‘How I got through Christmas after losing my wife and child’

I’d known the police sergeant for a couple of years, serviced his car at the garage that I managed, and had become good friends with him. He’d often stop and say ‘G’day’ as he drove by and we’d share a cuppa if time permitted.

On Thursday, November 24, 1966, I saw the police Falcon pull up out front. The sergeant and a young constable stepped out together. That in itself was unusual, but what happened next put a chill through my being. Premonition? I have no idea, but each placed his uniform cap squarely on his head before walking in step across the driveway.

I met them at the workshop door, but instead of the usual grin and ‘G’day’, I was met with a request to step into the office. The sergeant looked distressed and, as he spoke, it became clear why. My wife and four-year-old daughter had died a few minutes earlier in the next suburb on their way to share lunch with me.

It was one of those ridiculous little tiffs that start from nothing, blow up into a row, and end up making two people miserable. My wife and I had been guilty of it that morning. I remember heading out the door and off to work, having kissed little Isla farewell and not her mother. It was the first time ever. And it would be the last.

I stewed as I drove the 30 minutes to work that morning, upset that I’d been such an idiot. As I pulled up at the garage, I could hear the phone ringing. I unlocked the door and ran in. It was Kay doing what I’d intended, phoning to apologise. In just a couple of minutes, we reaffirmed our love and agreed she would drive across with Isla so we could have lunch together.

They stopped at a shop only five minutes away to buy me a chilled can of the orange juice I then enjoyed. They’d just settled back in the car and were caught up in an accident over which they had no control. A concrete truck skidded, rolled and landed on them. As the sergeant confirmed, the truck was coming from behind, Kay would have been busy starting the car, and they’d have had no inkling of what was happening.

That was my only comfort. I was filled with a block of ice. It was as though my whole being had frozen, and yet I had the ability to get about, albeit in a trance. It lasted nine or 10 days, that frozen core, and was probably the way in which I got through everything that followed, including the combined funeral service. Then, finally, the ice melted and I went to water. In itself it was a cleansing. It became a period in which I realised that life continues, that the human condition is to push on through adversity, to become a better person despite — or because of — what has gone before.

Which resolution was all fine and good, but it proved to be more difficult to live by than expected, especially at Christmas three short weeks later. Friends and family gathered with the best of intentions, tried to help draw me through a less than good time. The hardest thing was listening to the tinkling laughter of three other littlies as they tore open paper-wrapped gifts and ran, by now squealing with delight, showing off their gifts to proud parents.

Although surrounded by loving, caring friends and family, I felt alone. Instead of celebrating the birth of one child I was mourning the loss of another. It proved the worst Christmas of my entire life.

I am fortunate. Despite such a loss, and especially at what ought to be the most joyous time of year, I had the capacity to pull myself through my depression. A friend, a Salvation Army captain, spoke with me, concerned lest I felt it all beyond me. What he said, referring to Psalm 30, did manage to help:

“Weeping may remain for a night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.” In other words, grief has a purpose but also has a limit. They are a truism, those words, and I’ve thought back to them on many another occasion though life.

Have you lost a loved one? How have you celebrated events such as Christmas in their absence?

If you’re depressed or need someone to talk to this Christmas season, there are many 27/4 support lines available, including Lifeline on 13 11 14, the Suicide Call Back Service on 1300 659 467, MensLine Australia on 1300 789 978 and Beyond Blue on 1300 224 636.