All posts in Death

On not giving a fuck for 5 years.

by admin on July 21, 2011 in , , with No comments

Because of the craziness of the last week, I have only just gotten around to this post. 5 years ago this week, I nearly died. Like, seriously, pale-faced-ICU-Consultant-preparing-my-husband-for-the-worst kind of “almost died”.Not your “I skidded my car and my life flashed before my eyes” almost died – like – my body was battling sepsis and I was on a ventilator and I was given 24 hours to turn around before thinking about plugs and stuff kind of “nearly died”.

Everything changed within in me from that point. I woke up, had a long recovery, and still have the battle scars, but I see it as a blessing. Because, from that moment, I started to see the rest of my life as a second chance, and to live as if I was on borrowed time.

Of course, it’s one thing to believe it and another to actually do it. A couple of months ago I was sent this blog entry. It hit me in the guts, because it really is something that EVERYONE should read, and try to live their life by.

Of course, it would be irresponsible to not give a fuck about anything, and is kind of not the point. The point is to give a fuck about things that actually matter, and not get distracted by the stupid, petty and negative distractions that compete for… my “fuck” resources.

The main change has been in my tolerance for superficiality, or conformity, or being afraid of making waves for telling the truth as I see it. Oh, how many times I have been told that I would be a “star” or “more successful” if I would toe the line, not swear, not make waves. In Perth, there is a corporate culture and an expectation that you don’t make waves. You most certainly do not, under any circumstances, speak your mind. You must suck the proverbial dick of those in authority… especially if you are a woman. But this is fool’s gold. I don’t want to be a “star”, and money is just a means of attaining the freedom to do what I want to do.

What is a bank balance without people who love you?

What is a job title if you had to be someone else to get it?

What is a life without… actually living?

Is a good parent a dutiful parent? Or is it a parent who models to their children how to have healthy relationships, and how to live a life without regret?

My definition of “success” is different to other peoples, and I am actually living successfully… as I define it.

I am truthful. I love deeply, even if I am not great at showing it. I learn from my mistakes… and… as a parent, I do my best. I am happy to take on idiots or speak out against injustice. I take risks.

And yes, I constantly suppress that voice that tells me to conform for conformity’s sake. Because I am not afraid. I have faced the thing that most people fear most, which is a premature death, without seeing my children grow up.

What have I learned from this? That a lot of the fears that hold us back are just a construct. Everything has a way of working itself out. When I posted the “iPadofLove” competition, it was not out of narcissism, or for money, or fame… it was purely for my own sense of adventure and curiosity. People find me challenging and frustrating because of this. One person in particular feels the need to ‘counsel’ me on how to behave and become a fame whore like him. Because he assumes I want what he so desperately desires (fame). I don’t.

  • I only do jobs I want to do, and work with people I want to work with.
  • I only care what those who are close to me think of me.
  • I am a good mother to my children.
  • I work hard.
  • I believe in a ‘great love’ and I am looking for it and am willing to put in the work to make it a reality. However, I am also happy if it doesn’t happen, because I am a fulfilled person in my own right.
  • I take time to appreciate the smallest of things, and get excited about the big things.

Don’t be afraid. Stop giving a fuck. Because when you’re dead, that’s it. There is nothing left except your legacy. And no-one ever wants to have a eulogy that reads “paid all their bills on time, worked the same job for 50 years and acquired an investment property”. At least, I don’t.

I want a legacy that makes people laugh when they think of the shit I have pulled and stuff I have said. I want people to see that everything I have ever done has been in the spirit of adventure, honesty to the point of being brutal, and not letting “life” get me down. I want people to see that, maybe, I gave it a shot and even though I might not get it right all the time, that my intentions were always good.

And if I chose not to engage with you, that yeah, you were probably a bit of a dickhead… and… I don’t really have time for that.

So much time is spent on pointless negativity, and people will always try to drag you into it. When you anonymously troll a blog, or have internet wars, or waste your time with petty fallouts with people… that is a wasted life. And that is why I feel sorry for people who engage in that. Similarly, people who use other people as a means of getting ahead themselves… or people that are cruel to animals or children. How… utterly pointless it all is.

Do some good. But the kind of ‘good’ that actually matters. Not merely by living a compliant life, filled with rules, and fear, and worry about what others might think, but by being brave. Try not giving a fuck. You may find it liberating.

You may be surprised.

Dear Grandma: A birthday blog letter.

by admin on April 16, 2011 in , , with 1 Comment

Dear Grandma Chris,

I know it seems odd that I would be writing to you, seeing as your ashes are sitting in my storage locker and, well, you’re not alive anymore. In fact, I am certain that there will be a group of people who will question my mental health by writing to a ghost. But, fuck ‘em.

I had the idea to write to you, because I enjoy writing the kids’ letter birthday posts… and you were always the one I could call up and talk to when things were difficult or I needed to process thoughts or go round and round in circles with a problem. Now, I am on my own and, truthfully, I am struggling without you. So, maybe writing to you as if I am talking to you can help.

I am also doing this because now my birthday is forever going to be associated with THAT phone call. The phone call where you were slurring, speaking nonsense, and I had to call the Ambulance because I thought you’d had a stroke. That happened 2 days after my birthday, after I thought it was odd you hadn’t called me to wish me Happy Birthday. Because you always did.

I can’t believe it’s been a year since that night. Jason says that I changed forever after that call, and he’s right. The pit of my stomach, ongoing pain at missing you is something I battle with daily. Your palloured face in its final days forever burned in my memory. Your mouth goobers, the gummy grin, your singing of Danny Boy in the hospice. The fleeting moments of lucidity where you would look me in the eye, shed a tear and tell me you were afraid. And you were never, ever afraid and I can never, ever forget that.

Jason said I’ve changed forever. He says it like it is a bad thing. I don’t see it that way. Sure, my grief makes it hard to cope sometimes. But your death made me take stock of my life. It made me decide to not die lonely. It made me decide to live a fierce, truthful life. And it made me commit to honouring the legacy that you left. And, on some level, it also made me unafraid to piss people off.

I’ll be honest. I feel in a state of flux at the moment. I honestly don’t know how, after you and Grandad divorced, how you could choose to live alone for the rest of your life. But at the same time, on some level, I get it. Because men… it’s just so easy to be jaded about them. You always said that you just couldn’t be bothered with them and boy, do I get that. Why anyone would put themselves out there, repeatedly, just to get hurt… it’s exhausting. And it’s taking its toll on me and how I see myself.

I can’t help but wonder if, like me, at some point you were an idealist or a romantic. But your life, the convent, your marriage, your sons, over time beat it out of you. You told me about you as a girl – you had a carelessless and a naive, gentle spirit that was like mine. But at some point, you got broken. And jaded. And as I have said to my friends recently… it’s one thing to always be skeptical… but there is nothing worse than an idealist who has been disappointed.

I keep being disappointed. Not just in relationships (because I know that is early days), but in friendships, with people, with the world. It all just feels… so… hard. Since your death I have had to remove my rose coloured glasses more times than I can count… and it’s been confronting. But, I am trying.

I am trying to get to Dublin for a pilgrimage to see where you grew up. I feel I need to do it. I want to see everything… the place of the stories. But naturally, money is a problem so I still haven’t been able to go. But I will go.

What I thought was safe, secure and known when you were here a year ago, is not anymore. And I am struggling sometimes. I am finding myself. And I am studying Psychology so I can hopefully help counsel family members who go through what we went through. And try to help them understand that it will be OK. At some point. It never goes away.

So yeah, it’s my birthday today. I’m 32. Which feels old. But despite me feeling like an epic fuck up most of the time, I think you’d be proud… or at least I hope so. I do wonder, often, how you would have reacted to Jason and I separating. I honestly don’t know how you would have reacted to the news. I can’t be sure.

But, I hope you’re proud.

I’m floating a bit. Struggling a lot. Figuring things out. And I miss you every single day.

But as the first year passes since THAT call, I put one foot in front of the other. Like both of us always have, and will continue to do. And for that, you live on in me.

Hope you’re well,

Téa

My last will and testament

by admin on August 28, 2010 in , with No comments

This started on Twitter and it made me laugh and I wanted to keep it :)

  1. I want a decoupage tombstone.
  2. @jasonjordan will MC my funeral in a Gimp Suit
  3. My funeral song shall be “Shaddup Your Face”
  4. My children shall be forced to live with their grandparents muahahahahahahahahaha
  5. The food at my funeral shall be an assortment of ball-shaped foods.
  6. My ashes shall be scattered #onyourface
  7. @sebsharp can have my sex toys
  8. I bequeath all of my debt to the animal shelter.
  9. I offer to donate my body to science, ONLY if they make a midget lift me onto the table. On his own.
  10. @sebsharp can have all of my sex toys, with the exception of the 13″ stainless steel one, who I bequeath to @shelly1912
  11. Scrap the ashes. I shall be stuffed and put on a seat at @Mooba as a deterrent for Exomod spies.
  12. My children are required to point toward the Apple store at hourly intervals and salute.
  13. I would like my bum to me made into a nice lamp.
  14. If my death is suspicious, I consent to an autopsy, limited ONLY to left ring finger.
  15. If you memorialise my Facebook account, clean my fish tank & harvest my crops whilst you are there, thanks.
  16. If you sleep with my ex, beware, he’s crap in the sack. Hence the toys.
  17. The invitations for my funeral shall cost no more than $1.99 & need to have bedazzling
  18. You shall, as a community, commit to tweeting no less than once every 23 seconds in my honour.
  19. If you find… the thing… in the… thing… you know what to do :)
  20. @jaso32 remember to put the bins out.
  21. If I could at all come back as a vampire, when I die tonight, please let me be a GOOD vampire, not a shit Twilight one.
  22. If I manage to communicate with you after I am gone, cover your ears for it shall be Dexter spoilers.
  23. If I do actually die, which is a certainty, I nominate @mrsisterchris to tearfully (vomitly) read out this list.

The Eulogy I couldn’t read.

by admin on June 21, 2010 in , with No comments

Well, it’s all over. Grandma was cremated this afternoon. Today was really, really hard and it has now hit me that I will never see her again. Walking into the funeral home for her final service, and seeing the coffin, was just a little too much, and the last 2 months hit me like a ton of bricks. I wasn’t able to read out the eulogy, but here it is.

Grandma was born in 1931, in Catholic Ireland, to a single mother. She had 2 older brothers and a little sister, Josephine, who died when Grandma was 7. Her mother died around the same time, and grandma grew up in a convent. She never really spoke much about her childhood, and the memories she did share with me were always positive. They almost always involved her getting in trouble for being cheeky, or being chased by a nun.

Grandma never really dwelled on the loss of her mother. Her father was not interested either, and, knowing her like I do, even though she never really said much, I could tell it affected her view of the world.

To come up here and say she was a saint wouldn’t only be a lie, it would be an insult to her legacy. Because Grandma was a survivor. She didn’t always get it right and quite often got the wrong end of the stick, but her heart was good.

All she ever wanted was respect. Respect from the people who brought her into this world, respect from the family she worked so hard to maintain. She needed to know that nothing she did, all the hard work, all the late hours, all the cooked meals, all the cups of tea, and all the arguments were not in vain.

Although Grandma would not self-identify as a feminist, and in fact would go so far as to strongly deny it – there are so many ways that her influence alone informs how I see the world. Forced to go it alone, and never dependent on a man or any other person, we had a kinship and an understanding that, sometimes, we are forced to make our own luck. She never, ever let her beginnings or her disappointments affect her life, and even though the end of her life is a quiet one… That’s all she ever wanted. To be cared for, to be allowed to be vulnerable and yet still retain her dignity.

Which of course is ironic, because whenever I needed rescuing – there she was. She cleaned hotel rooms to help my dad keep me in school uniforms. She cooked me meals, she helped me to get my first flat. She wasn’t always the softest place to land, but given the circumstances, I understand why now. It was about keeping it together, and I often wonder what was going on in her head… And how she was when we weren’t around to see.

Because, with the suddenness of the cancer that killed her, I saw a different side to her. She didn’t fight it, and part of me thinks she knew for some time. But I knew her, and I like to think that I knew her better than anyone else and that she shared a special, softer side with me.

She was and always will be the main female influence in my life. I hope that the fighting spirit, the work ethic, and the strong sense of what is right, on some level, lives on in us all. And although this gathering is humble, she can rest knowing that she lives on, having lived a life with courage, conviction and dignity.

On a personal level, I hope that the last 2 months of her life spent with me and Jason, needing a lot of help, were as easy as they could have been. We’ll never stop missing her and I hope she’s proud of us.

Vacation

by admin on June 21, 2010 in , , , with No comments

Before I talk about our holiday, I need to explain something.

My husband, as much as I love him, does not do ‘impulsive’ terribly well. In fact, if you could describe him, one of they very first words you would use would be “not” and the second would be “impulsive”. For all of his excellent qualities, he’s not what you would call… a go-getter. The man still has clothes in his wardrobe from when he was 16. And a $5 note in his wallet from 18 months ago. He’s not a spender either.

So when Jason walked into my office on Saturday morning and said “hey, we should go for a drive to Busselton and stay for 2 nights”, he may as well have said “I have decided I want to be a lady and I am going to go on tour with the drag burlesque travelling circus, k?” and I would have reacted in much the same way. OK, not really, I probably would have expected the second.

But, he suggested it, and we booked into the Abbey Beach Resort based on their website. On the beach? Wireless? Check. Mini bar? Check. Restaurants with room service? Check… and check. $600 for 2 nights? Well, if it has wireless and is luxurious and has room service and a spa, well… let’s just indulge for a little while. We have a funeral on Monday afternoon we’d rather not think about.

Let’s not forget, we have 3 children – all of whom are not known for being the most flexible on the planet. But, they roll with it as much as they can and are happy to come along. Which is just as well because we blew our load on the hotel room and can’t afford a babysitter. So, it was basically a choice between a holiday or being locked under the stairs.

But of course, it doesn’t take long for the feral to kick in and I feel the urge to do both.

We arrive at a $300 a night “beachfront” resort that has glimpses of the beach (if you look past the 3 tennis courts and the giant tree), no mini bar, no room service in the apartments. The wireless costs $10 for 2 hours, but doesn’t reach our apartment. There is a queen-size bed, which we can live with but we are not used to, and our children are that lovely combination of excited and cranky at the same time. So, about every 3 minutes or so the jumping around and screaming will be interrupted by crying. And then the baby will go straight for the dishwasher buttons, then the knife drawer… whilst Jason and I try to figure out how the hell we are going to have dinner in our room because the kids are too tired for the restaurant.

So I hit up the lounge bar with my laptop, check emails and drink a glass of wine whilst I wait for our takeaway dinners. Which arrive on 4 plates and a tray. I have a laptop. It should also be noted that the restaurant is roughly equidistant to our room and the lobby… and they bring me the meals to the lobby. Which was nice of them, but I a) don’t understand why they can’t just bring it to the room and b) I now have to carry 4 plates and a tray back to our room. I smile through gritted teeth. Confused, perplexed gritted teeth. Oh and some bright spark decides to wolf whistle me on the way which, you know, made me feel sexy. Fuckhead.

By this point the baby is screaming and won’t go to sleep. Mina and Mr J are basically ready to hit up the drawer with the baby and have a knife fight with each other, and I am at my wit’s end because I have had to carry food across a $300 a night resort with no wifi and am grumbling to myself how holidays are so much fun with kids.

We finally get the kids to sleep around 11pm and I decide to have a spa. A spa that, as it turns out, has a drain 2/3 up the side to prevent you filling it above that point. Apparently they’ve had issues with it flooding because people overfill it. And then it occurs to me that bogans ruin EVERYTHING. Then I think “hey, I’ll have one of these “indulgent” hot chocolate sachets they’ve laid out. Mmmm, powdery, lumpy, snotty cocoa.

Did I mention that the baby threw a spatula off the balcony yet?

We then go to bed for a very uncomfortable night’s sleep and wake up with the day ahead of us. Tired, cranky children but we manage to have a nice breakfast, where the resort redeems itself just a little bit. We stop by the resort playground, where the baby manages a triple somersault onto his face and Mr J throws a tantrum or two. We hit up the beaches, go into Dunsborough, have  look around and take some photos. The kids start complaining of dying hunger (despite having huge plates of ginger pancakes an hour and a half earlier), so we go and get them McDonald’s. Yes, the Brennan children are all about our lovely local Southwest cuisine. Sigh.

And then we head down to the Busselton Jetty and go for a walk. Mina and Mr J go down onto the beach and I take some photos. And before we know it, both of my children are in the water, in full clothes, having the time of their lives. And for a brief moment, I want to tell them to get out of the water, but instead I just roll with it and take pictures. And laugh. And relax and realise that they are having fun and so am I, for the first time in a very long time, and we just enjoy the moment.

And boy, did I get some photos.

We return to the hotel room (where I have managed to purchase wireless access from the Caravan park next door), the kids are happy, soaking wet, getting out of their clothes. They jump in that crappy spa, Moo goes down for a nap (after again trying to eat a dishwasher detergent block), the kids start whingeing and Mina gets belligerent.

But I go and have a nap.

I wake up to Mina complaining she’s bored and Mr J playing Angry Birds on the iPad. Jason and I then see fit to tell our children what OUR childhood vacations consisted of: poo in a bucket, showering from a bucket (at which point I said to Jason that I hope it wasn’t the same bucket), hanging around a holiday village where the most thrilling thing was a trampoline… and 7 people in one caravan. And our daughter was complaining that the resort playground was boring. Hum. The older two again start bickering and we endure dinner in the Brasserie, where they make so much mess it is embarrassing, I am wearing dress boots with tracksuit pants (because I forgot a bag), and the baby smears $30 seafood risotto all over his face. And the carpet.

I look over at the young honeymooners at the table near the fire and realise that we are that family that either ruined their honeymoon, put them off having children for the next 10 years, or if their wedding was because of a baby in her tummy already, scare the crap out of them that they are just a few short years away from wearing tracksuit pants in a restaurant, drinking wine a little fast, and barking at her kids to sit down every 45 seconds.

Naturally, we have to leave the restaurant and take dessert back to our room because the kids are tired and bickering… and we finally get them to bed at 7:30, get to enjoy each other’s company for a little while, watch the first episode of Mad Men on DVD and then off to sleep I go because I drank my wine a little too fast during dinner.

And this morning we’ll be having breakfast, where they’ll find new and creative ways in which to embarrass us with food smears and tantrums, and then we head home for my Grandma’s funeral and one of the hardest days of my life. But, in amongst all of this, I realise that this was the best idea ever and even though holidays are exhausting, frustrating, and sometimes downright disappointing, it really is all about this moment. This $1200 moment.

Busselton 11a

Busselton 10

Numbness.

by admin on June 13, 2010 in , with No comments

I now understand what the song ‘Cry Me a River’ means. It’s definitely referring to the snot. After sobbing, numb for 20 minutes after that call.

A lot of crying. And a lot of snot.

And I sit here, half an hour after that call, at 3:30am, knowing that I did everything I possibly could (and then some), and my only preoccupying thought was that my Grandmother died alone.

This is always the risk when you leave the hospice for the night – and I had had this discussion with the nurse today. I thought I had till morning, but I also was prepared for the call. I had told the nurse that I had had my quality time with my Grandma. My life had come to a complete standstill for the last 7 and a half weeks – I have held her, medicated her, fed her, made her laugh, and the majority of me feels OK.

But, she died alone.

I actually wasn’t prepared for that call at all. I lied.

Grief most certainly comes in waves, and even though now it’s only been 45 minutes I have had four separate waves of grief and feel another one coming. Writing this blog post, trying to use a different part of my brain, is the only thing stopping it.

Of course, I am completely numb. My hands are shaking and I am so overwhelmed by the prospect of organising a funeral for the single biggest influence in my life, where only five people are likely to show up because, unfortunately, sometimes a person’s legacy lies in just one person who truly got them.

And all I can hope, as the next wave of sobbing and snot comes, is that I did her proud. And that I can continue to carry with me the humility, the hard work and the kindness that she taught me. And also to not put up with shit. Definitely with the not putting up with shit part.

Thanks to everyone who has been there for me. This post is not so much about being “public” as it is to get it all out of the way so I can grieve in private. But thank you for your kind words and support. I owe you all drinks when this is all over.

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