Fifty dollars later

Yesterday, with the house to myself, I was going to write. A glorious day of writing – a bit of tidying up on an earlier chapter of my novel, make a start on chapter sixteen and then do some free writing – not necessarily in that order. And lie in the hammock to read some more of The Curious Incident of the Dog. However, having forgotten to transcribe 'curriculum day' from the school newsletter into my diary, I ended up walking to the shops with Hannah (my thirteen year old) and Milly (our dog), losing a fifty dollar note on the way.

The feeling of embarrassment and horror in the bread shop, when I reached into an empty pocket, was acute. Daughter, dog and distraught mother hurriedly retraced our steps home, eyes glued to the footpath, to find nothing but an old shopping list and an empty envelope. So much for a leisurely stroll. And so much for the cappuccino and hot chocolate we were going to enjoy at the local café.

Being a firm believer in providence, I only hoped whoever had made the serendipitous find of my fifty dollar note, had needed the money.

I thought about all the things fifty dollars could buy: dinner at my favourite pasta restaurant; down payment on a pair of Doc Martens; freshen up the highlights at the hairdresser; a new ironing board –mine has lost its wheels and it wobbles all over the place – especially when I’m ironing those horrible pants of Samuel’s, with about a hundred pockets; and that bangle in Silver Moon with the stars around the outside. And probably a well that would serve a whole village in Africa.

I thought about the what-ifs. What if I’d only taken the ten dollar note, like I’d originally intended? What if I’d taken my bag instead of stuffing the note in my pocket? What if —

Hannah put things in perspective. It was only fifty dollars. What if we’d lost Milly – if she’d run away or got run over?

All day, I thought about loss. I’d lost fifty dollars. Eighteen months ago, friends of mine lost their three-year-old. Imagine their what-ifs.

I’m always profoundly affected by loss. It haunts me like a ghost from the past. If ever I see a movie where one of the main characters dies, or suffers a severe diminishment, like in the movie Iris, for example, where Judy Dench plays a celebrated author and professor of philosophy, who succumbs to Alzheimer’s disease, it affects me for ages. A couple of days after seeing Miss Potter, where Beatrix’s fiancé is killed, I found myself at the kitchen sink, washing the potatoes with my tears.

I think about the losses I’ve experienced in my own life: my mother, who suffered from incapacitating illness for the last twenty years of her life; my dear friend Marion, to cancer; my best-friend-for-life, after she married a controlling man, to whom she divulged every intimate detail of our shared confidences; my own health – Chronic Fatigue Syndrome for about fifteen years – then back surgery. And of course, my marriage.

I’m sure my propensity to sob into my tissue at the end of a sad book or movie is not brought on solely by the actual events in the story. And curiously, I don’t think it is the losses I have experienced in my own adult life, that have produced such outpouring of grief. Over the years, with some wise help, I have come to understand that the events that evoke a strong reaction of grief in me are triggers that remind me of a significant loss I experienced as a very young child.

I was born in England. My mother, who was a nurse, returned to work shortly after my birth. Needing the money, she worked night shift, when my father was at home to look after me, so she could spend time with me during the day. Her only opportunity for sleep was whenever I decided to have a nap.

Enter ‘Auntie Bessie’, a woman who lived in the same apartment building as my parents, and who had become a close friend of my mother. Working part-time, Auntie Bessie often looked after me, to give my mother an opportunity to catch up on some vital sleep.

Over time, I formed a significant emotional attachment to this warm, caring woman, who became like a surrogate mother to me. Many of my earliest memories are filled with her gentle and affirming presence. Running through the autumn leaves on ‘the common’, visiting the green grocer to experience my first mouth-watering taste of watermelon and bouncing up and down on the see-saw with my arms wound around the horse-head handles are memories that all feature Auntie Bessie.

When I was three, we emigrated to Australia. I have few memories of that time – a sketchy remembrance of our first house in Oakleigh and our cabin on the boat – sharpened when I visited the Immigration Museum in Melbourne a number of years ago; I discovered an exact replica of a cabin on a passenger liner of the time, which produced quite a startling deja vu experience. I do remember being frightened for most of the time, and according to my mother, I nearly drove her to distraction with my constant leg clinging.

I don’t have a memory of missing Auntie Bessie. But I do remember the feeling of elation, as an older child, on the couple of occasions she flew out to Australia to visit us. And the feeling of desolation when she left to return home to England. And as an adult, both of us sobbing – deep, heart-wrenching sobbing – after we said goodbye, on the two occasions I visited her.

About six years ago, Auntie Bessie had a stroke and was placed in a nursing home. She lost her ability to speak, and my only communication with her was through a neighbour, who would show her photos I’d sent, when she went to visit. Even on her most uncommunicative days, according to the neighbour, there would usually be a spark of recognition when my name was mentioned or my photo produced.

I can only imagine the sense of loss – abandonment even – I would have felt, when we sailed away from Auntie Bessie all those years ago. And it wasn’t until she died, that I made the connection between my huge reaction to loss, in general, and the loss I experienced as a small child when this special woman was torn out of my life.

I believe we are formed by our childhood experiences. These days, when I cry at a movie, thankfully, I’m able to name what’s really going on. And I’m saving on tissues.

About fifty dollars worth by now?

(And in case you were wondering, it's Auntie Bessie on the left of the photo and Mum on the right; I think you can guess who's in the middle.)