Nic is famous because he gets out of bed in the morning. He chose to live when he had so many reasons not to.
But he would never have made it if he hadn’t trusted those around him, especially Gordon, who saved his life.
Teenagers want to be normal. They often hide behind a mask.
It is hard to help them when you can’t reach their soul. Nic laid his soul open and grabbed many outstretched hands. His dream now is to offer his hand, especially to troubled teenagers, those who have lost their childhoods. In his brother’s honour, he wants to help prevent other meaningless deaths.
He still works for the Black Dog Institute on the positive psychology youth website, but some of his work sees him on the stage in school halls talking to Year 11 kids about mental illness and suicide prevention. In 2011, he was asked by a doctor from the University of New South Wales to make a video of his experiences for medical students. During the half-hour interview, he talks about his mania, his long journey to find the right medication, what doctors can do to help, the death of his brother and his long battle with his own suicidal tendencies.
‘That was the worst symptom,’ he states. ‘I was constantly suicidal—every waking hour. I thought that was normal. The only thing which held me back was my family, not actively but just knowing how much they cared for me and how much it would destroy them if I did. I was at my lowest point mentally when Criddy committed suicide. It was such a huge shock and being at this nadir, my family feared this would push me over the edge. But strangely enough it was a turning point. Of course it was devastating and for a long time I was in shock but I was able to see for myself how it would affect my family if I committed suicide.
‘In a way, being at Criddy’s memorial service felt like I was attending my own funeral, seeing how the whole community was affected and how deeply my parents and Ben were grieving. I realised I could never do it. I had no choice. I had to get better.’
The video will be a compulsory part of second-year medical training and is: ‘Dedicated to Nic’s brother Chris “Criddy” Newling. 22/10/1984–29/9/2002.’
chapter 40
In one corner of my bedroom I have a box, an antique wooden chest with a lid that creaks when you lift it. Bunny sits on top along with Christopher’s Buddha, his moonstones, a pebble he painted in primary school and a poem Daisy wrote for us on the first anniversary of his death. The chest is filled with all the things I couldn’t bear to throw away. The cars Christopher played with when he was a toddler, his rugby uniform, favourite T-shirt, shorts and his red peaked cap.
His first tooth, Mother’s Day greetings and the box of meditational focus cards he bought to help get him through another day.
Each day he would put a card on his desk by his diary. On the day he died, the card read: ‘Today I will focus on forgiveness. Forgiveness releases the past. It heals the pain so that you are free to dance and love again.’
On the day before his death, the card he chose focused on self-esteem: ‘We are not alone here. We all walk the same earth, we breathe the same air and each of us is worthy of being loved.’
I also kept the Judy puppet he made in Year 6 for the Christmas Punch and Judy show, and the camera we bought him for his seventeenth birthday. He had talked about becoming a photographer after spending a week with his uncle Allen, a cinematographer, for the school’s required work experience. And wrapped in a tamper-proof thick plastic bag is police exhibit number C87328A, Christopher’s mobile phone and torch found at the base of the cliff.
Tucked in the bottom corner is a bag, loosely wrapped in paper—his ashes.
Only half fitted into the urn, the remainder given to me like a leftover container from last night’s takeaway. What half do I have?
The top half? His skull, his ribs, clavicle and radius? Or the bottom half, the femur, patella or his broken fibula? Maybe the front tooth that he shattered playing his trumpet, or the prosthetic marbles they used to fill his empty eye sockets?
I don’t know what to do with his ashes. I could throw them over the cliff but then another part of him would disappear. I could put them in another urn and place it on the chest or on the mantle above the fireplace. I’m not sure, so I keep them in the flimsy package and sometimes I squeeze it, hold it up to my face and breathe in the charred, earthy smell.
When I picked up Jim’s ashes, half was in an urn which was then buried under the tree in bushland, the other in a similar, loosely wrapped package, which I secretly kept it in my bedside drawer for fifteen years. I couldn’t let go of him either. When I confessed to my parents a few years ago, I wasn’t sure whether they were angry or relieved that they still had something of their son. I reluctantly gave his ashes back to them, keeping a small amount which I’ve encased in a silver locket. They buried Jim’s remains in their garden with a plaque to commemorate his life.
There is another box in my antique chest with hundreds of letters and sympathy cards and poems from many of Christopher’s friends; and another with Christopher’s special items, love letters from girlfriends, a surfboard key ring, a fortune cookie proverb, important enough for him to keep: ‘You have no problems in your home that you will not be able to solve.’
There is a notebook where he wrote down the meanings of words so he could remember them. There are only three entries: disconsolate—unable to be comforted in trouble; emulate—to try to equal or do better than; presage—a feeling of something about to happen.
The rest of the book is empty except for a quote on the last page, by American poet Ralph Waldo Emerson: ‘What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within.’
There is a folder given to us by the school at the rugby dinner a few months after Christopher died. It was given to each player as a memento of their year playing for the First Fifteen. While each boy went up to receive his folder from the coach, Christopher’s was brought to our table and handed to Phil.
The folder contains photographs of the team, the coaches and the First Fifteen Charter—2002. There is a photo of the line-up for the Newington College game played in Christopher’s honour. Both teams are wearing black armbands and they stand, heads bent, for a minute’s silence. There are weekly reports on their wins and losses, the last one written by one of the players. It ended with: ‘Saturday, the 31st of August, will be long remembered in Shore’s history as a day in which their First XV, against all odds, played their hearts out as a testament to a great friend who was always there for them and anyone he knew. As the last line of our team charter states: No what ifs, no limits, MATES ALWAYS. Thanks for the memories mate.’
In the rugby folder there are the articles which appeared in the newspapers headlined: ‘Tragic loss overshadows Shore’s courageous win’ and ‘Shore united in grief as players dig deep.’ And there’s a beautiful photo of Christopher on their last rugby tour. He is on a bus wearing his red peaked cap. He is smiling broadly, his eyes are alive; he never looked happier.
In the antique chest is Christopher’s diary. It begins on October 15th, 2001. He lists his personal, sporting and academic goals. He strived for personal change, commitment and having a ‘grown up attitude’. He wanted to be fit, give up drinking and smoking, and play rugby at the top level.
‘Why am I off track?’ he wrote. ‘Frustrated, not achieving goals, no certain future, no track to follow, no mentors.’
On the page for October 22nd, his seventeenth birthday, he pasted a poem by American poet Nancye Sims which reads in part:
Winners take chances.
Like everyone else, they fear failing, but refuse to let fear control them.
Winners don’t give up.
When life gets rough, they hang in until the going gets better.
Winners are flexible.
They realise there is more than one way and are willing to try others.
Winners know they are not perfect.
They respect their weaknesses while making the most of their strengths.
Wi
nners fall, but they don’t stay down.
The entries for the rest of October described his up-and-down mood, not enjoying school and feeling down. In early November he had his second leg operation; the first was in February. ‘I can’t move much but I have a positive attitude to make legs good this time.’
November 9th he wrote: ‘I feel sick. Had a blood test. Shit I’ve got glandular fever—major disappointment—worried about school and rugby.’
November 17th: ‘Worried about how long a recovery the glandular fever will be. Still worried if legs will be ok.’
November 21st: ‘Worried about the future. Did come to realise that all these setbacks (glandular fever, tonsillitis, legs) are all just tests for me to battle.’
November 22nd: ‘Bit worried the operation didn’t succeed. Feel that my physical problems need to be fixed first and if they don’t, I will have nothing.’
November 26th: ‘Starting to worry about shoulders also. They’ve been bad for a year.’
November 28th: ‘Had fight with Mum. Pretty big. I got a bit worked up and said some mean shit. Bad day.’
December 5th: ‘Have to have tonsils out on 17th. Want them out but I don’t want to be out for a week or two from gym.’
December 14th: ‘Felt down.’
December 29th: ‘Shit mood. No motivation to do work. Bit anxious.’
January 1st: ‘This is a new year. I will have quotes for every day of this year to keep me motivated. Quote: This year brings me delights beyond my most expansive dreams.’
January 20th: ‘Down and depressed. Shit.’
February 5th: ‘Down about my injuries—worried about weakness in my legs.’
February 8th: ‘Saw school counsellor. Just talked. Pretty down.’
February 15th: ‘Got in trouble at school. Had to miss passing practice. Coach pissed off. Went to L’s [Leo’s] for a while. Had some R [Ritalin]—felt like I should have had it all along.’
That was his last entry. That was when he gave up. No one knew. No one read his diary. I should have read his diary. Then I would have known.
Slipped into the pages on April 21st, the day his friend jumped from a bridge, was a memorial card with a photograph which read: ‘We are all here to celebrate Matthew’s time on this earth. A warm-hearted child right from his birth. He wasn’t here long but we can all safely say, he blessed us all in his own special way.’
Four months later, someone else’s son would have placed Christopher’s memorial bookmark into their diary on August 29th, 2002. It also has a photograph and an inscription which reads: ‘I am the resurrection and the life, says the Lord; he who believes in me, though he die, yet shall live, and whoever lives and believes in me shall never die. John 11:25–26.’
chapter 41
It wasn’t just the sound of the waves, the familiar faces in the distance, or the memories of Christopher signposted, it seemed, on every corner we turned, that made us yearn to escape the Northern Beaches again. Perhaps it was a need to start over, an unspoken desire to turn tragedy’s page. We agreed to move back to the mountains, to the quiet, beauty and serenity which anonymity promised. We knew we were running away again, trying to out-pace our pain but we didn’t know how to do it any other way. If we kept moving, maybe grief and its ghosts would stay behind, set up a place at the hearth, and we could lock the door behind them. We found a home in Leura and set about starting over again. This time, we hoped it would be permanent.
I don’t know the exact moment when the hand squeezing my heart let me breathe again. Little breaths, not deep sighs. Maybe it was the small things, a smile, a warm hand on my shoulder. Maybe it was a gradual easing of grief, for no one could survive that intensity. I knew I had to start letting it go. I had to be a mother to Ben and Nic. I had to let Christopher go and even though grief still sat like a sodden sponge in my lungs, I could now get out of bed and negotiate with dread.
My steps were slower and the days were longer but I got used to the habit of the hours. And although I filled them with feigned enthusiasm, I took comfort knowing another day had been lived.
The last eleven years have been swallowed up by Christopher’s death. In some ways it felt like a hundred years but then no more than the briefest interlude of time.
I felt Phil and I were imprisoned in a capsule where a distant clock with a muffled beat heralded the passing of time. We could mark some big moments like Ben and Sarah’s marriage, and Nic’s improved mental health, but our grief was impenetrable to the outside world and we had found solace in the confines of our ersatz existence. Comfort came unexpectedly and fleetingly but we snatched the moment and dreamed for more. We still walked around each other and whispered with words we pretended to hear but every night, sitting in our candlelit lounge room, in the crook of Phil’s arm, the thrum of his bruised heart was his gift to me.
We made love but with just enough fervour to make it seem real without risking loving too deeply again. The anger and accusations were swept away by time’s old broom and in their place came a contentment as dependable as our love once was. As fleeting as serenity may be, a wish to find it for each other was more powerful than the selfish acceptance of our tortured souls. We realised our union was the safest place to be. We were marooned by our loss but cocooned by our love and trust for each other. Only then did we dare to pull ourselves out of the past’s quicksand into an unknown future together. Only then were we able to trust we wouldn’t break each other’s hearts.
Last night we sat on our rocking chairs under the patio heater watching the full moon peep over the giant pine tree.
‘It’s a gibbous moon,’ Phil joked, knowing my fascination with moon shapes would result in a mild rebuke.
I groaned as he pulled me to him for a quick hug. The moon then burst into full view, spotlighting Christopher’s garden with a silver halo. The gold lettering on his marble urn glimmered as a moth floated between it and the small spotlight which brings life to the grieving Buddha. We both stared at it then looked to each other with sad resignation.
‘Are you okay?’
He nodded sadly then grabbed my hand.
‘This is what nobody understands,’ he said, clearing a lump from his throat. ‘This is our life now. It stopped when Crick died. All we can do is make the most of each day and enjoy what we have left.’
And then he cried just a little and I held him.
‘We still have each other,’ he said. ‘And our sons and grandson.
Poor Ben. He’s had to be so brave. He must have been so scared.’
I knew what he meant. Ben had lost his brother and had to stand in the wings, watching the tragedy of our family’s future unfold.
Would he lose Nic? Would he lose his mother?
Over the past few months and in short grabs Phil and I have started to talk about our grief. It is bearable now but we still fear our pain could puncture our frail hearts. I asked him if I could write about his grief. He nodded, seeming to be almost grateful that his painful journey and survival would also be heard.
‘This is what it was like,’ he says, handing me two typed passages, one written shortly after Christopher’s death, the other six months later.
The heading Number One is underlined:
Crick was such a gentle soul who did not deserve to be frightened by his demons. He knew how to love. He knew how to care for others and, to his detriment, so often put others ahead of himself. He loved his brothers, his parents, his friends and extended family. He loved. He loved. He loved . . . And then he broke my heart.
Number Two:
I need to talk about my feelings, fears, hopes and dreams. I have many photographs of Crick. I never know from one day to the next what effect a glance or a longing stare will have on me. Mostly I get comfort and warmth because the images show him smiling, with friends and lovers, or doing what he really loved—playing rugby. But sadly, there are moments when my guts flip over, when my eyes fill with tears and all I want to do is to hold him one more time.
I’ve cried often—mostly alone. I understand the difficulties people have watching men cry.
The first time I lost it was halfway through the morning after he left me. So many people were at the house, so many calls, so many flowers. I couldn’t stand it so I walked up the back near the bush and lay my head and arms on a large rock and let go. It was such a relief. The second time was the day after. I had just woken up and my first thought was—oh God no! Don’t let it be true.
I walked down the hall to his room, closed the door behind me, lay on his bed and smelled him. I couldn’t smell hard enough, couldn’t suck in what I needed. I hugged his pillow and kept breathing in. I cried out to Crick and then I let go. I was so close to him at that moment. I soaked his pillow . . . then, peace.
The third time was just after Murgy showed me the tattoo of Cricket: ‘Left side, closest to my heart, Phil.’ Others had made the same incredibly sensitive gesture to honour their friend or relative and I didn’t think another tattoo would affect me. Half an hour after Murgy left, I let go again. This time it wasn’t a release. I had anger, so much anger. Crick had sold me out, left me. He didn’t even say goodbye. I wanted to smash his room up, swear and scream, smash myself up. After a while the anger disappeared and I was close to him again. My life is definitely not a never ending tale of sadness and tears. I have happiness. I have love. They’re just resting at the moment.
Missing Christopher Page 17