Even as I write this, years later, I am still unprepared. Nothing can prepare you for the unexpected death of someone you love. No one can ever understand how it feels unless they have experienced it. I know many others who have gone down the same path my brother did since he died. They do not know the devastation they leave behind.
Only yesterday I was down in Manly Beach, where I saw three police cars pulled up outside a house, followed by an ambulance. Later, as I was riding my bike back, I overheard two women talking: it was a suicide. An overwhelming grief washed through me, for my own painful memories, but also for the people left behind. I knew their pain so well.
I am a woman who has a great spiritual faith. I am not religious, even though I grew up as a Catholic. I believe that our bodies are not the end of us and that some form of energy (our soul) moves to another dimension after our physical death. I am sure that everyone will not agree with some of the things I say, but as you will see when you read the journal I kept whilst grieving for Gary, my faith is what kept me going.
On this day, 2nd November 1998, my brother Kevin and I had been on the phone discussing the death of his girlfriend’s mother, who had been very ill with cancer and had died on 1st November 1998.
I remember that morning so vividly: it was a glorious day, with blue skies and a warm breeze. Kevin and I were making arrangements to attend Mrs Mitchell’s funeral. We wanted to show our support to the family. He rang me about three times that morning. I remember feeling peaceful on this day, but sad for Jo, Kevin’s ex-girlfriend.
I also recalled how, only two weeks previously, I had personally delivered flowers to Mrs Mitchell in the hospice. Kevin was overseas, as he is an international commercial pilot, but he had arranged the bouquet, and I said I would take it to her. I recalled her tired, worn face and her lost hair, but I remembered that she had the most beautiful peacefulness about her, and her smile was warm and gracious. She knew she would die shortly, and had completely accepted this. Her family were around her, holding on to the last, priceless hours of this lovely woman’s life. I didn’t stay long, as I didn’t want to intrude.
Kevin and I are both Librans, notorious for never being able to make a decision. After our third phone call, when we finally made sure we were both settled with our decisions regarding Mrs Mitchell’s funeral, I was outside in our beautiful garden hanging out the washing. Grace,3 at the time, was playing around my feet. Emma was in school.
Ring! Ring! The phone again. I raced up the stairs and laughingly said, “What now?” thinking it was Kevin again. Only it wasn’t Kev; it was Dad. “Debbie, is Andrew home?” he said in a rather strange voice. “No, Dad, you know he is at work,” I replied.
“Oh, never mind then,” he said, his voice becoming agitated.
“What is it?” I insisted.
“Your brother is dead!” he burst out. He didn’t have to tell me which brother it was. I instantly knew. “Don’t you lie to me, don’t you lie to me, don’t you lie to me!” I screamed and threw the phone.
I am running up the hall into the front garden. Poor little Grace is following me, terrified. I throw myself onto the ground, screaming, “No! No! No! No!’ my arms pounding the grass, totally out of control. My perfect world just changed. My life just changed forever. No longer would I be the devoted wife and mother making jam and having cups of tea with the neighbours. At this moment, Debbie Carr’s life changed dramatically.
The neighbours race over and drag me inside. I am inconsolable and totally out of control. I want to die. I want the moment to go away. I do not want to accept that this is happening.
My neighbours think I have been attacked. Eventually Andrew, Kevin, his best friend Ben, everyone is here. I am in the lounge. Emma arrives home from school, she is 6. Granny (Andrew’s mum) has collected her from school. She sees me in the lounge crying.
My lovely 6-year-old daughter Emma wasn’t told the bad news just then, but she informed me later that she somehow knew Uncle Gary had died.
Kevin, Ben and I drove to my parents’ house, more than an hour away. I don’t remember much of the journey. I think I was in total disbelief and shock. All I remember is Ben driving, and I was in the back, looking out the window in total disbelief and consumed by a grief too indescribable to put into words.
When we arrived, my family all hugged each other and cried. At one stage, I just had to be alone and went outside to sit by the side of the house. I sat on a sandstone wall that my Dad had built. My parents lived in the country. The air was crisp and the sky a beautiful blue. As I sat there, in my own private world, tears started to pour out from me. The tears were so big that the thought occurred to me that they would be the size of tears a horse would have if it could cry. I was amazed at how big my tears were.
Eventually I went inside again, and we all left to go to the morgue.
When you walk into a morgue, the first thing you notice is how cold it is. The room was small, and there was a bench with a curtain. Gary’s body was in a plastic body bag, and the morgue staff had very thoughtfully taken half of the plastic down to reveal his face. I apologize for my sarcasm, but my family’s feelings were not really considered at this morgue.
If you are a person considering suicide, maybe you think you could jump off a cliff, hang yourself, gas yourself or whatever. But however you decide to do it, please remember that your family will be asked to identify you –- in the most horrendous of circumstances imaginable. Please consider who and what you are leaving behind. Please think of what it would be like for those who love you to have to see your body in a morgue. It’s not nice. It’s not nice at all. And every day, for the rest of our lives, those left behind will think about it. Every day.
Gary lay on the table, and to the side we could see into the ‘cutting room.’ Yes, you can see where they are going to hack your loved one to pieces. The autopsy was one of the hardest parts of this mess for me to deal with.
After our return, many other people arrived. I remember making a phone call to Luis, Gary’s best friend, who lived in Darwin. He and his family were totally devastated. They were Spanish, and not many people knew this, but Gary could speak fluent Spanish. When he was younger, Luis’ family treated Gary like one of his own.
We all drank ourselves silly that night to try to forget the pain.
The next morning I awoke, miserable. It was early in the morning and a mist was around the house. My parents had a dam on the property. I walked outside and stood by the dam, trying to make contact with my brother, hoping that his spirit would appear to me. He didn’t.
I spent the day helping to organise the funeral.
