When you start out on the journey towards competing in an Ironman race there are so many uncertainties, especially if it’s your first time, and even when you think you know it all curve-balls get thrown at you.
So, when my lovely dad died at the beginning of August it was one of the biggest curve-balls I’ve ever received even though it was expected when he’d reached the grand old age of 88. Add to that, mum is in her final stages of Alzheimers and the curve-balls keep coming.
To say that 2020 has been rubbish is an understatement but one of the comforting aspects of the rubbish year is that I can roll out that well-worn phrase, “We’re all in this together”, irritating as it is, it’s true and never more so when people reach out to you when someone you love dies.
Loss and grief
2020 has also been a year of loss, loss of freedoms, travel opportunities, the ability to be close to people, loved ones dying and those races that seemed so important a year ago, seem totally irrelevant now. Dealing with those losses has been one of the biggest struggles of my life and grief, well it’s something that you just can’t control.
I’ve been pretty lucky since the Covid world took over. I haven’t lost employment opportunities, in fact, I’ve turned work down, I’ve been so busy. I haven’t lost any friends to Covid or been ill. I haven’t even lost much freedom close to home, life has gone on pretty much as normal. But losing mum and dad, that’s a whole different kind of loss, one that a vaccine won’t fix.
As for grief, I’ve decided to let it roll. I’ve cried more than I ever thought possible. I’ve sobbed sitting on a bench in a busy Sydney suburb, at the accountant’s, in the pool, at the shops, sitting high on a cliff overlooking the ocean. I’ve let my grief sweep over me like an uncontrollable wave and whilst it hurts, it feels like the right thing to do, my depth of grief is a mark of respect for the love I feel for mum and dad.
Dark thoughts amongst the waves
I’m not a pessimistic person, in fact, one of the things that used to irritate mum was my rose-tinted view of life, that doesn’t mean I don’t get down, I just don’t want to stay down for long.
However, I have had some pretty dark thoughts over the past month and I feel embarrassed admitting to them given that life has been generally good. But I find myself seriously questioning what’s the point of carrying on. I turn 60 in a few weeks time, I wanted to celebrate it with the big trip to Canada and the race. I wanted to flip the bird at ageing, but with dad’s death the opposite has happened, I’ve been forced to face the reality that there’s far less time in front of me, than there is behind and I’m not blessed with patience.
One of dad’s favourite sayings is, “Always go forwards, never go back”
- I cry whenever I need to, I don’t care who is there, what situation I’m in, I’m not going to be brave and keep it in, I need to cry.
- I write everything down, how I feel, what I think about situations, it’s another release from the pain that grief brings.
- I read about other people’s experiences. Like the Covid phrase, “We’re all in this together” in grief we really are, we all love something or someone that when we lose it, we grieve.
- I walk my legs off! Formal training has been impossible, there’s no racing anyway, but I walk everywhere and sometimes for hours.
- I let myself be hugged. In these no-touch Covid times hugs have become so precious that when someone has offered me a hug I’ve taken it and they feel sooooo good.
So where to from now?
The rose-tinted glasses side of me is clinging to anything that gives me hope, beautiful sunrises, a bed of freesia that make me want to lie in the middle of them, the glimmer of the sun off the water, even the plop of raindrops in a puddle that I then want to jump in, for me hope is everything.
Even amongst the grief and loss, there have been enormous gains. Only six weeks ago my brothers and sister were distant from each other and had been for some time, but mum and dad have bought us all back together like we were when we were kids. I have my sister back and we’re talking all the time. My brothers put aside their grievances and sat by dad’s bedside during his final hours laughing and drinking whisky, they’ve set up a roster to visit mum and play Peter Kaye sketches and Tom Jones music to her. I am so proud of my little brothers and sister, a massive gain for 2020.
And Allan, well, he’s just there, always, constant, occasionally a little grumpy, his way of coping with grief. And Wookie the dog, his intuitiveness has been miraculous, simply unbelievable which has warranted a special present for him, a new fur baby in January. Allan only resisted for about an hour.
So, life goes on. The inevitable of dad dying was in many ways like the fear I felt before my first Ironman race many years ago. The grief is like the mid-way point of the bike leg, lots of questions about why? And the prospect of a marathon is life without mum and dad, simply no idea of how I’m going to do it, but I will!
As for two old girls, formal training is taking a break, but our friendship is stronger than ever, the support is still there and we will keep moving forward in the hope that before long we can pick up where we left off, stronger, wiser and still as sassy as we always were.