Bravery

I know some of you have already been there,

but I just wanted to share a link with you,

to the amazing and brave Corymbia.

She plucked up some almighty courage and shared her story.

(It's in two parts - one here and two here)

And it will be among the hardest things she ever does.

But it needed telling - it'll make you re-evaluate your world.

Be warned, you will need tissues.

Please leave her some love.

She needs it.

Thanks.

BB

Thistles

As I alluded to earlier this week, the life of a blog friend has been touched by tragedy.

More than touched. Shattered.

It's not my story to tell.

It's not my pain to express.

Not my loved one lost.

Despite this, I cannot help but acknowledge that today, this friend will brace herself for one of the toughest jobs a human can face.

She will attend the funeral of her husband.

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I cannot imagine (and to be honest, am trying desperately hard not to imagine) what she is going through today. It's something I cannot bear to walk through in my own mind.

Yet, I want her to know that I will help in whatever small way I can.

Especially today.

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I was initially nervous of mentioning the shattering event that has so changed the life of this lovely woman and her young family. And despite her grief, she sent an email that assured me 'there are very few wrong things people CAN say and even when they do, I know what they mean'. She went on to say how important she felt it was 'so important that people keep me talking and engaged in life'.

And so this is what I will try to do.

Keep on living and invite her to be part of that.

Even while part of me wants to stop everything for this person,

a woman I have only ever known as Corymbia.

My awful initial uncertainty about how to respond made me wonder:

What IS the right thing to do?

What IS the right thing to say?

When is enough TOO much?

And when is it not enough?

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If you have experienced this kind of tragedy, what did you need from others?

Please, share your wisdom or experience or advice here.

(Because I know so many of you are way wiser than I.)

She will read this.

Maybe not today, but soon.

And all I have to offer her is you.

Grids and gatherings

Yesterday was an incredible, tough day.

Yesterday more than 600 people gathered at a town hall in a small bush town to say goodbye to a friend. She was a friend to so many - a strong, no-nonsense, no-holds-barred kind of friend. She was someone who was part of my world forever. Not an everyday part, we weren't best buddies, we shared different generations, so moved in different circles that gently overlapped. Yet she was alwasy a familiar and steady presence. Lately we had become closer. I was to do a project with her, something I was looking forward to. A project that stands unfulfilled and hollow now.
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She had lived an interesting life before she was suddenly gone - some bits seemingly everyday and ordinary, the same bits that were shining highlights to her. Other bits were much tougher, confronting, soul-searching. Things she was brave enough to face and confront and search through. She had a lot to give, this friend.

And she gave in spades.
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So many people had been touched by her. Her family. Her friends. Those she counselled. Those she leant on. Those who leant on her. Those of many different generations. She was one of those people who connected. She held networks of people together - networks that will all feel her loss deeply. I have wonderful handwritten notes from her, on the birth of my children, when things got tough with Dash. She was unafraid to reach out when she saw someone who needed some support. She was real. And she made a difference.

Death is such a confronting thing. A terrible thing. But our friend was ready for it. Her eulogy already written, everything in order for such an event. Initially this preparedness shocked me a little. But now it seems the most thoughtful, sensible thing one could possibly do. Her effort to make it easier for those left behind. A natural thing for her.
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It was something that made me stop.

Not to wonder what is beyond the grid we pass over when we leave this life.

Not to worry about that beyond our horizons, that which we cannot see and feel right now.

But to think: what would my family do?

Would I have made it easier for them, or would my total lack of preparedness leave them floundering in a sea of grief and not knowing what to do...

Excuse me.

I think I have something I need to write.

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Anyone thinking of skipping the comments section here should think again. There is a minor popcorn riot going on that you won't want to miss! Thanks for making me smile, guys...

Tears from Heaven... and some Soapbox

I am looking for some distraction today - as you may have guessed from yesterday's post, we had some terrible news yesterday. A family friend, a fabulous lady I have known my whole life, passed away suddenly. She was a woman of the city and of the country too. A special woman. A survivor who had endured much but smiled for the world. The shock has yet to ease, and my heart goes to her beloved husband and daughter.

This morning we woke up to rain - heavy, steady, soaking, gorgeous rain. And my first thought was "Jan is at work already". And I knew it for sure when we rang my brother and found the rain is widespread (for a change). They are getting it at their house too - up until now the rain has fallen in strange isolated areas. Last storm we got almost four inches (97mm) while my brother's place got less than half an inch (10mm). So call me a sentimental fool, but this rain I am crediting to Jan.

So while the rain falls steadily outside (and my dryer gets a workout) I have been trawling the blogs to distract myself. One in particular has given me pause today - Stephen Baird's wonderful photo blog Nikon Sniper, in which he discusses a comment I made there recently. I found myself rambling in response, and decided to re-post the comment here to share with my wonderful (unfailingly positive) readers.
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I had mentioned that I found Stephen positive and encouraging and a non-photo-snob, despite his obvious talent with a camera. I abhor photo snobs - those who think that the measure of a photographer is their technical know-how and the cost of their latest camera. Don't get me wrong - I love me a shiny expensive camera, and an all-the-gadgets lense. I work with a battered Nikon D100 and a bashed-up, scratched Nikon 17-200mm lense. That's it. And I am aware of my dearth of expertise in the technical field - I have much to learn, and I am quite possibly too lazy to take it all on board!

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Photo snobs (for those lucky enough to have avoided them til now) can be found in many places, but I had discovered them mostly in camera shops and printing businesses. They have the knack of making people self-consious about their abilities, their expertise, their equipment. Who knows why? I have overheard some awful things - things that would make people put down a camera and never try again. And it makes me cranky. I watch these people walk away dejected and think:

"What a loss! What photos will never get taken because the joy and confidence has been stolen from that person?"
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For those newish to this blog, I should confess that I'm an ex-news photographer, so my teeth were cut on pretty action-packed imagery. I learned on-the-run rather than from a text book. I still cannot believe I got a real job with such little technical experience... but I did. And I took some horrific photos, and the occasional pretty nice photo. THE MAIN THING was that they told the story. They captured a moment or an emotional or a relationship. I am still catching up on the technical stuff. Oh Lord, am I wanting in this department.
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But I reckon I can capture a moment pretty well - and seeing as how all I am doing is documenting MY life, and the pics make ME happy (and show my kids what their world was like when they were little) then I reckon it's all OK. (Of course I still yearn to improve. I'm quite normal!)
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I love that people like Stephen encourage everyone. This world is full of knockers (and I don't mean of the ribcage variety!). I am very lucky that positive people visit me and comment - I am sorry that not everyone has this kind of experience. They should.
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To me, my comments section confirms what I think I know - that people would love my part of the world, given a chance to glimpse it. That they might find something here to identify with. It's the little bonus I never really anticipated in blogging. And it's one I look forward to every day. Every comment made is appreciated - I am not frightened of constructive critisicm either. If people want to share their knowledge or tips with me, I am all ears.

How else do we learn?

But what I really love is that people seem to feel like they have experienced something, the thing I am trying to show, without getting caught up in the photo itself?

Does that make sense?

So expect more random images from my world this year. Expect some slightly fuzzy and out-of-focus and not technically perfect shots that are there because they help me tell my story. I hope I never press the 'publish' button just to make my comments count skyrocket.

And even if I my posts are all written just for my kids and for me, I hope you keep coming back to share them anyway. You are part of my community.

The Big Dipper: A tale of Tuffy

If you recall, I alluded to a bit of a bumpy rollercoaster-ish kind of ride in these parts, in the pre-Christmas period. And I'm guessing I shouldn't keep people hanging on through the New Year (cause I have BIG THINGS planned for the New Year in this little ol' black blog...)
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You ready?

Coffee and tissues at hand?

Okay then...

Remember this calf?

Our amazing little injured bull calf and his incredible Mum...

To catch people up, this little boy was discovered beside the public road running through our place. He was badly injured after apparently being hit by a vehicle. We had thought his mother had abandoned him, but when we reunited the two after bringing him home for nursing, she showed her true colours by standing over top her injured baby to feed him.

Well, in the lead-up to Christmas he became the House Pet, as my visiting niece Salina followed the rest of the family in completely falling in love with him.
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As well as being (pre-accident) the perfect package physically of a baby Brangus bull, he showed us the most calm, gentle, optimistic nature. Despite never being much around humans before, he was quiet and happy to lay his head in welcoming laps as we tended his needs. He seemed to know we just wanted to help. We consulted a couple of vets, brought him water daily, injected him with anti-inflammatories, moved shade and offered hay - and in return he never stopped trying to recover.

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And while ever an animal is TRYING, we tend to keep trying to help them. He was nicknamed Tuffy for his resilient attitude despite clearly being in pain with his injuries.
He continued to try to stand, regardless of the fact he could never actually get up.

His legs simply would not hold him.

His mother continued to come back to him a few times a day to check on him and feed him. The wonderful Bay Lulic (the real name for this amazing cow) kept K114 (the 'name' we gave Tuffy's Mum when she was a calf) company in the paddock by our house. Bay Lulic's adopted orphan would frolic around the game little Tuffy as if encouraging him to 'come and play!'
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Our place is very hilly, and each effort to stand would take Tuffy further and further away from the house. A couple of times each day we would re-tie the blue tarp over his newest position, refill the knocked-over water containers, push the hay closer and give him another cuddle.

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But it just wasn't enough. It was very hot and he would breath terribly heavily. One shoulder swelled up massively and he gradually lost weight. Then about 10 days after we brought him home, I saw it. That dull look in the eye that an animal will get when they start to fail.

And I knew. I just couldn't let it go on.

He was just never going to get up.

He would never recover.

So I decided (such a heavy, heavy decision),

Mr Incredible quietly agreed,

and we waited until Salina went home.

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The next morning I took Tuffy a drink, a small sheaf of hay, scratched his jaw in the spot he liked the most... and then I took the kids for a drive in the truck.

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Mr I and Lila (our lovely neighbour who discovered Tuffy initially) put the little guy out of his pain. Afterwards they did a bush autopsy and discovered terrible, extensive bruising, one severely dislocated shoulder and a broken back thigh bone. (Someone asked me in a previous post if we would eat the meat if we put him down - I have to say it would have been hard because we had bonded with him, but this really wasn't an option at all with such injuries).

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Tuffy had put up such an incredible fight - we couldn't believe how shocking his injuries were. He didn't stand a chance really. It made the pain of the decision we made a little easier, mixed with guilt that we should have done it earlier.

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The kids were upset initially but we explained how Tuffy would now frolic pain-free up in Heaven, just like all the other calves. Dash accepted this, but for a while Violet was beside herself that she hadn't said goodbye properly. I assured her that he already knew how much we all cared. We wiped away our tears and climbed from the truck.

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But our job was not over. We had to take K114 back to her paddock - she had been patrolling the house paddock looking for her Tuffy and we needed to re-settle her as best we could. So we reloaded the truck and drove her home.

She was reluctant to get off the truck on arrival - she knew she was missing something.

Why am I here? Shouldn't someone else be getting off the truck too?

Is he hiding somewhere in the shed?

And off she went...

Straight back to the creek where she had seen him last in this paddock.

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I broke up a bit at this point, I admit it.

A Mother's Love is a powerful, powerful thing.

She did her very best.

We all did.

R.I.P. Tuffy.

I hope you are frolicking free...

Rugged, unforgiving.

We had a long, fun, exhausting Saturday (yesterday) with the kids attending Pony Club and riding their little hearts out. I will post some cute images from that later on.

But not today.

We were lucky enough to get a little rain on Friday night...

blessed, welcome rain.

Only 12 mm (almost half an inch) but still nice.

Enough to settle the dust.

And maybe keep the lawn a little green.

And allow me a slightly longer shower and day off shifting sprinklers.

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But the rain made it tough for one group of people that same night.

This is a helicopter which flew over our little town

as the kids rode round the show ring,

preparing for next weekend's gymkhana.

We all stopped to look and wonder about it.

It arrived from the west of town

landed at the hospital for a few minutes

before taking off and heading back towards the coast.

Then we realised.

A man had been missing since Thursday in some heavily timbered and rough countryside near here. As with all country areas, he was someone we knew (or knew of) - a government worker who lived here and knew the area well, walking in rugged bush to the north of our place.

We only found out hours before this photo was taken that he was missing.

He was last seen a few kilometres from my uncle's boundary and - according to news - reports he was carrying a mobile phone, hand-held radio, a GPS unit and a compass.
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And this chopper had been in the search party,

flying over looking the rough terrain looking for a sign of life.

It was confirmed last night.

The missing man was found not long before we saw that helicopter yesterday afternoon.

He did not make it.

Our conversations today are sombre,

the reality of the dangers of this place hitting home.

My thoughts and heartfelt condolences are with his family.
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This country we call home:

she can be beautiful, but she is also rugged.

Unforgiving.

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Puts whinging about sprinkler shifting right into perspective, doesn't it?

Lovely Lacey

We have arrived safely back from The Wedding in Big Town on the weekend.

It's always a relief to find that all animals are intact when we get home...

I am a worrywort when it comes to our dogs and horses -

and lately one furry friend in particular is the focus of my attentions...

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This is Lacey, Dash's wonderful old mare and main steed.

There was a Cagney once - am not sure what happened to Lacey's 'partner'.

She went during the couple of decades I didn't live at Granite Glen.

But Lacey is an institution here.

She has had quite a career -

from pickup horse in my uncle's bulldogging (steerwrestling) rodeo days

to polocrosse pony for two of his four offspring

to handy mustering mare for all the posse

to reliable kid's horse.

In other words:

She's 'Bloody Priceless'.

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This photo above is enlarged in Dash's room, for him to gaze upon with loving brown eyes.

He sees a horse that will not buck, bolt or harm him,

who is content with puttering along happily behind the mob,

but who will take him fast when he asks...

What do I see?

I see an old, old mare.

Greying around the chin and a little tired looking around the eyes.

Her coat is rough from winter (despite being rugged and pampered lately).

I see a heartbreak coming up sometime at Granite Glen.

And not just for Dash...

But for my cousins too.

Those long grown out of this kindly chestnut mare

but with fond memories entwined in her presence,

like the happy knots in her mane...

And for my uncle.

For this mare has seen him through life stages, from

gung-ho young man through to hard-working doting grandfather.

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How do horses do that?

How do they nuzzle into the toughest hearts and make a home there?

What chance to do the soft-hearted of us stand?

And how do we ease the blow for little hearts, when we know that terrible news must surely come sometime in the forseeable future?

All advice gratefully received...

BB

My friends, my heroes

Just a short one tonight - my internet is playing silly buggars and I am tired.

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But I cannot go to bed without properly acknowledging the incredible interview my friends Toni and Dave did with the Sunday Night program, which aired on Channel Seven in Australia tonight.

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Put simply, they were magnificent.

Magnificent and brave in the face of the most unimaginable grief for the beautiful, healthy baby girl they tragically lost to whooping cough just a few weeks ago.

Talk about a tough gig - knowing that they are putting themselves up there for the anti-vaccination groups to target and try and discredit. Knowing that they will be (from this point on) the face of an immunisation campaign, in the worst kind of way.

That was something they never intended, never could have anticipated.

They know their lives will never be the same.

And yet they did - they took a deep breath and faced the camera.

For Dana.

For their own peace of mind.

As Toni said:

'The only thing worse than the pain we are going through now, would be watching it happen to someone else and know that we could have said something, and didn't.'

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I admit I cried pretty much the entire way through the story.

I knew I would.

How could I not?

Watching my friend's face crumple as she described what happened to her baby...

Excruciating. Mind-blowing. Surreal. Awful.

I hope it has some effect...

on the people who matter.

On our communities at large.

On parents who can be logical about this debate and make rational decisions.

On governments to properly shoulder the responsibility to keep our babies (and the vulnerable among us) safe from preventable and untreatable disease.

And to remind all adults that they too need boosters to stay immune and help protect the 'herd'.

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Apparently J-Lo is also pushing the pertussis vaccine in America...

whatever it takes, I guess.

But really, it shouldn't take a celebrity, and it shouldn't take a baby dying, to get people to act as a community to protect themselves and others.

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I will climb off my soapbox now.

You know me, you know I don't get up there often.

But damn it.

My friend's baby died.

And someone bloody well needs to say something to make sure her voice is not lost in the low roar of everyday life.

Someone needs to dwell on the final words Toni said in tonight's interview, after footage showed them planting a tree for Dana on the day she should have been christened.

She said:

'I feel anger when I look at that tree.

I didn't want a tree.

I just wanted my little girl.'

Dana's Legacy

I poured my heart (and more than a few tears) out recently about the shocking death of a baby girl. A baby girl who belonged to two dear friends of mine - Toni and Dave.

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Despite their shock and grief at the senseless loss of their beautiful daughter, they have been incredibly brave and faced the media and shared their story. Perhaps, they hope, it will save another family from the heart-breaking ordeal they are enduring. It might shock people out of their ignorance, their apathy in not ensuring each and every community member is immunised against a preventable, deadly disease. It has taken some almighty intestinal fortitude (in the midst of their grief) for Toni and Dave to share the image of their 4-week-old daughter as the face of the current epidemic of whooping cough sweeping through low-vaccination regions of our country.

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Toni and Dave were vaccinated, as were their two older children.

But someone, or even more than one person who came near Dana, were not.

And they carried the virus that would fly through the air and infect her.

As Toni says:

"We possibly dreamed our darling girl would be a statistic, maybe like the one percent who make the Olympic Games.

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We never, in our worst nightmares, imagined that THIS was the statistic she would be".

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You can read Dana's story, in Toni's own words, here.

It will break your heart.

You know, I have spoken to my grief-stricken friend a couple of times since hearing the news.

And we have been in constant email contact.

I have felt every moment of her ordeal as she shared those final, terrible days.

But only tonight, I realised something strange.

Remember when I took this photo ?

...of Violet's four-year-old immunisation band-aid.

I looked at the date, and saw that she had had her shot just two days after Dana had died.

I knew those shots were important at the time.

But I never knew just how close the threat of the disease (against which my daughter had just been vaccinated) really was.

I do now.

Please, wherever you live in the world, pass on this message and the links provided.

No-one should die of whooping cough.

Certainly not in any country that has reasonable vaccination regimes.

Certainly not in any community that values human life.

Don't let it happen again.

Dear Dana...

I write this letter in my head today, as I drive the three hours home from our shopping trip. It has been mostly a good day, busily filled with jobs and the chatter of my children as we hurtled from shop to shop, from the dentist to saddler, computer repairman to grocery store.

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I am tired. Tired from trying to sleep in a single bed with my daughter last night, from staying up too late waiting for her to go to sleep, from just being busy. But my exhaustion as I drive home is also caused by something else. A text message, actually. From your Mum.

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You see, I know your Mum. I worked with her once - only for a short time, but it was enough to realise that we are kindred spirits. I am proud to say she is my friend. A whip-smart, pretty, easy-smiling, energetic redhead. A successful, centred, happy woman. She always makes me think and makes me laugh. Life has taken us half of my state, and half of her state away from each other. Probably eight hours drive away. Too far. Too far right now especially.

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Your Mum sent me a text message today. I am rarely in mobile service range for an extended period, but had come to the Big Smoke to visit my sister for my birthday. I wanted to make the most of my rare access to the outside (mobile phone-using) world so I had sent your Mum a text last night, asking after your health. I guess I was expecting to hear how your chubby cheeks reminded her so of your big brother (a similar age to my Dash) and your big sister (not much younger than my daughter Violet). I got to see and stroke their sweet fat cheeks just hours after each of them was born. I missed that with you and I wanted to know it from her. But her return text did not tell me this news I was looking for.

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As I sat behind the wheel of my car, ready to go into the next shop for my next shopping job, the phone beeped. As my kids played happily in the back seat, I flipped it open to read her message. And the noise ebbed and my mouth went dry, and my heart damned near stopped:

Sorry (it read)

I thought you might have heard.

We are living a nightmare.

Beautiful Dana died of whooping cough last week.

Just trying to cope...

She should never have got it.

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There are rare and unexpected moments in your life, when you know your world has changed irrevocably. When you suddenly know that an extra cause has entered your life. Well that kind of moment happened to me today, about 9.30am, as I sat outside a sign shop. But my world hasn't changed nearly as much as for my dear, dear friend and her sweet husband. Your parents. I know they are both strong, resilient people. They won't understand just how strong yet. They certainly won't feel very strong at the moment. But they are.

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And you want to know something amazing - they are so incredibly selfless in the midst of their grief that they are already doing their best to help prevent any other little babies from being exposed to illnesses that should not be even present in our communities. Not in this day and age. Not when immunisation is available to us all. Already they are sharing their story. Of how you were too young to be immunised, but all your family were. Yet someone with whom you came into contact unknowingly carried a terrible preventable virus. And despite all that medical staff could throw at it, it took you. Your parents' love and strength will save other babies - and other families - some of the shocking grief they are swimming in, half drowning in, right now.

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The rain is sheeting across the windscreen, much as the tears slide down my cheeks. The windscreen wipers hurry to clear the view, yet my non-steering hand cannot keep up with the blur of the moisture on my face. I am so sorry, for myself, right not. For missing out on seeing a little girl I never knew. Will never know. Sorry that I cannot ever learn the curve of your darling cheek for myself Dana. It's a selfish thing, my grief.

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And I grieve for the loss of innocence in my friend, who will carry you beside this terrible hurt in her heart from this day on.

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Know Dana, that I will stand behind her in her efforts to make some sense of your loss. Always.

Regardless of how much distance separates us at the time.

And my hugs today reach out across half of my state and half of her state, as if she was sitting here beside me.

It doesn't feel like much.

It doesn't feel like enough.

With love always,

Bush Babe

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Toni & Dave now have a website in Dana's memory:

www.danamccaffery.com