Let me tell you, losing a child, losing a beautiful daughter, losing a Kay is one of those experiences in life that I would strongly recommend that you avoid at all cost. I don't think it adds anything to one's karma that anyone needs, for any reason. I know that the quality of my life has been permanently damaged, that nothing will ever be the same again. And for what? Have I learned anything useful? No, the contrary in fact, I have unlearned what little I thought I knew about life. Have I gained anything? No, the contrary in fact. Am I a better person? No, the contrary in fact, I'm a less happy and enjoyable person to be around - though no doubt there are those who thought I was a miserable b**tard to begin with.
Life is now simply harder, poorer. The experience of losing of a child has no redeeming features.
I shouldn't whine though. I should think about all those poor people in Japan and consider myself lucky. But that's so difficult to do when Kay is staring back at me from my desktop. I once wrote that the breadth of our emotional response is much narrower than the breadth of experiences that life throws at us. One can be very unhappy in excellent circumstances and very happy in difficult circumstances, as I experienced once during the time that Kay was in intensive care.
So I suppose that on the scale of the experiences that life throws at us, having your life wiped out by a nuclear tidal-quake probably rates worse than losing a daughter to a failed bone marrow transplant. But yeh, my emotional response is narrow and therefore, although I have a deep respect and theoretical sympathy with all those poor people, I'm still maxed out with my own sadness and grief. We (or maybe it's just me) are such shallow creatures, are we not?
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| Beauty and the Beast on Ski Holiday |
Rob, on my way to my last day in the RAAF, so will write properly later. Concur with most of your thinking, save for the fact that you think losing Kay is not as bad as a tidal wave. On the contrary, your family was hit by it's own tsunami. The suffering is at least equitable.
ReplyDeleteStrangely I was thinking along the same lines this evening before I read your blog. I was trying to equate the dreadful situation in Japan with your loss. (I must have known you too long). I came to a similar conclusion to Dominic.
ReplyDeleteLesley x
Shallow is not a word I would use at all. For me the depth of your grief for Kay is in direct relationship to the depth of your love for her.
ReplyDeleteAs for your second and third paragraph I am with you all the way on that one.
Sharon x
I don't think you're whining and I don't think there's any reason to consider yourself lucky when compared to people in Japan, because there is no reason to compare yourself to anyone else. Japanese are experiencing pain and bewilderment like I would have hoped no-one I know ever has to feel - but so are you.
ReplyDeleteIt's a different pain, but non-the-less real and huge.
My Auntie Jean lives in Christchurch NZ - into her 80s, she has just lost her house and a friend - and has had to move in with other friends. She is in pain and bewildered too - but you can't compare one with another - they are all just awful and inexplicable.
As for 'shallow'... I agree with Sharon.
Finally - being truly shallow - it's awfully cruel to refer to Nattie as 'the Beast'... :-)
Take care of yourself and please give my love to Marion, Lauren and Nattie.
Linda xxx
Adding to Linda's comments... Alison and I are pretty sure that Nattie is the Beauty!
ReplyDeleteRob, nothing yet, can dilute the anger, frustration and confusion that you feel. Only time (and no one knows really how long) will provide the dimension that 'massages' our point of view, into one that we can accomodate on a daily basis. Even then, the 'pangs' of pain that strike unknowingly, unwelcomed and without warning will be sharp. It is then, that you must lay your burden down, if only for a short time, to give yourself a moment to reorientate, to align your compass and scan the way ahead. Breath in, tighten the straps and walk on. Only remember... you do not walk alone. Love from Alison & Dom