Thursday, October 08, 2009

Saying goodbye

It is a funny thing how, as an adult, just when you think you're done with being parented, you acquire a second set of them. And it's complicated, learning to love them (especially because you're kind of done with being parented), but in some ways it's instinctive too, because they made the person that you fell in love with. And at first the relationship is kind of arbitrary, you know. You like them and they like you, and after a while, like even becomes love, because you love your husband, and that includes loving all the people that are enmeshed in his life. Then you have babies and the connection becomes a blood one, because their blood, their DNA, is so clearly present and accounted for, mingling and mixing with your blood and your DNA. And so many people become connected up, branching outwards, so that through your children, the shape of your family tree changes.

And then one day if you are lucky you realise that, even if there was no blood connection, you'd just want to hang out with these people, because they make you happy.

Here is a strange story about connectivity, and I hope I get the details right. It's a bit of headspinner. Before my father-in-law, Miles, married Catheryn he lived in a shared house in Melbourne with a man named Bert (who ended up marrying Janet, Catheryn's younger sister.) During this time my own mother was boarding with Bert's father in Tasmania. This connection was only uncovered years later, last year in fact, ten years after Martin and I had met.

I don't think I ever told Miles that I love him. I also never said a final goodbye - in fact I was on my way to the hospital when Martin called me. I pulled into a country road, next to a paddock where a woman was training her horse, to take his call, and after we both hung up, this is is where I cried. But it doesn't matter, about that last goodbye. Every time we said hello and goodbye, we kissed, we hugged, and the frailer his body became, the firmer those hugs were, from both of us. He knew he was loved, not just by me but so many people.

Fred is sure that we will see him again, in heaven. Her certainty gives Una comfort and I am glad that someone in the family can explain it to Una in such simple and hopeful terms. Her certainty gives me comfort too, I admit.




15 comments:

  1. That's such a gorgeous series of photos.

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  2. So sorry to hear about Miles, Penni. That sequence of photos says it all. Love to the whole family.

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  3. I'm sorry to hear about that sad news. Thinking of you P & M and the family xxx

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  4. Anonymous6:27 PM

    Yep, it did. Sniff. Thank you.

    Jenny (jayjaycee1)

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  5. Oh Pen. Please give my love to Martin. Kids help you get through don't they. XX

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  6. So sorry for your loss. And what a massive loss it is.

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  7. Tim Pegler10:21 PM

    Beautifully put. And what a great sequence of images. Condolences to you all.

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  8. I'm so sorry for you all. Those photos show how much he was loved, and how much he loved.

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  9. Penni, So sorry for your family's loss. The sequence of photos is a lovely way to honour his memory.

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  10. Penn, those photos are beautiful : )
    When you write, I can't explain it,but you just seem to bring such clarity to the human condition xxx

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  11. That's sad news, Pen. And these last two posts are truly magnificent.
    Congratulations on that nomination, you rock (i.e. in next post.)
    Take care xxx

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  12. Penni, I'm sorry to hear of your family's loss.

    You expressed how family expands and deepens when you partner and then have children, so well. I hope you somehow find the space you need. xo

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  13. Oh Penni, I am so sorry for you, and Martin, and the girls.

    x

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  14. They are such gorgeous photos Penni. And you're such a gorgeous writer, too - in this post and the more recent one about the house of grief. Hope those small moments of joy (like the great news about 'Josie') continue to accumulate for you. Take care.

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