In my Shadow
Nine years ago, my father, brother, youngest daughter and I, made the pilgrimage to New Zealand with two urns of ashes firmly stowed in our backpacks, fulfilling my mother’s wishes of taking her home to New Zealand.
In the ten days that we were there, we revisited all the places that hold some of my dearest memories. Every night, I would write a short story, detailing the childhood memory that was, and the relived experience of that day. It was quite cathartic and a kind of spiritual healing for me, but also a way to include our absent family members in the experience.
I posted these stories on my Facebook page…urging people to ‘scroll on’ if they found my indulgent ramblings somewhat boring. I’m sure some people took my advice. But many others posted or inboxed the most incredible feedback, urging me to write a book on my experiences.
I’m not quite up to the book stage but thought I might dip my toes in the water with a blog.
I’ve always loved writing. Being a theatre director for many years, I have written a couple of musicals that have been staged. Cracks in the Mirror, my most recent musical written with good friend, Gail Smith, was recently released for licencing.
But these musicals were make-believe and while the characters and storyline seemed to resonate with audiences, I can’t help but ask, will my real-life experiences be something that people want to read about?
I guess I’m about to find out.
Firstly, for context, let me introduce my mum, Cushla Fay Fuller (nee Jacques). Born 5th July 1945, daughter of Dela and Danny Jacques, Cushla gained her angel wings on 7th May 2014. Her earlier life is a story in itself, but I don’t know enough detail to retell her story with authenticity. So, we will start from the time my childhood memory kicked in…
Suffice to say, my mother was an amazing woman of unparalleled strength and resilience. The challenges she faced and hurdles she overcame only become obvious to me after she passed. She was an inspiration to her siblings, a loving wife to John, the most wonderful mother to Paul and I, and friend to so many.
She was also my best friend.
She would listen for hours as I talked about the children, my work or the latest theatre production I was working on. She would give advice on costuming, staging, or just checking to make sure every cast member had polished their shoes! She used to say she lived through my successes by standing in my shadow.
Her passing was a loss I can never put into words but her legacy and memory live on very strongly, in every step I take and every decision I make.
We knew we were going to lose her. Diagnosed with Bronchiectasis combined with pseudomonas of the lungs (most probably contracted from poorly sterilised equipment during a routine hospital operation) her life was tragically cut short.
Her last words to me were ‘when I’m gone, you have to live your life for the both of us’.
Little did she realise just how literally I took her request and how it was to shape my life.
My father often tells me I need to slow down.
My best friend (bravely) tells me that I’m exhausting. Like an eveready bunny who’s batteries never run flat!
Well, I guess she is right. It is exhausting living your life for two, but it’s also exhilarating, inspiring, immensely satisfying…and an absolute priviledge.
If there is one advantage of knowing you are going to die, it’s the ability to plan every detail…and plan it Mum did!
One of those ‘details’ was to have her ashes separated into three urns. One was laid to rest in the local cemetery so her family could visit. The other two, we were asked to take back to New Zealand with very definite instructions on where to leave them.
And so it begins, the very first Blog for LiLYN.
This is the first instalment from our pilgrimage to New Zealand to take Mum home.
If you don’t want to read it… ‘scroll on’ 😉
TAKING MUM HOME
September 29th, 2014 - DAY ONE
Together with my father John, brother Paul and youngest daughter Gracie, I had made the pilgrimage back to New Zealand to lay two thirds of my mother to rest.
First stop, Christchurch, birthplace of my brothers Paul and Bruce, and myself. Bruce sadly passed away at three months of age from sudden infant death syndrome (or in those days, COT death). Regardless of what it was called, it was undoubtedly the most tragic and life impacting time in mums’ life. We grew up knowing about Bruce of course – but as Paul was too young to remember and I wasn’t yet born, it was a sorrow born and lived solely by mum. 
When I had my first baby, Jacob, I remember standing over his cradle at the exact age when Bruce died and cried uncontrollably for her loss. I couldn’t even begin to imagine the utter agony of losing such a precious and beautiful part of myself. How do mothers bear the loss of a child? Only those who have lived the experience, truly understands.
I hadn’t been to visit Bruce’s grave since I was eight. The warm rays of the morning sun affectionately kissed our faces, but at the same time, a bitter wind chilled our bones…typical New Zealand weather for this time of year.
We all stood there, staring at the hole the groundsman had thoughtfully dug before we arrived. We took turns in telling our story … mum’s story. We laughed a little, cried a lot and finally laid mum down with her beloved Bruce. A feeling of peace washed over me… Mum was finally home.
As I reached the car, I couldn’t help but turn back for one last look toward the grave of the person who had been my best friend, my biggest supporter of everything I did throughout my life.
And there she was, feet shrouded in colourful snap dragons, holding the hand of a little blonde boy dressed in a hand-knitted Aron jumper and blue, home sewn overalls. She was dressed in white baiting gear, old gumboots that reached her thighs and a thick, knitted beanie. A familiar wicked grin stretched across her face as she raised her hand in the air to wave goodbye. We silently climbed into the car, and I watched the silhouette of the tiny woman and little boy grow smaller, then fade into the distance as we drove away.
On 22nd February 2011, Christchurch was forever changed by a catastrophic 6.3 magnitude Earthquake that demolished 10,000 buildings, with 100,000 more affected. 185 people lost their lives and over six thousand suffered injury.
In 2012, Mum, Gracie and I had taken a cruise around New Zealand and stopped in Christchurch for a day trip. We were heartbroken at the devastation we witnessed.
The Christchurch we were now seeing, was still nothing like the Christchurch of our childhood. But in true Christchurch spirit, they had started rebuilding. We had plans for Christchurch…but that’s tomorrows story.
Fish and chips (spoken in true kiwi accent) for lunch by the sea, a favourite pastime in younger years was next on our agenda with a handful of special family members that had come to spend the day celebrating mums’ life with us. We then took a drive to see all the houses teetering on cliffs edge, seemingly waiting for a gust of wind to send them toppling down to the hundreds of shipping containers, strategically placed below to catch earthquake afterthoughts.
We drove through Lyttelton tunnel (that links Christchurch with its seaport of Lyttelton) just for the heck of it, Paul beeping the car horn (as is the NZ tradition when driving through tunnels), then went doggedly in search of a Dairy.
When I was twelve, I would spend all my pocket money at our local Dairy – a little corner shop that sold lollies, newspapers … and ice-cream. Scooped ice cream in cones. You could even have it dipped in hot chocolate if you had an extra 20 cents. I used to spend my weekly pocket money on a triple scoop dipped in chocolate. The biggest problem was choosing what flavours to have… boysenberry, banana, rainbow, choc chip, or the most favourite that had to take pride of place on top… hokey pokey. I remember quickly biting into the choc topping before it set hard, licking the dripping cream as it mercifully dribbled down my hands, and chewing off the end of the cone so the soft ice cream could ooze out the bottom.
Well, today we ventured back to the dairy (though being Christchurch it wasn’t really one of our childhood haunts) and made that all too difficult decision of what flavour to get. Boysenberry and of course hokey pokey won out. No hot chocolate to dip it in these days but it tasted as good as I remember.
After bidding our family members farewell, we headed back to our apartment where Gracie worked on choreography for an upcoming theatre production back home (at 14 she was already a promising choreographer and would go on to win a CAT award for choreography the following year). John fished out a deck of cards he had strategically packed, and we enjoyed a family (slightly competitive) game of cards. I do recall there were some hilarious moments around a hat and I’m pretty sure there is an incriminating recording of it somewhere, but thankfully, no one knows where!
Day one in NZ- a mix of sadness, happiness, and amazing memories.
I’m “Exhausted” just reading this.. lol. But I can’t wait to read more. 😀
We made Mum a number of promises to fulfill her wishes after she had left us.
It was so important to us all, for this trip to go ahead.
It was extremely emotional for all of us; but knowing we were doing it for Mum, made it all worthwhile.
Excellent writing. I had a tear in my eye when I read about Bruce. Thanks for sharing your story. I’m looking forward to more.
You’ve always had the gift of writing Lyn and you’ve taken that next step with your blog. I love reading your stories about early family life and knowing that we all shared some special memories together too (knucklebones and family days whitebaiting at the diversion come to mind). Really looking forward to following this and can’t wait for your next instalment. You are your Mums daughter for sure – a true inspiration xx