What Abi Taught Us (21 page)

The final task of Worden's Four Tasks of Mourning (see
Chapter 4
) is to find an enduring connection with the deceased in the midst of embarking on a new life: ‘To find a place for
the deceased that will enable the mourner to be connected with the deceased but in a way that will not preclude him or her from going on with life,' he writes. ‘We need to find ways to memorialise, that is, to remember the dead loved ones—keeping them with us but still going on with life.'
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Essentially, the aim is to keep them with you, but in a way that allows you to go on living.

There is much in Worden's language that resonates with me. It is a new life that we are embarking upon. It is not one I like, and certainly isn't one I would have chosen. But I can either embrace this life, the only one I've got, or not. So, for my boys, I'm working on engaging in this new life of mine, and this book is one way for me to establish an enduring connection with Abi. The dream of publishing with my girl is no longer going to happen, but I could not (would not) have written this particular book without her.

Abi is plainly visible in almost every aspect of our lives. Some of her things are still scattered around the house—her Ugg boots sit among our other shoes by the front door, her hair clips mingle with mine in the little bag we always shared, her bedroom still has her photos up, even though friends and family sleep in it all the time and we have, of course, packed away her clothes. We talk about her, share funny memories, laugh about her moods and infuriating fussy eating habits. I occasionally watch terrible TV shows just because she loved
them. Her sunglasses hang among the paraphernalia in Trevor's truck, and though we've given away her wetsuit, I occasionally come across her booties in the chaos of the garage. Some of these are deliberate efforts to keep her memory alive; others have evolved for one reason or another, perhaps because it's too painful and unnecessary to find a home for her Uggs and I still enjoy rifling through her hairgrips in the morning, or just because we're busy and it requires too much energy to locate both booties and find a caring home for them. In the meantime, these things give me comfort.

I've given a great deal away, but I've also been mindful not to scatter her precious possessions too hastily. They are a finite resource after all; there will be no more. I've kept her school uniform in a wicker trunk, beautifully folded for me by my sister Esther; and I enjoy drying my wet hair in the Barbie towel she always wrapped around her head. I could have sold her school uniform or handed it out to friends, but I've kept it for now—partly because it's too small to be useful to others for long, and partly because at some point in the future I might like to make a quilt cover of her favourite clothes. In all likelihood, I won't, but confronting these things has not seemed a good use of my energy so far. And for now, they provide a degree of comfort and ongoing connection. To deny that she was such a big part of our family life and rid our home of her presence seems an illogical stance. It is still our family home, home to all three of our children, and that offers me a modicum of comfort.

My friend Denise recently told me she sometimes chooses to wear loved relatives' jewellery with a similar purpose. ‘Without planning it I realise that I have developed a way of having my
important people around me. I didn't like the idea of them being gone and not hearing or seeing what's going on. I have a pantheon, not of gods, but of departed people whom I miss and think of all the time. They are there, looking down and seeing what's going on. They are watching over me and available to me for support and advice. I think of them very often and so they have to be nearby,' she explains.
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Denise prefers to think of this as ‘not grieving but remembering', and describes wearing loved ones' jewellery as like putting on armour for battle. ‘I feel worthy and lovable when I wear these things and also like I am participating in an ancient ritual. The idea that I am no different from some pagan ancestor thousands of years ago makes me smile and is also good for putting the day into perspective. Whatever happens in the day I know I am loved and worthwhile and connected to this sense of value and place in the world. Nothing can penetrate this armour.'

According to Bonanno, the bereaved who cope best are able to find comfort in ongoing connections. ‘They know their loved one is gone, but when they think and talk about the deceased, they find that they haven't lost everything. The relationship is not completely gone. They can still call to mind and find joy in the positive shared experiences. It is as if some part of the relationship is still alive.'
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One of those ongoing connections came from a very unexpected source. We were fortunate to have Alex Fulton, Abi's godmother, take over the selection and decoration of her coffin for us. I could not face it. Alex, a designer, retailer and colour consultant, chose to cover the coffin in hundreds of vinyl dots in Abi's favourite colours, which, subsequently, we have sprinkled throughout our lives. They became known as ‘Abi's
Dots'. Family and friends now have these brightly coloured dots on the back of their phones, on cars, laptops, bed heads, guitars, suitcases, wallets, windows, bikes, skis, helmets and so on. They are frequently displayed in a cluster of three dots to remember Abi, Ella and Sally.

The dots have proved an unexpected, but powerful, legacy for our loved ones. When I'm driving around town and I see them on the back of an unfamiliar car, I realise it's other people's way of saying ‘we feel your pain' and showing that our girls are not forgotten. Those small colourful dots remind us to make the most of the one life we have, and they connect us to the girls. For this reason, they've become the symbol of my website and blog
One Wild and Precious Life
, named after the Mary Oliver poem that Sally shared with me 18 months before she died. It's such a fitting poem for Sally, who was so good at noticing the beauty every day. And who fully grasped the urgency of making the most of our one wild and precious life. She was both wild and precious, and died too soon.

Almost 100,000 Abi's Dots have been sold from Alex's website and shop. On Instagram, we have witnessed them springing up in Paris, London, Croatia, New York, Singapore, Fiji, Samoa, right across America and literally from the top to the bottom of New Zealand. Donating $12 from each sale, Alex Fulton Design has so far contributed $11,500 to Starship's Make A Wish Foundation. It feels good to have made something worthwhile
come from something so bad. A collaboration that arose from grief and loss has helped connect people throughout the world as they share love through colour. Abi's Dots and the myriad ways we've established to honour and remember her have helped me understand that she will always be part of our lives, despite her physical absence. She (her life, her death, everything) has a profound influence on who we are as people, how we choose to live our lives, how we choose to treat other people, and the projects we choose to dedicate time and energy to.

Exercise: 10 things they loved

My friend Gretchen described to me how several years earlier she and her husband had suddenly lost someone dear to them. ‘At his funeral his brother-in-law named 10 things Tobin loved (rugby, raising a glass of cold beer, being a flight medic, kicking the soccer ball with his girls . . .) and asked that each of us remember Tobin each time one of those 10 things happen and say his name out loud. It's been close to seven years now and Mike and I still do this. What began as a grieving ritual turned into a very loving way to bring him regularly to us.' This kind of enduring acknowledgement reassures the bereaved that the deceased are still remembered.

Chapter 16

Post-traumatic growth

DESIGNED TO TEACH
US soldiers personal resiliency skills, the Comprehensive Soldier and Family Fitness programme was described in
Chapter 7
. Professor Martin Seligman explained the genesis for the training programme in the
Harvard Business Review
: ‘In November 2008, when the legendary General George W. Casey, Jr., the army chief of staff and former commander of the multinational force in Iraq, asked me what positive psychology had to say about soldiers' problems, I offered a simple answer: How human beings react to extreme adversity is normally distributed. On one end are the people who fall apart into PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder), depression, and even suicide. In the middle are most people, who at first react with symptoms of depression and anxiety but within a month or so are, by physical and psychological measures, back
where they were before the trauma. That is resilience. On the other end are people who show post-traumatic growth. They, too, first experience depression and anxiety, often exhibiting full-blown PTSD, but within a year they are better off than they were before the trauma. These are the people of whom Friedrich Nietzsche said, “That which does not kill us makes us stronger.”'
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