Love, Sweat and Tears

by Zelie Bullen

  Many people were very excited for me, though some were jealous. Most of my peers at Movie World counted themselves lucky if they got a day on a television series or half a day on a commercial, and here was I, a lead double on a prominent series that employed a lot of people. It was an exciting start to my career. Grahame was incredibly proud of me.

  I had such a fantastic experience on all the series of Ocean Girl, but particularly on the first one. That was when I found out how well film production companies look after you. We were accommodated in self-contained apartments or expensive hotel rooms, complete with swimming pools and gymnasiums. I was young and enthusiastic and I was having so much fun and getting paid well. I’d never really had that sort of money before and I was very good at saving it. I was thrown in at the deep end, but it was a fantastic way to learn about the film industry; I was literally an information sponge, asking whoever I could about all aspects of the film industry, wanting to know everything from various job descriptions to questions about different camera lenses. I was having the time of my life.

  Port Douglas made the most beautiful backdrop for the series—the Great Barrier Reef, beautiful waterfalls and of course the Daintree rainforest. We were sometimes out on the reef for five days at a time; rather than coming back in, we would sleep out on the boat. On that first series, the boat was a medium-sized ocean-going cruiser, with tiny cabins below on either side. Each cabin had two sets of triple bunks, which didn’t leave much room. The galley and sitting area was located between the cabins, with a shower and toilet under the back deck. With all of the crew working on deck with scuba and camera equipment, it was very cramped, but it was a great adventure.

  One Friday afternoon we were on our way back to the jetty at the end of a day’s filming. We were all tired and were looking forward to getting back to our apartments and relaxing for the weekend. Just as we were coming in, someone asked me, ‘Isn’t that Grahame?’ I looked and there he was, standing on the jetty. He had a very distinctive way of standing—one leg slightly forward, resting and looking very cool at the same time. I was pleased to see him, but there was something strange about him arriving out of the blue.

  When the boat pulled in, I jumped off and hugged him, then introduced him to all the people in the crew he didn’t already know. He told me he’d come to spend the weekend with me and I was so excited.

  We went out to dinner with a few of the crew and then returned to my apartment. When we were alone, he looked at me and told me he had something to tell me. My heartbeat filled my ears. I knew someone had died. All I could think was, ‘Not Snoopy! Please, God, not Snoopy!’

  He told me that Angel had been put down. My initial relief that it wasn’t Snoopy was overtaken by a wave of grief. I was so upset; I had been so close to that horse. I couldn’t believe it, because she’d been lively and healthy the last time I saw her.

  He told me that our neighbours had come over because he had told them he was worried about her; then they had called in a vet. Angel had apparently retained some of the foetal membrane after Halo’s birth and this had caused a toxaemia that had poisoned her. When Grahame discovered how seriously ill Angel was, he couldn’t get hold of me because we were out on the reef. Before she was put down, he called out another vet for a second opinion. The second vet agreed with the diagnosis, and Grahame had no choice but to have Angel put down. It was pretty tough on him; he knew how much I loved that horse. He told me that a friend of ours who had raised an orphan foal before was caring for Halo.

  I had never heard of a retained foetal membrane before this, and I didn’t know how to check the afterbirth or the placenta to ensure it had been expelled. After Halo was born I had phoned a local vet, to see if there was anything I should do. She had only asked if they both seemed OK and if the foal was drinking. Checking the foetal sack and placenta were never mentioned.

  I cried a lot as I lay in Grahame’s arms; I told him I was sick of feeling like this. My head was resting on his beautiful strong chest as he told me that he’d never before known anyone who had had so much death in their life but that it was going to stop now. He knew this would be the last one. There would be no more death—I had had my share and it was going to stop.

  I believed him; I wanted to believe him. We talked about raising Angel’s foal together and told each other that everything would be fine, with all our animals and with our lives together.

  CHAPTER 11

  Grahame

  Twelve days later I was at the hairdresser’s in Port Douglas, having my hair lightened and re-permed for my role in Ocean Girl. But instead of a production runner coming to pick me up, as was usual, the production manager arrived. I thought that was a bit weird, but she told me the runner was caught up doing something else.

  She then drove me back to my hotel room and insisted on walking me in. I didn’t understand what was going on. My front door suddenly opened and Mitch Deans was standing there; Mum was just behind him. Mum had obviously been crying and when I saw that my heart thumped in my ears—kaboom, kaboom, kaboom.

  I walked in, anxiously demanding to know why she had come up from Cairns and what was going on. She could only repeat one word: ‘Darling’. Filled with dread and foreboding, I asked, ‘Who is it?’

  Not for one minute did I think it could be Grahame. But then she softly said his name.

  I was stunned. I yelled out, ‘Who? Who? Who is it?’

  And she said, more loudly, ‘Grahame.’

  ‘Is he dead?’ I yelled at her. I still couldn’t believe it.

  And she sobbed, ‘Yes.’

  I spun away from her and tried to run for the door. But Mitch grabbed me and held me tight. I remember punching him and screaming, ‘No!’ Ultimately we collapsed at the bottom of the nearby stairs and I sobbed into his chest, while Mum rubbed my back. I could hear her crying as I half sobbed, half yelled, ‘No, no, no.’

  I felt as though I had been sucked into a vortex and was the only person left on earth; it was as if everything around me had vanished. I don’t remember the trip from Port Douglas to Cairns, but when I got there they had already packed up my things for me. At Cairns airport I became hysterical and violent, and had to be restrained by security; I was given some sort of sedative, which made me nauseous.

  They had cleared out most of business class for us and I remember trying not to scream or make a scene. All I could think was, ‘Where am I going? What am I going home to?’ I just wanted to go home, but I didn’t know where home was. Was it where Grahame and I had lived? Was it Darlington?

  We arrived at Brisbane airport and they collected me in a wheelchair and wheeled me away with a sick bag on my lap. Someone asked me where I wanted to go. It was the same question I had been asking myself, and I just didn’t know. I was driven back to Creekside Court with Mum.

  Ironically, Grahame had died in a high fall.

  He was with a bunch of mates on the Gold Coast. They had gone out to the casino that night and then went back to a friend’s apartment at about four in the morning. The apartment was on the eleventh floor. Grahame had hopped up to sit on the balcony rail, and somehow he slipped backwards. As he fell, he tried to right himself and grab another balcony rail on the way down, but he couldn’t.

  It was less than two weeks since I had lain beside him and he had told me that I had now had my fill of death and it was all going to stop. I had believed him. I had wanted to believe him and I had told myself that everything would be fine.

  Aside from the grief, shock and despair, I now felt that I could no longer trust anyone. It wasn’t that Grahame was supposed to be right all of the time; it was just that what he had said made sense. It was what I had wanted to hear.

  CHAPTER 12

  Killing myself

  At Creekside Court the time leading up to Grahame’s funeral was a blur. I must have had a few more sedatives during that time, and when Tamzin arrived from Perth (she was now a trained nurse), I told her I didn’t want any more drugs. She agreed, saying it was ju
st putting off what I had to live through.

  I knew that grieving for Grahame was going to be hard and I was still grieving for Julie. Grahame’s death came close to pushing me over the edge.

  I had no concept of time. I remember Mum freaking out about me not eating or drinking. I remember my hissy fits. I remember Tamzin telling me I smelled and both of us laughing about it. I remember Tamzin telling me I had to drink water and me drinking some through a straw. I remember not wanting to have to go through the grieving process again—it was all too hard.

  Fortunately, there were always people around. I found out later that my one-in-a-million friend, Diane Rainnie, whom I loved working with at Movie World, had put up a visiting roster in the staff area so I would never be alone. If it wasn’t a staff member, it was one of their friends or family members.

  If I had been left alone during that time, I don’t think I would be alive now. I remember, clear as anything, thinking quite matter-of-factly and unemotionally that I’d have to wait until everyone had gone back to their homes before I could take my own life. Then I would try to think of exactly how I would do it. It was very stressful, but I remember just wanting to escape from the grief.

  One of the things I worried about was whether killing yourself got you out of that feeling or whether you took it with you. I remember asking a couple of people what they thought, but I didn’t ask too many questions because I didn’t want to draw too much attention to my suicidal thoughts.

  My thought processes, obviously, were not that stable. But sometimes they were very clear, and then it all became so unbearable that I would break down again.

  When you grieve you go numb, then stupid, then hysterical, then numb. A good friend and colleague of Grahame’s, Glenn Suter, a lovely married man with a deep faith, was so supportive and compassionate. Once, after we’d had a big crying session, I looked into his eyes and asked him to tell me what he thought about suicide. Not what his church thought or what he had been taught—I wanted to know what he himself thought.

  He was hesitant and very careful with his answer. ‘My church thinks one way, but I don’t feel like talking about that right now. Don’t think I’m condoning this, and I certainly will not help you with it—I’m here to help you get through this, not to escape from it. But, in all honesty, Zelie, I have to tell you what I feel in my heart right now—I think that, if you killed yourself, God would say, “I gave her too much grief to cope with; I was a bit careless with that one—I will look after her now.”’

  That was a precious thing to say to me and I remember feeling a little bit of shame and guilt. I began to think, ‘Life is not all about you, Zelie.’

  About six weeks after Grahame’s death, I woke up one morning with that familiar wave of grief crashing over me and the feeling that I just wanted it all to end. But then I began to feel so sad for everyone. Not for me, but for Mum, who had already lost one daughter, and for Freda, who had already lost one sister. And then I realised I couldn’t hurt them all over again.

  My sadness became very intense as I imagined the grief they would feel when I died. But then I thought, ‘Hang on—I haven’t done it yet.’ So I sat up and thought, ‘Oh my God, I care!’ It was like I’d been hit by a truck.

  I don’t know how long that process took, but I went from sadness to intense grief to shock and then to true horror when I realised that I was trapped—I had made the decision to live. And it was then that I cried for myself, realising I still had to go through this process. I wondered how long it would last. Would it get worse? Would it get better? But then I made myself go and feed Halo, or play with Snoopy. That was my way out—I thought of something fun I wanted to do. I thought, ‘I’m spent, but, if I’m still in the world and I haven’t killed myself, I may as well do what I feel like doing.’ It didn’t matter if I couldn’t make it across the floor before collapsing in a sobbing mess; I had stopped that destructive thinking. It slowly became easier to do something fun, and such distractions stopped the destructive process.

  Distraction—focusing on things that made me happy—helped me. But I can’t say for sure that it would help someone else in a similar situation. When I hear of people who have attempted suicide, I don’t necessarily think that I have the solution for them, but I certainly understand what they are going through. I just want them to hang in there, because who knows what life has in store just around the corner.

  I’m very lucky, and I’ve had a very lucky life. In particular, I was lucky at this stage of my life to have so many people babysitting me so vigilantly—by the time the babysitting stopped, I was starting to climb back out. I had begun to get glimpses of having fun again.

  When Grahame died, I felt that I’d been left behind, but it wasn’t that I wanted to die with him exactly. Recovery was a very gradual process and there were times when I hung onto fear-filled memories. But, as I began to let go of things, it became easier.

  My advice is to live for the moment. Find a tiny spark of happiness—a memory that once brought you joy and maybe still can. Choose to focus on that tiny spark, or else you will remain in despair. That tiny moment of remembered happiness can grow and grow and grow as you keep focusing on it.

  Not long after Grahame died I decided to bring Halo home and raise her myself. I thought it would be good for me to have something to do. I had a foal that was also possibly grieving for her mum. I would look after her and comfort her. She became my main reason to get up and go outside.

  The house continued to be full of people—so many offered to come and support me. One of my close pony club friends, Jean Wearmouth, came all the way over from Perth to babysit me. She told me she wouldn’t leave until I was better.

  In the middle of all this, Mum suddenly received a call from Perth telling us that Harriet Lemann, with whom we had lived in the Porongurups, had died in a car accident, leaving two little girls without their mother. Mum and I decided to head back to Perth to be with the family, and Jean offered to stay on at Creekside Court to look after the animals.

  Harriet’s memorial service was held on the top of Wattle Hill, the property where we had all lived together at the Porongurups. It was a lovely service and everyone was in reasonably good spirits as we made our way back down to the old house after her ashes had been scattered. But when we got there, a phone call came through for me from Jean. She was hysterical, and I could hardly understand her.

  At first, I thought she was saying the foal had broken her leg, and I asked her to repeat herself, slowly. Halo had broken her leg; the vet was there; and they had just put her down.

  I don’t know why life is so unpredictable, or why some people have to endure so much heartache. Many people around the world find the answer in their chosen religion; some people believe in karma and others believe things happen for a reason. I don’t fully trust any of those theories. What I have become expert in is working out how to deal with certain circumstances.

  Even though we don’t have control over deaths, tragic events, car accidents and so on, we can choose how we want to live. It’s not that I’m a stranger to sadness; in fact, I think it is very important that, if there is sadness, you allow yourself to feel it. Don’t try to suppress it. I have allowed myself to express sadness along the way—to cry openly, without being embarrassed or self-conscious—and I think that is one of the key strategies that has allowed me to work my way through it.

  I don’t allow my emotions to build up, one on top of another. I think the loss of Julie triggered my ability to be like that—because that experience was so horrific and occurred fairly early in my life, I didn’t care how anyone judged me. I didn’t feel that I had to hold myself together when I grieved.

  CHAPTER 13

  In Pursuit of Honor

  People were telling me to get back to work, that it would help with the grieving process, but I didn’t want to go back to Movie World—there were too many memories. Still, after Harriet’s funeral I flew back to the Gold Coast.

  When I returned, J
ean told me for the first time that she and her husband Dave had been fighting. Now she wanted to stay on the Gold Coast; she enjoyed people treating her nicely for a change. She was offered a job at the Movie World stables and kennels helping with the animals, which she happily took.

  We moved out of Creekside Court, because of the memories and because the rent was getting too expensive. I moved in with Mark Eady and his girlfriend Geraldine; Mark had become a good friend after the acting course I did with him, and Jean rented a room near Movie World.

  I was talked into working on an upcoming Don Johnson film, In Pursuit of Honor. They needed horse grooms to look after the three hundred or so horses. At the time I didn’t even feel like getting out of bed, but everyone urged me to take the job; they said it would get me out of the house, out of my thoughts.

  This was my first job on a movie, and it was here that I met two people who were to become very important in my life, Heidi Mackay and Wayne Glennie.

  Pre-production—all the planning, building and rehearsing that needs to happen before filming can begin—was at Biddaddaba, just inland from the Gold Coast. When I first arrived, I didn’t want to talk to anyone—I was there to do a job and that was it. There was a bunch of wranglers and grooms I hadn’t met before and a couple of people I knew already from Movie World, but I wasn’t there to socialise.

  On the third day I was paired with a petite blonde girl to muck out a large paddock the horses had been in. She was annoyingly chatty and I felt like saying to her, ‘Can’t you see I’m not interested in talking to you?’ But I couldn’t be bothered, and just tried to ignore her.