain up tight and store it in a corner of our heart and then pick ourselves up from where we left off.
Never the same, with a limp, a half smile and we try, we try so hard to make it all right for ourselves and those around us. I’ve lost, and lost again and keep losing but I gain much along the way.
I feel as though my life’s blood seeps slowly out of me, not fast enough to end my days but drip by drip, quietly puddling on the ‘other side’.
How lucky I am to be loved. To have friends and family. Their love and affection offsets the agony and puts a smile on my face, creates a cane for my limp and is a gift I never believed I would receive.
So bless you all, I am extremely grateful and words do not do it justice.
Happy birthday my sweet, sweet Laila
With love as ever from your brother who resides with you and your mother.
I look up and try to reach the sky and my children in the sun.
That same day I heard good ole Rod sing and these lyrics are how I feel about my kids – all of them – You’re in my heart, you’re in my soul… xxx
Driving to Brisbane I saw a sign that said ‘ life promises you a soft landing but not a safe passage .‘
It made me smile and sad simultaneously – the truth of that saying is reflected in my life.
Just as I relax and start to feel secure my life raft is struck by an almighty wave, it lurches wildly, is tossed around like a feather being blown on the wind, then gains speed as it begins its downward journey surfing the wave.
The question becomes, how far am I to fall this time …
Suddenly the wind changes and my raft rocks violently and bounces into the trough. Glancing up I can see clouds racing as does my pulse. The crests of the waves crash over me as I bob along clutching to the sides, knuckles white with desperation, praying for calm.
Suddenly it is eerily quiet and anxiety recedes. My buoyancy returns. Sunshine beams down on me and I can feel that warm glow spread through me and brighten my soul. My splintered heart is bathed in glorious light and all hurt is momentarily pushed aside.
Thank goodness for our human spirit, for the sun that shines and the moon that rises, for the friendships and caring and for our unconscious umbilical cord of hope.
May your pain be momentarily cast aside this Xmas while you are bathed in glorious light, in optimism and hope. Surround yourself with good, with positivity, with joy that binds us, to enable you to find the love and kindness that we seek in others.
Lay down your cross, your hurt and pain for today. Waken with the dawn and rejoice in the birth of a new day for we cannot change the course of the world but we can stand tall in our universe and reach for the stars.
Our absent friends and family reside in peace and harmony and my wish is the same for us left behind.
Love, peace, hope and laughter
X Alison
25/12/13
There are times when I feel like I live in some sort of ‘us and them’ experience – difficult to explain how I feel but let me try.
I was standing in line waiting to order a coffee and noticed that the lady in front of me had a tattoo at the base of her neck.
It was of a small pair of feet, similar to an imprint the soles of your feet leave in wet sand, plus the date of birth and death of her young son with an inscription… a son, a brother, you will never be forgotten.
We all look relatively normal but for those of us who grieve we are not yet, those around us want us to be, and in many ways expect us to be ourselves.
How can you ever be when you lose your child, how can you ever be the same?
I feel that I am a marked person. Outwardly I look normal but inwardly I battle to survive some days and others I do.
How easily those around us assume that we are over the hump, out of mourning, that we are back in the saddle and getting on with it.
Unfortunately we are marked for life, our life will forever be a daily challenge and the angst we feel will always be ours alone.
To be marked or not to be marked – that is my question.
Should we wear an armband, a wristband or a tattoo so that when we pass each other in the street we can stop and give comfort as there is a mutual understanding of the grief. There are too many sad, bereft people in this world who have no one to share their stories with and receive comfort.
I try so hard to hide my grief so that the people around me feel more comfortable. I breathe every second of every day and have no idea why. Why are we left standing over the pile of dirt with its marker and memories in our heart?
Memories, cards, emails, texts and clothes are all the physical parts that tie us to our sadness that keeps our pain anchored.
I miss being hugged by my children, I miss A’s texts, his love and concern for me.
It’s not replaceable
That’s what hurts
It leaves a hole
Too deep
Too dark
Empty
Jump in or stay on the edge?
It takes strength and stubbornness to stay in the light.
So, maybe a tattoo like a name can anchor you to life. Never to be forgotten, always a reminder of what is, what has been and what lives with you forever.
Today marks your passing A, it is a time for reflection and for me to share love with those still around me. I drift towards the written word as the verbal one will trip me up and be my undoing.
I cherish every memory, it sustains me yet saddens me but I soldier on.
I send love to all those who hurt, who have lost, who have suffered or who still suffer. May you find peace in the setting sun, in the rising moon, walking in the autumn leaves or in the chill of the early morn or just sipping a cuppa tea and listening to the daily sounds of life.
Take care and be kind to you.
Alison
My darling son Aidan Cale Needham who was born on the 25/06/86 and left us on the 20/10/10
My beautiful daughter Laila Vaun Rip who was born on the 09/01/95 and left us on the 31/12/97
My wonderful daughter, wife of Aidan, Aleisha, and to my adopted children, my thoughts and love to you.
I wear my sadness like a comfortable old shawl
There are days when it sits loosely draped over my shoulders, barely making contact. Other times it slips off and hangs low down my back, swinging quite freely.
At other times I pull it close and wrap it tightly around me. Feeling the familiarity, the closeness of my sadness as I hold it tightly pressed to me.
Days and nights roll into each other and the memories ebb and flow. Every moment in every day has a memory. Many of them hold a story for me and when I am busy they gently bump into me, hesitate and then tumble away. Other days they ram into me with a jolt, demanding a reflection and then there are times that as the memories appear they are quickly followed by a succession of them telling a story. It is these that cripple me and cause tears and are my undoing.
I hear you in my head, I mutter to you, talk to you in your photos, drive my car and reminisce with you, laugh at odd things that you might cause and just miss you.
October is looming and it will be ‘another year”. The passing years are unstoppable, constant, like waves on a beach, pounding the sand, caressing it, flowing gently at times, calm then strong and powerful, always changing but always flowing.
It is the letting go of the physical that is hard and what we miss soo much because the head and the emotion keeps going, and going and going.
The hug, the smile, the cheek, the humour, the laughter, the shouting, all the stuff we take for granted until it’s gone.
But… what I have left I keep close to me, wrapped tightly around me in a bright, coloured shawl of fragrances, memories and emotions.
x the mother.
Aidan & Laila
‘wish I could hold you one more time to ease the pain’
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)
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
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
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.
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 !
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
I miss Christmas.
I grew up in a family that celebrated events with much enthusiasm. Easter was always special, birthdays an occasion, the 5th November we always had a great big bonfire with a Guy Fawkes and Christmas was traditional with an early start.
My father always took us to the morning service, then home for a nice simple breakfast, after which we waited for the grandparents and then opened the welcoming gifts under the tree. The whole family would sit down together to a lunchtime feast that my mother had been preparing, with much love, since the day before. Roast turkey with the appropriate veg and my father’s own recipe of brandy butter for the lit Christmas pudding stuffed with coins. The evening was open house for all friends and family to pop in for a drink, fellowship and to consume any leftovers from lunch.
Then life changed. Parents died, brothers moved away, life took its journey and Christmas was never quite the same again.
My appreciation of Christmas is based on the values that I saw in my parents, the caring, welcoming attitude towards friends, family and the needy. It was the laughter and the warmth that overflowed on Christmas night amongst the gathering that will always remain with me.
Through my life I have tried to preserve that spirit of Christmas and endeavoured to instil some of it in my children, as best I could, as well as to celebrate with whatever family was around who wished to be a part of it. I love making the effort, going that extra mile to do something extra special after all it is not just another day, its Christmas! A time of giving and receiving, of sitting together and sharing a meal, breaking bread and feeling the contentment and love and being a part of family.
Last week I spoke to Aidan’s granny and she spoke of her loneliness which I fully understand. The festive season seems to have an adverse effect on some of us. Instead of being caught up in the gaiety and sense of family and friendship many feel incredibly isolated and alone. I have spent parts of Christmas alone pondering the ache in my heart. Broken families mean children alternate Christmas, migrant families are separated by continents, some folk are ill, some alone, many are old and in a place they do not want to be in, some estranged, a family member might have died, a sudden retrenchment or perhaps some just don’t care or have the same awareness of kinship.
Spare a thought this Christmas to those around you. I was reading the paper the other day and was struck by the complete lack of care or moral value enveloping us. When did society become so unconcerned? Not to be political but I certainly would not have a woman in my life who treated the person she worked for with such disdain and contempt as Julia yet, she rules this country and we all listen to and read about her. Instead of being accepting the voters should have kicked her butt and ousted her for her incredibly bad, unacceptable conduct. How does a country condone such behaviour? Do we do the same in our own homes, in our workplace, behave so callously to colleagues or strangers, with our friends, is this how we want our children to behave? I suppose my question is where is our care factor…?
One of my hopes is that society starts to show more compassion to those around them and hopefully start at home, then the aged, the sick, the needy and into the broader community. Spare someone that all-encompassing loneliness at Christmas. Give a stranger a gift, visit the wishing tree in Kmart, purchase something from organisations that use the money to help sick children or cancer sufferers or orphans etc. Do a good deed.
For those who haven’t seen the movie there is a belief in ‘pay it forward’ or ‘give and you shall receive’. It’s all about being generous and giving without the expectation of ever receiving anything in return. Just knowing you touched someone else’s life in a positive manner and brought a smile or a lift to a heart is worth it, and that’s the gift. The world is so full of suffering its heart-breaking.
In all of our lives there will be someone who will not enjoy or have a sense of Christmas, spare a thought, reach out and share the love and kindness that resides in all of us. Bring joy and peace to our earth.
May you have a blessed Christmas and a joyous new year.
Travel safe.
X Alison
http://www.thepyjamafoundation.com
http://www.workingwonders.com.au/
http://salvos.org.au/christmas/how-to-help/food-and-gifts.php
Kmart Wishing tree Appeal
http://www.lionsclubs.org.au/cakes/info.php
http://www.beyondblue.org.au/index.aspx?
http://au.movember.com/get-involved/
http://www.kidswithcancer.org.au/
Aidan Cale Needham
25/06/86 – 20/10/10
Last week I sat at Maris’s final year service at school and was reminded how important ceremony is in one’s life. I watched as Father Andrew lit candles from a single blessed flame and passed them on to the line of young, soon to be adults. I’m sure few saw the significance of the passing of the flame but hopefully as they grow the will take cognisance and become more aware of the interconnectedness of us all.
Aleisha, Jackie and I ventured forth to Cape Town and celebrated Aidan at a wake we held for him on the 20th Oct. It’s difficult to put time to death as I cannot comprehend that Aidan is never coming back as he feels close and a part of me but a year has passed and so through ceremony we honour and remember him.
Zoe and Glen sang, John played a saxophone solo, Debbie talked and Karen read. We were surrounded by love, friends and family who toasted A, swopped tales of younger years, shared food, laughed and shed a tear. Aidan’s life had two halves, the before 15 in Cape Town and the after in Brisbane so, it was fitting to share the missing part of his life with those who shared the beginning.
Oh Hail the Pirate Chef.
The other day in conversation it was mentioned that a man I know is “trying to be happy” in his marriage. Trying to be happy, what does that mean and where does it leave his wife knowing that the person you live with is half there, half committed, half happy – if even …or is she the last to know I wondered.
How cool it must be to advocate all responsibility and cop out to living and committing to the full. Being half present, half aware, trying but always doubting, perhaps always looking for something to fill the half empty.
To me it’s a basic life principle. You only know this minute and you can only recall the past. What if you were to die in the next instant but you do not know that yet. Why waste time that you do not know you have. It is important to live in the now.
For some it seems easy to ride the wave of excuses such as – I had a terrible childhood and it defines me or I’ll hang onto this cement block that chains me to my unhappiness because it’s easier to make excuses and lay blame rather than to take responsibility for my part, accept, turn the other cheek, face it, leave it behind and move on and find fulfilment.
The flame of life is passed on to uphold that which is blessed not which compromises or is selfish.
Forge ahead, remain in the now and take each moment as it presents to you as a gift. Find the joy in the now. Embrace the now. Live in the now as it is all you really have and it might be your last. Don’t waste life, some have died for you to realise how precious and what a gift life is. Live it.
May you be blessed.
Love Alison
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
courage to change the things I can,
and the wisdom to know the difference.
Aidan Cale Needham
25/06/86 – 20/10/10
Some people repeat mantras, others buy desk pads of affirmations and books, some forward emails containing daily affirmations. I wear mine – the fast, fading bracelet that says “if I can, you can” reminds me daily that there is always someone facing challenges and possibly worse off. www.gogckids.com
I was told of someone I know whose son was shot and killed and how she took to an alcoholic induced haze for the first year whilst trying to come to terms with the loss of her only child.
On some level I envy her as I have never had the support or means to just fall apart. I’ve always had to work to cover expenses. That’s what keeps me going – not out of choice but out of necessity.
Neither of these is ideal. We all need to grieve, be angry and sad, feel let down or short changed, to try and make sense of it all, to try and move on and a balanced approach is obviously better.
In my heart I know that Aidan would be heart sore and devastated if he knew that I had collapsed in a heap with no way of moving on without him.
He never consciously inflicted pain or caused distress to me. Always treating Aleisha and I with humour, sensitivity and compassion.
So, for him I gather my strength daily. Some days I smile at his photograph and other days I might cry out “why did you leave me” but by the time I utter the words I’m on my feet and heading towards my day.
This morning I gazed out over the ocean and watched the calmness of the sea gain momentum and turn into a wave. Pulling, pushing, receding, pounding and pummeling the shore line.
That’s life I thought.
If you look upon each others lives your first impression is of calm similar to an ocean but the varying shades of colour hint at the challenges we face.
Many may ride the troughs and highs, others may encounter tidal waves, momentous seas and storms, some hurricanes and tornados.
At some point we all come ashore. The lucky ones may drift gently up the sand. Others may roll in on a wave, possibly dumped and flung about depending on the tide. Few will take a battering on the rocks and have themselves torn asunder.
Miraculously for most of us our bodies do heal and our strength returns. We tender to our wounds with alcohol, drugs, remedies, food, fast cars….pretty much anything to dull the aches and pains.
It does not matter how destructive we are as with time our physical bodies will heal. It’s how we nourish our internal self that important.
Whether we surround ourselves with good, caring and trusting friends/family or choose to meditate or pray, to eat healthily, to sit quietly and read a book or dance to wild music at some point we start to accept that the pain or loss will remain forever. It’s how we deal with it that’s important.
On the 10th I held my daughter by marriage and wished her a happy 1st anniversary and as we hugged each other I thought how cruel life can be, she without her husband and me without my son. I cannot change what’s been but I hope I can continue to touch her life and that the fingerprints I leave behind are clean, positive and bright.
When life ends love does not. It just changes form.
You cannot see their smile, prepare food together, hug them or tousle their hair but memory becomes your partner. You nurture memories, embrace them and carry them with you on your dance through life.
May you be blessed with as many happy memories as I have.
Love
Alison
Aidan Cale Needham
25/06/86 – 20/10/10
Heading towards a flight of stairs a week or so ago I caught sight, out of the corner of my eye, of a young woman I know so, I pointed at her in acknowledgment and changed direction.
In that instant she burst into tears and I felt completely helpless and at odds as to what to do. She stood in front of me, smiling toddler on her hip, tears streaming and told me that the doctor had just informed her that she has a huge tumour in her stomach.
I watched her as she uttered those words and comprehended that the axis on which her world rests had just shifted and tilted leaving her with the knowledge that her universe would never be the same again. New immigrants who had seen Australia as a fresh start, which offered hope and a new beginning, are now alone in a vast land about to face an unknown and frightening journey with two small children.
In that instant I realised that I’m a groupie. I belong to a group.
For whatever reason us humans take comfort in belonging. We belong to groups, clubs, religions etc. Label each other and have this group collective kinship.
My heart aches for this young woman and so we belong to the same group. Not sure if I should label it the aching heart group, the C diagnosis group, the C support group, the chemotherapy survivor group or I’ve lived with cancer group or…..
There is a public fight for breast cancer research and we rejoice with the survivors by wearing pink. But what about the rest, the unspoken for? I think that there is a cancer for almost all parts of the body but I don’t hear a lot of recognition, or fundraising, or advertising for those except perhaps the odd article.
What about us who survive cancer but never had it?
There should be a medal of honour and recognition for the battle fought and won for every cancer survivor. Now that’s a group to belong to – WOW – imagine being a groupie amongst that lot, wouldn’t that be amazing…I’m a groupie of the surviving families just as I’m sure there are many who have survived many things.
We should start a Facebook page called….I’m a groupie and survived….
– Lung cancer
– A brain tumour
– A car accident
– Alcoholism
– Retrenchment
– Abuse
– Bankruptcy
– Losing a child
– The flood
– Lost a limb
– A heart attack
– And so on and so on
Surviving any adversity is amazing and something to be proud of and to wear proudly.
One day I stood in the hospital gazing out over the city and watched the day fade into dusk and the city lights slowly flickering on. I wondered if the people out there ever give a thought or a second glance up at a hospital and wonder how those folk are.
It’s like living in an existence parallel to the real world, maybe within the hospital walls that is the real world and out there is an existing world. Not sure actually but an interesting thought.
When you walk out of the hospital you are instantly absorbed back into the hustle and bustle of that outside world. Yet, you drag the worry, the pain or hope with you as you go and the strain of tearing yourself away from the beside slowly diminishes.
All I know is that in hospital people suffer every day, special people survive in there and move on, special people die in there and move on, special little people are born in there and a myriad of other special people too countless to recall share those beds. Whoever you are or whatever sickness or illness you have suffered; there is a beauty of compassion and kindness in there and hope.
I honour all who have travelled those corridors and I’m proud to be a groupie.
Take each day as it dawns
Enjoy and love those around you
Smile and live life
Alison
When you are at a point in life in which you have to face an extreme emotional time, knowing that it will tear you apart yet, you still offer to share that moment. In return all you wish for is a physical reassurance that you are held, supported and loved.
Instead there is a stand-off, a distance and you’re told you are demanding.
In that instant the realisation smacks you that this is an insular journey. Few can understand, some will try, a handful will ride it with you and the rest will immerse themselves in their everyday lives.
An injured bird is looked at sadly and some will try to nurse it back to health. A child with its arm in plaster is treated with care and many will write fun things on the cast. Someone in a wheelchair or without a limb on crutches or a cancer patient who is obviously ill will be constantly treated with care and understanding and never thought of as demanding. Why is it that unless the human form looks broken or disabled there is limited or no recognition shown?
Personally, I feel as though a sledgehammer has shattered every bone in my body – that my internal organs have been rearranged and damaged so that I don’t recognise or feel them anymore yet, my form is intact. I look like me!
Demanding?
There are many forms of death. Instant – sudden – premeditated – long suffering or expected. After Laila died I attended a support group for families who had lost someone. I sat there and felt insignificant when hearing their stories of suicide, murder, drunk drivers, petrol bombs, drownings etc. Compared to mine their grief cut deep due to the horrific circumstances of many and I allowed it to trivialise mine.
Later, in counselling, I acknowledged that my grief was different. It lacked tragedy of that magnitude yet, it was mine and relevant to me.
With this in mind I started a support group for parents who had lost a child through an illness. Who had birthed a child, lived through a diagnosis, hope of survival, an illness, treatment, a few a transplant, hospital life, then having to say goodbye or prepare yourself, knowing that hope was exhausted.
This is a different death. A different journey and one not often talked about.
Now it’s my time to survive Aidan and so the circle of life continues. I do believe that parents should not have to bury their children and survive them, it is just not fair.
Over the years I have met wonderful people, talked about how it felt, how we coped and still cope, what we experienced, how grief has torn families apart, that men and woman cope differently and that in itself can be destructive.
What’s perceived as demanding is nothing more than our inability to cope. That in fact it is an extension of our hand, willing someone to care enough, to see through the mist of pain that lives around us like a moat, to just reach out, to bend, to yield to ego, and to just take it and hold onto it.
It’s a leap of faith to travel with a broken bird, but deep within, a song can be heard and it’s the precious notes of life that keep our hearts beating and the presence of saneness which helps us survive.
Love & laughter
Alison
R. Rodgers and O. Hammerstein II
When you walk through the storm
Hold your head up high
And don’t be afraid of the dark
At the end of the storm
There’s a golden sky
And the sweet silver song of the lark
Walk on, through the wind
Walk on, through the rain
Though your dreams be tossed and blown
Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart
And you’ll never walk alone
You’ll never walk alone
Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart
And you’ll never walk alone
You’ll never walk alone
I am always amazed at the frailty of the human body, so easily destroyed or broken. Yet, housed deep within is unimaginable inner strength and resolve. Enduring capabilities that cope when facing adversity with untapped power and resolve, love, joy, sadness, heartache and much, much more.
We are surrounded daily with tales of these strengths; it touches us when in print, on the news, in the community, within our family or circle of friends.
However, we live our own reality so never diminish that. It is easy to be affected by the suffering of others and to put our own pain aside. How many of us have uttered the words “there by the grace of god go I” or “touch wood”. I’m a culprit of that, not taking the time to reach into my own soul and depths to discover my pain as I know that if I touch that far down I might never recover. Such is the pain and sadness of this journey I walk.
So, I take each day as it dawns and try and find brightness in every day to give me strength and a reason to keep walking. Aidan’s tenacity was a shining example of this.
I feel as though I am crumbling on the inside whilst to the world I’m the same maybe just looking a bit worse for wear ! As I take another step I see my own footprints ahead of me and the knowledge that I am walking in my own set is an awful and foreboding feeling as this time I do not have that wonderful child next to me holding my hand, making me smile and feel that it is all worthwhile.
Aidan’s birthday is fast approaching and I can feel my body ache and the tears hover waiting for permission to expose themselves. How I miss my dear boy, every minute of every day.
Then, I take a breath and think of my dear friend just out of hospital fighting her own demons, another beautiful girl surviving cancer, my inspiring daughter in law coping with the loss of her soul-mate, husband and friend, a wonderful friend coming to terms with the betrayal of her marriage and the reminder is constantly with me that if you scratch the surface of all our lives, beneath lies some catastrophe, sadness, hurt, illness, pain and joy.
For each of us the road we travel is fraught with unbelievable highs and lows.
It’s how we get through them that is important and how to find the balance within to keep us going. I believe that without joy and laughter we would never make it. Laughter makes us draw breath which adds lightness to our being. The other emotions are dark and dreary and we drag them around like an anchor, weighing us down. Aidan laughed from deep within his belly. His body would shake and that would make me laugh and what a good feeling that was, sharing a moment, lightening our load just for that instant.
All around us are stories of sadness, soldiers dying, car accidents, drunken behaviour, family murders, an idiot with a gun, sudden death, ill health and just growing old.
Life is so fragile. Aidan showed all who travelled with him that it is not difficult to be nice, to be polite and friendly, to say thank you and I’m sorry, to be fair and loyal. I propose that we remember to rejoice in each other. Smile at strangers, work colleagues, family and friends. Be kind to each other. Think twice before you say ugly words to the people you love. Don’t hurt others intentionally. Choose your friends well. Read daily uplifting affirmations. Light candles. Be grateful for the people in your life. Take care of each other. Sing wildly. Pray or meditate whatever rocks your boat. Find your sense of purpose, try and be happy, take care of you and don’t feel alone.
I thank the universe daily for my family and friends without whom I would not have survived this far nor would I be able to continue further. Trying to make sense of it all can wait another day.
On Saturday, 25th June, we will celebrate the Pirate Chef’s 25th birthday and will send Aidan all our love as we do every day. I never thought for a moment that he would not be alive and with me on this journey but he will always be beside me.
Please join me in wishing my beautiful boy and Aleisha’s husband a Happy 25th Birthday ….Hip hip Hooray… love ya A
May the heavens shine forth with twinkling stars in the night sky and celebrate the kindness of his soul, as we light candles and bless him.
Love & laughter
Alison
20/10/10
The Road’s End
When I come to the end of the road and the sun has set for me,
I want no rites in a gloom filled room, why cry for a soul set free?
Miss me a little, but not too long and not with your head bowed low.
Remember the love that we once had, miss me but let me go.
For this journey that we must all take, and each must go alone.
It’s all part of the master’s plan, a step on the road to home.
When you’re lonely and sick of heart, go to the friends you know.
And bury your sorrow in doing good deeds; miss me but let me go.
Hi All,
Life seems to have kept me on its rocky road and here I sit trying to make sense of it all. One thing I do know is that I had the most wonderful son who bought me unbelievable joy and through his determination a new country , new friends and the opportunity to give him the best health care possible.
Aidan walked my journey beside me not always as my boy but also as a man who listened, supported, encouraged me and laughed with me and for me and through his humour and gentle spirit he was my foundation stone. Not many mothers have the opportunity to be a single mom, to raise their boy through tragedy, to move country together, to share such life changing events, to be able to talk to each other, to look each other in the eye with honesty and to have to face your son when he says “ I have a brain tumour and I am sorry that you have to go through this again” and for him to hear me say “ I’m sorry because I feel so responsible”.
I have always told Aidan how much I love him. I have held him in my arms when he felt so helpless and felt he was waiting to die. Just as he has held me as an eleven year old boy when Laila died. Together we have travelled a journey fraught with challenges, sorrow but also immense love, laughter and joy.
Aidan met Aleisha when they were at school and I remember being his taxi so that he could visit her back then at fifteen, just as friends. I know that our relationship was hard for her to understand but we overcame those obstacles and she has grown and matured beyond her years. Her loyalty and love for Aidan has known no boundaries and has been a delight to witness. She is a wonderful young woman and I am just so sad for her that she has had to experience so much so soon.
Married for ten days and then having to organise a funeral when for others their future would have just been starting. A asked me to look after her which I will do and as they were planning their honeymoon to Cape Town she has asked her mom and I if we could all go together as she would like to see and get to know the land of Aidan’s birth.
The magic of numbers – they married on the 10-10-10 , second wedding so that she could wear her beautiful dress was on the 15-10-10 and then our boy crossed over on the 20-10-2010.
I owe many of you letters or return calls but I am lost for words at present and am trying to hold myself together and deal with each day as it dawns. My whole life has changed and after being so focused on A these last two and half years it is difficult to have time. But time I have and life looks and feels different.
So, sorry for this group mail but I just wanted to say hi and to thank you all from my heart for all the support I receive. The emails, cards, flowers, messages, calls etc have touched me deeply and kept me going. I am so blessed to have Aidan as my son and you in my life.
10-10-10
15-10-10
When I come to the end of the road and the sun has set for me,
I want no rites in a gloom filled room, why cry for a soul set free?
Miss me a little, but not too long and not with your head bowed low.
Remember the love that we once had, miss me but let me go.
For this journey that we must all take, and each must go alone.
It’s all part of the master’s plan, a step on the road to home.
When you’re lonely and sick of heart, go to the friends you know.
And bury your sorrow in doing good deeds; miss me but let me go.
