Читать книгу The Hidden Journey - Christine Lister - Страница 4

Friday 23/2/01

I have avoided coming to the page. It is the twenty-third – coming up to our twenty-third anniversary, twenty-three years at Number twenty-three. I was wrong, so wrong, so lulled into thinking my husband was fit, strong and invincible. Melanoma.1 Malignant melanoma. Now it’s a new specialist, and back into hospital.2 The big C got me by default through Rex, so much worse in many ways.

Already I find it hard to be positive. Already I am making plans for my death. If anything happens to Rex, I will surely follow. I am mentally changing my will. This means I have given up hope Rex will be all right. He thinks it is just an annoyance.

‘People don’t die from melanomas,’ he said.

How wrong he is. But I didn’t want to disabuse him, frighten him, like I am frightened.

It seems so wicked to think he has cancer, that he could die. I didn’t sense something was wrong. How out of touch is that? I should have known intuitively that my man was under threat, but I didn’t.

How quickly the world can turn. The horrid thoughts fly freely and randomly. Life insurance – when did we find out? I already have him dying, and am checking the life insurance policy will hold up. Will we be able to go on our odyssey? We don’t know and won’t know for a while. Tears, tears, I drink and drink to hold them at bay and eat and eat.

As soon as I gave Rex the surgeon’s number he rang poste haste. I knew something was off when the doctor rang. Now it’s back to square one, and hope it hasn’t spread. A simple knock to a mole he’s had for a lifetime and the landscape changes in one fell swoop. Autumn is coming… the autumn of my life.

When I finally lift my eyes to look outside I see how dark, grey and gloomy it is, still as death. Even the birds are quiet today.

Saturday 24/2/01

Joy said, ‘The first day is the worst, the rest gets better.3’ Certainly yesterday was. Today I’m more rational, more hopeful and no longer believe the end is nigh. The time ahead will be difficult, a challenge, perhaps a prelude to what the future will hold.

My man is hopeful too, anxious, but not unduly, certainly not believing the worst. I feel so close to him, so aware of the goodness in him, the strength below the surface. I feel safe and secure with him.

Back again. I’m having a break from gardening. I knew the garden was the best place to be. It’s sunny and warm. Lewis is lying nearby, enjoying time alone with me. He is such a loving dog.

It is wonderful sitting out here writing, enjoying the trees and our garden. We have created such an oasis. I’m not so scared. Whatever is ahead we’ll manage. Life is what you make it. Cancer is a part of life, albeit a dark part.

My energy is returning, two nookies in a week. Rex is reaching out, feeling his life force.

‘It’s as good as it was 25 years ago.’

That’s a very special thing to say. Rex has such security and certainty about his place in the world. In turn, he has given me the same.

Sunday 25/2/01

Rex is anxious, unknowing of what’s in store. This is always the hardest. Lewis and Peedee are waiting by the side of the bed yet again, waiting expectantly for a sign we are off for a walk.

It’s grey and overcast outside, good weather to be in the garden. The garden restoreth my soul. Out there life goes on. Plants grow. What doesn’t do well or dies can be supplanted by something stronger. The garden is ever changing, just like me.

I don’t have any presentiments of death or destruction now. I feel everything is going to be all right. Is this wishful thinking or am I in tune with Rex’s body, mind and health? I hope so.

Monday 26/2/01

I’m feeling toey. My tummy is volatile. There is a sense of anticipation. We’re waiting, wanting to get there to see the specialist, to find out. The uncertainty is getting to us. We’re both very restless. Spending yesterday in the garden helped while away our cares.

Tuesday 27/2/01

Up early. I needed to write. I didn’t like the new specialist. He might be a hotshot surgeon but he is a nowhere man personally. A large area of skin and tissue around where the mole was has to be cut away and a skin graft put over.4 Three other moles5, with the potential to become problems, will also be removed. The ten days enforced bed rest in hospital to allow the skin graft to heal will be difficult.

It was a rough night. Rex was up too. He woke me at 12.30am for a chat. It took nearly three hours to go back to sleep. I’m waiting, wondering what is going to happen. What does the future hold? There is a sick feeling in my stomach. I feel for him. It’s bad enough for me, but it’s worse for him.

I’m going to see David Lester this afternoon. I want to know more. I want to gain some ownership of the process. I need to bring our guardian angels to bear, to watch over us and protect us. We need to surround ourselves with goodness, positiveness, carers and people to do the journey with us.

I’m going ahead with planning the trip, and with our super fund and investment company. All previous thinking and planning holds good. To put on hold is to acknowledge we won’t make it. We can and we will. It’s okay to feel mortal and negative occasionally, you wouldn’t be human otherwise. I feel so close to my man right now. He needs me in a way he’s never needed me before. He wants me to be strong, to look after him. I will. He’s frightened of leaving the dogs and me alone.

My legs are leaden, hardly able to move. Life has a touch of

unreality at the moment. I’m not letting him go. Touch is so important - holding his hand, touching his arm or leg, stroking him, feeling the beauty of him, feeling his love and sending out all the love I have in return.

Marriage vows – for better, for worse, in sickness and in health, until death do us part. For now it is time to muse, to think of my man and what he means to me. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Twenty-three years on Monday.

Wednesday 28/2/01

Operation Day. After an extremely nervous start, a strange sense of calm has descended. I’ve been doing ordinary tasks, getting ready to go back and see him. I feel everything is going to be all right. What a crackpot notion that seems to be. But it’s not. Whatever happens we will cope. We will be together.

Rex loves me. I can see it in everything he does. I am keeping his motivation for life uppermost in his mind. I am here. I need him. Therefore he will go through hell to be there for me.

I’m writing to Gregory in my mind. I liken leaving him, to recovery from an addiction. I have gone cold turkey, no props needed. I can cope with my life, with living. I will also cope with whatever life throws at Rex and me. I just wasn’t expecting it.

Thursday 1/3/01

‘Tis March, autumn no less. I’ve been hanging out for autumn and it snuck up on me. I have been preoccupied with Rex. I woke early and stayed awake. The euphoria of last night has gone. I was so happy to see Rex yesterday.

Joy is up. It was good to have her here last night. I open up to her. She listens with love. Col and Rex are brothers in arms. Col’s journey overcoming prostate cancer is giving Rex hope. I don’t know for how long, but I feel his time is not nigh. We have been given a wake up call and we are heeding it.

‘What are you allergic to?’

‘Angry nurses and penicillin.’ Smart answer.

‘When were you born?’

‘Why ask me, it’s written on the paper you’re holding.’ Cheeky. Very cheeky, and yet indicative of his good spirits and irreverent attitude. Rex is no respecter of rank, just of people. He is a good man, too good to lose.

He was upset because he forgot the anniversary card.

‘Go home, open up a bottle of wine with Joy and drink to the wonderful husbands in your life. Tell her I love her and thanks for being there.’

Later. The tears are starting to fall. His outpouring of love yesterday was palpable. Love vibrated out to me from every fibre of his being. I am the centre of his universe, his raison d’etre as he is mine. It is so wonderful and yet so painful when I think of what might happen.

The house is quiet. It feels empty. The days seem longer. Rex wanted to know if I would stay here when he was gone. Of course it is our home. I will never leave here. I’m becoming maudlin but where better to be maudlin than in my morning pages. It is here the unspoken fears can be writ large and dealt with, not left to fester. My journal, my first journal is coming to an end. I never look back.

Friday 2/3/01

Everyone’s ringing and checking on Rex, asking if he has any results. Rex thinks he’s okay. He’s decided he feels so good nothing is in him. I’m starting to believe he can overcome whatever he sets his mind to. He looks so well, so strong.

I’m taking in the maps for the trip so Rex can work out the routes for our European Odyssey. It was good having Joy here. She is easy and comfortable to be with. It will be great travelling with them – the culmination of lots of planning and dreaming.

It’s a cool, overcast day, with sneak previews of blue in the sky heralding sunshine ahead. The evenings and early mornings are cooling down leaving behind the heat of summer. Long sleeves are the order of the day.

We received a card from Kerry6; someone who knows intimately what cancer is like. She is still alive. Cancer is not a sentence of death. Perhaps my phobia will disappear now. By having to face it, deal with it, I will learn to overcome my fear. Rex certainly has. He feels good. That’s real. The rest will follow.

I feel better today, calm, forward looking. It’s not a false hope moving through me. It’s a certainty all will be okay. Our lives will change but not in ways that matter. Gregory you are not needed. I will write to you one day, but I think I can do this without you. I have grown. I am still growing. I like this life I am living. I love the man I married. This hiccup is a reminder to me he is not invincible.

Saturday 3/3/01

I feel I have this cushion of protection around me, around us. It’s a wonderful centre of calm. In spite of all that is happening I’m not deeply worried or worrying.

Yesterday I went to the nursery to buy some Grevillea Robustas and autumn trees to celebrate our anniversary. I wanted rich colours and different leaf patterns to break up the greeny-grey colour of the natives.

The garden is my palette. This is where I create, where I visualise what could be. I use trees and shrubs as symbols of people I love. Grevillea Robusta: the largest and most spectacular of all the grevilleas. Perfectly symmetrical fern-like foliage with brilliant orange brushes, a beautiful landscape tree. Stands out in a crowd. The description reads so much like Rex – it is long lived too.

Japanese maples. I’ve loved these trees for so long. Now they will be part of our autumn anniversary collection. Twenty-three years at Number twenty-three. A blaze of colour will come into our lives each autumn, forever a symbol of our love, the colour of our lives.

I love the stillness of autumn. I love the chill in the air, and the slow start to the day. My life seems so full. The future is ahead of me - growth, excitement, planning for gardens, travel, financial freedom plus such good friends and support. We have worked at it, nurtured it, and now, when we need it, we are being nourished and protected by it.

Sunday 4/3/01

Awake early. It is still pitch black outside. The headache has gone, so too the severe pulling of the muscles around my neck and shoulder. It was serious stuff but I took some pills and more pills to stop it getting a hold.

Later. I’ve been to hospital and am home again. Rex looks good again today. There is no sign of a temperature. He’s focussed on getting better no matter how long it takes and is looking forward to our trip. Big smoochie kisses.

I’m still managing to write, walk the dogs, and meditate each day plus eat. I’m trying to look after me so I can look after Rex.

Monday 5/3/01

Just touching him, feeling him, being near him lifts my spirits, lets my spirit fly. I hope the surgeon has good news.

From the bedside at Warringal Hospital

To my beautiful and supportive Wife,

Dear Christine,

Anniversaries may be a yearly thing but on this day (5th March) I can but reflect that we have experienced not just twenty-three years of married life resulting in twenty-three ‘special days’ of celebration, but to be realistic we must multiply this equation by 365.

Each day I spend with you is a bonus and consequently an anniversary and, as we go through life together, and these little speed humps appear, we just take a step back, and appraise the situation, overcome the problem together and move on.

Notwithstanding the results of this little hiccup, we are and will be positive together and come out the other end smelling of roses and remaining as close and bonded as one.

Without your love and support and loyalty I could be blasé about this event but because of our partnership and the true friends around us, we will hopefully have another twenty-three years plus together. Watch out for any runaway bus.

Thanks for being there. I know I am important in your life, as you are in mine, and you are well aware that priorities will be assessed and our future will be based (still) on all the good things we share.

Happy Anniversary to a very special person. Keep on smiling because you do wear your heart on your sleeve/face and I will know if you are concerned.

Love Rex

No card to follow due to circumstances beyond my control.

Tuesday 6/3/01

It’s dark in the mornings. The sun takes a long time to be seen. The whole of the backyard is still in shade except for a few trees touched lightly by the sun filtering through.

Rex looked so good yesterday. He was bright eyed and bushy tailed, so confident all would be well. He dispelled my tears and fears quickly. I’ll take the dogs for a walk soon, and then I’m off to the hospital again.

Wednesday 7/3/01

Painkillers, tranquillisers and wine, no wonder I’m feeling out of sorts. I’m starting to struggle at the moment, needing crutches and crutches are not good, too much, too many. I’m tired. My muscles keep tensing up and pulling.

I hope to hell the doctor has the pathology report and let’s Rex know today. Everyone is asking. I’m waiting and it’s a week today. More than enough time… It will be such a relief to have him home. I have maintained my writing each morning. It has been helpful. I’m starting to feel raw around the edges, a little vulnerable. Hopefully, the waiting will stop today.

Still autumn days are here. I want to plant on the weekend. I need to spend time in the garden. I want to make the most of autumn, of this time with Rex.

Thursday 8/3/01

Rex is coming home today. He read his own pathology report. Hearing the voices of Mum and our friends last night was wonderful. Relief abounded. Rex is safe, cleared of cancer. They’re all surer than I am. I’m still thinking about the first report and penetration into the lymph.

Friday 9/3/01

A long weekend coming up, not at Apollo Bay as planned but home here at Montmorency. We just had a nooky. It is a signal, a big sign of life, of living, of the need to mate, especially after facing the possibility of death.

Dawn is coming through slowly. Faint bluey greys and pink streak across the sky beyond the trees. There is no light on the trees yet. Birdcall is easily heard in the stillness of the morning.

No residual sign of melanoma. Wonderful report.7 It couldn’t be better. The specialist said everything’s okay. There was no sharing of the report, no talk of the possibility of further problems or the need for any follow up. Rex asked the nurse for a copy of the report. I will show it to David Lester and ask if anything needs to be followed up.

I have a funny feeling of limbo, of let down. Even though everything has worked out well, I feel flat, super tired. Maybe it’s post traumatic stress syndrome like fighters after the war. The threat is over but I’m taking time to assimilate that fact.

I just stroked his forehead. Seeing him sleeping and resting in bed beside me while I write is comforting. We’re almost back to normal. I have to play nursemaid for a week or so then all will be well. Perhaps I should wear short skirts and no knickers so he can play with me when he has his pills.

The sky is becoming lighter as I write, the birds noisier. Maybe I should walk the dogs earlier, then again maybe not.

Saturday 10/3/01

There is a shooting pain in my collarbone and the side of my neck. Something is going on inside me. I am hurting, grieving, not freed from threats as yet.

Day after day the writing goes on and I never look back, righting my world by writing. I’ve never been one to dwell in the past. I solved the pain of the past by moving on, finding new hopes and dreams and pursuits.

Later. My stiff neck has eased off. It’s a reaction to the shock and grief. It’s always a delayed reaction with me, held back so I can do what I have to do.

Tuesday 14/3/01

Rex was very restless last night. His legs were continually moving, hurting. There is no way of knowing if this is what to expect or not. He is tolerant of his confinement, ready to do what it takes. I’m enjoying having him so close for so long. Sunlight is starting to filter through the trees.

9.00pm In bed early to read. I’m very unsettled at the moment, fragile, easily upset. Thursday is the big day with the specialist. Is the cancer in his system? The possibility exists so we need to chase that down. Then perhaps I will stop hurting.

Thursday 15/3/01

Two tails are wagging at me. Walk they ask? No way! Each time I wake in the early morning my neck and head feel like they’re in a vice, squeezing, squeezing. Today is the day to see the plastic surgeon. I dislike the man intensely. He is offensive, insulting to women, arrogant and unable or unwilling to communicate, or form a relationship.

Back again. I feel lighter in my heart. Rex is on the mend. The

specialist talked about the rats and mice men8 and the reason for his referral. It was hard for Rex. He didn’t expect to have to follow up. No one had explained to him like David did to me that the tumour had penetrated the lymph. That is the major threat. How major we have yet to determine.

Friday 16/3/01

It’s a greyish day in paradise. The dogs are fed and watered, and waiting to be walked. Rex is by my side reading the papers. The king parrots were back yesterday. There were lots of lorikeets, some eastern rosellas and Rex saw two crimson rosellas. It’s good to have the range of birds back. I can’t imagine our house without them.

Saturday 17/3/01

Rain, rain glorious rain. The garden beds are wet for the first time in ages. Outside is dark and grey with a little sun starting to show its presence. I’m sure the thirsty grass and trees lapped up the welcome drink.

There’s no seed left. The birds have eaten it all and a crimson rosella is about. What a bugger! We’ve done well with the birds here. Number twenty-three is a place for birds to find food and water and hang about.

I have lots of work on the horizon but I can’t apply myself. We’re into the waiting game again. This time it’s the Ludwig Institute and worrying what will happen there.

Sunday 18/3/01

I wonder if Rex will continue for much longer at work. Hopefully, he will be well enough to make the decision, not have the decision made for him. The dogs are quiet again. They have been fed and are now in front of the fire so peace reigns again.

Monday 19/3/01

Rex is still asleep beside me. Outside is still, quiet and grey. The forecast is for nearly a week of damp, drizzle and rain ahead. I don’t mind grey and damp. Grey is one of my favourite colours and wet equals green and growth.

It was a big day yesterday. The wounds were uncovered, both the skin graft on his foot and the donor site on his thigh. Rex spent ages hesitantly pulling at the bandages to loosen them. Instinct says to keep the wounds covered but healing requires them to be uncovered. He then allowed the shower to sluice gently over them. Healing is a slow and painful process.

Wednesday 21/3/01

I’m worried that Rex is too static. He is not walking at all. He’s worried about opening the wounds.

There are precious few calls and no emails. The world has gone away. Panic has subsided and we are on our own once more, just like when someone dies. It is the aftermath that is lonely.

The sun is shining. It is a beautiful day out there. I’m going to meet the day, meet the sun, bask in its warmth, bathe in its light and trust all will be okay in my world.

Thursday 22/3/01

I still haven’t written to anyone. I’m waiting for the Ludwig Institute. Somewhere deep inside I’m not sure what is happening. Soon we’ll start the next and even scarier process. If the melanoma is in Rex’s system, the chance of removing it all with local excision is virtually impossible. I don’t want to know. I’m already feeling I can’t cope.

I’ve been hesitating about planting the Rex Robustas.9 They will be flying in the face of what I feel. Perhaps I should plant them for me instead so I will grow stronger with them. I am the one who needs symbols of hope. Rex always maintains his strength and hope, outwardly at least. I am withdrawing into my own world of pain. I must get out into the garden.

Friday 23/3/01

I like waking early in the morning with the dogs so I can read, write and reflect in the early morning stillness. It is rarely windy early. Our place is so quiet. Although there are lots of people nearby they rarely penetrate the barrier of silence.

Rex will be home until after Easter. No retirement is in the offing yet. I’m pleased. Since he’s been home my routines have become unhinged. I’ve become a little unhinged too.

It is almost a year since I retired. I have done so much and have so much more I want to do. This period is reinforcing that. I don’t want Rex to retire and be home with me. I don’t want Rex to be sick and need intensive care and nursing by me. I could and would do it, but I would strain at the bit to have more in my life.

I loved the way the lorikeets sheltered in pairs under the bird feeders yesterday. It was magic. This is their second home, their shelter when needed. No wonder they keep coming back. No wonder I never want to leave.

Sunday 25/3/01

I’m still wary deep in my heart about what is coming. I was dreaming last night Rex’s cold and mucky throat is the beginning of further problems, of our trip not going ahead. I don’t trust anything at the moment.

I need to get out and about more, taste the world, taste nature, and taste the garden. I’m too house bound. That limits my spirit. My spirit needs contact with the outdoors to flourish. I need my garden. I need to plant, to watch things grow, to feel the earth under my feet and in my hands, to know that life will go on.

Monday 26/3/01

It’s Monday again and a greyer day in paradise than yesterday. No matter, I feel bright this morning. I could do with some counselling but keep hesitating. I will wait until Thursday but I know things are rarely ever resolved in one day. They go on and on. So we need to get on and do whatever we want.

Wednesday 28/3/01

It is a beautiful morning, green and crisp with sunlight filtering through after a good rain. The garden always looks more alive after rain. Today is the finish of this journal, a fitting finish, and a momentous day when we go to see what is in store for us for the rest of our lives.

I had an early wake up call. Pain, pain, pain! The soporific effects of the painkiller take over and I’m okay for a while. I know it’s my body reacting to deep subconscious thoughts, thoughts I rarely allow to the surface.

Rex sleeps on. He’s had a restless night too. I gave him a copy of the initial pathology report.10 He said he’s not worried by it. Funny, it worried me. I can’t get it out of my mind the cancer cells may have slipped into the lymph glands. I keep thinking about wills and things. It’s all part of the deep, dark thinking underneath the surface.

It is dark and gloomy outside. It’s still early but I think it is going to remain a dark and gloomy day.

Friday 30/3/01 3.00am

Pain has me tightly in its grip. I was in agony yesterday at the Ludwig Institute, almost unable to function. Tears were spilling from my eyes as I waited for Rex to have a blood test. I look at Rex closely sometimes, like yesterday when I was waiting, looking for signs of his demise.

It seems he is okay at the moment but the probability of the melanoma spreading is 30% – moderately high. They can and will monitor him. It’s also possible for him to be involved in a clinical trial of an anti-cancer vaccine.11

I hear possum activity outside. Life goes on. So will ours. I have to learn to deal with it better because the pain is starting to cripple me. It seems a long time since the melanoma was diagnosed. In reality it’s a short time that feels very long.

We are going to see David to query him about the Ludwig Institute and the trial. Apart from the inconvenience, there doesn’t seem any reason not to participate if Rex is a suitable candidate. Going to the Austin once or twice a week for three months will be my trial.

I feel so vulnerable and sad. I hurt so much inside and out. I try to obliterate the pain with pills and alcohol. It’s a recipe for trouble long term, but it is my crutch until life stabilises. I am not ready for this challenge. I wasn’t even expecting it. I was enjoying my new found life and freedom too much.

Now life has stopped me in its tracks once more. We’re over the first hurdle but in the back of my mind there is a worm telling me the melanoma could be back. I should be ecstatic Rex is okay, but I’m not. I’m scared. I don’t trust life will be okay for us. I hate cancer. The original tumour penetrated the lymph. Somehow, somewhere, some day the cancer cells will show up again. I’m a lady in waiting.

I am marking time, waiting, praying, hoping. Rex is under threat. My whole way of life is threatened, suspended. Everything I hold dear, everything I have worked towards this past year was testament to the future I believed in. Now the future is clouded, shrouded in mist. Time feels like my enemy.

There is an air of unreality to my world. I want to hide, lick my wounds, but I can’t. I must keep my brave face on, my full-of-hope-and-confident face. Muscles tighten like screws, squeezing my skull, hardening my shoulders.

Saturday 31/3/01

I’m starting to realise these are the challenges we will be facing for the rest of our life. Rex has survived this crisis, as he will survive many more. I will have my own health crises, but please not yet.

I must rid myself of this neck and shoulder pain. I understand why it is with me. It comes from the stress and emotion of Rex’s cancer. I also understand I can’t tolerate it much longer. I must free myself from pain. This means I must free myself from the negative thoughts and gloom that have dominated me. Whatever life we have ahead, we will live it together and happily. We will do what we want when we want now because there may not be enough time tomorrow.

Rex told David, ‘The odds may be 30% or 1 in 3 of recurrence but in reality they’re 50-50. You’re either alive or you’re dead. That’s it. It could be a bus or a car. You’re either here or you’re not. No use worrying about it.’

He says he’s staying strong for me so I’ll know he’s invincible. I don’t want him to pretend or hide anything. I don’t think he can, but he realises how important he is in my world. My safety and security, my base foundation are derived from him in large measure. If he is threatened, then I am too.

I am planting once more – Rex Robustas and anniversary trees. I am letting the season and the garden heal me, nurture me.

Six weeks later. Letter 9/5/01

Dear Gregory (still fondly in the guardian angel genus):

I have written to you so often in my mind but today I am doing it for real. It is so long since I’ve seen you, yet you are with me constantly.

Autumn is nearly over. I love autumn, the beautiful still days, the sunlight filtering through the trees, the changing colours of the leaves, the crunch of leaves under our feet when the dogs and I walk in the park, and the coolness which allows me to snuggle up in bed with my hottie and electric blanket and a book or Rex, if he is there.

Most of my important dates and anniversaries are in autumn - my birthday, Rex’s birthday, our wedding anniversary, and my retirement, when I first went overseas, when I first bought this house. It is the time I most love being in the garden spending hours recreating new pockets of beauty. It is a magical time, a time for reflection and celebration after the harshness of summer.

This year I added one more celebration, perhaps the most special of all. We got another chance at life. Rex has been pronounced free of cancer (melanoma) after a traumatic few months. Although the medical pundits say he has a moderately high risk of recurrence, for now we can fly again.

I was so scared of losing him. I thought my life was over just when I had started to live. But of course it wasn’t and it won’t be. The strength and resilience I learnt at your side guides me still, allows me to feel my pain, to understand I’m not being punished, that life just threw me a curved ball when I least expected it. With support from close friends and family, I did cope.

I have had the most wonderful year since I retired. I have never been so happy, contented or calm. With my body free of pain my mind and spirit ran free, giving me glimpses of paradise here on earth. I feel good about myself, that what I am doing is right for me. The dogs and Rex have thrived with the quality time I have for them. I can hear them. I listen to what they say.

The garden talks to me too. This is my passion, where my creative energies come alive. Amidst the forest of native plants, grasses, herbs, spring bulbs, brilliant deciduous autumn trees, orchids and roses are emerging in pots and across archways. The garden is ever changing, just like the weather and me. I walk in it, sit in it, marvel at it and drink it in. I dream of what I can do, then I make it happen, bit by bit. And then I walk, sit, marvel and drink it in some more.

The parrots and rosellas still come, but now the smaller birds, like eastern spinebills, honeyeaters and pardalotes are returning. Fishes and their babies swim lazily and carefree in the newly planted pond. The ringtail and brushy tailed possums have moved in too. This is definitely the place to be. I love it. So do the plants and animals.

Walking, meditating and writing are part of nearly every day. Each morning as I write in my journal I allow my thoughts and feelings to wander freely across the pages, to reflect on life and living, and all things both large and small. It is here I find you most often, hear you, talk to you, reach out to you, and revisit what I learned about me with you as my guide. I talk to my journal as openly as I talked with you. I reveal myself and in so doing accept who and what I am and better understand what is happening to me. I even let Rex read my journals when he feels the need. I’m not scared by it. Funnily enough, neither is he.

Amidst all this spirituality, reflection and freedom to develop the new me, I found I needed an intellectual challenge. I turned to business and finance - setting up and running our own superannuation fund and investment company. For the first time in my life I feel truly happy, a happy that pervades deep into my soul. My world is smaller, more secure and so beautiful. I allow the people in it to care for me, to love me and hold me. The dogs adore me and want to be with me. I am on my own a lot, but rarely feel lonely. I have found a peace I never knew existed and glimpses of paradise to entice me on for years.

All my treasures, mementos and guardian angels have been resurrected to adorn our house and garden to ward off evil spirits. I know the intense pain I feel at the moment is a legacy of our brush with death. I feel a deep certainty the pain will go, although my body takes longer than I would like to heal. The old wounds are deep, but they no longer haunt me, cannot hold me in their sway. I am at one with Rex, closer than we have ever been; yet I am free, free to be me.

Gregory, I treasure my time spent with you. Because of it I can seek out and treasure all that is precious in my life. I know I will also have a life worth living even if Rex can’t be with me forever.

We go overseas for two months in September, autumn in Europe. This will be the journey of a lifetime, the journey we never thought we would make.

I find it hard to write to you. I grieve anew, yet I feel you are with me. If I write again it will probably be in autumn, from one hemisphere or another.

May your life be as blessed as mine.

Love Christine