The Five Little Ducks Blog

Content warning: this entry discusses suicide and grief. Please contact Lifeline (13 11 14) if you are ever in need of crisis support. Please don’t say you are “OK” if you are not OK.

 

A year has passed since we lost Amy. Normally I do not refer to people by their real names in this blog. However, Amy is gone. There is so little that she left behind. A few possessions. Some pictures. Our memories. Her name.

Amy was my sister-in-law; my husband’s beloved younger sister.

Early last year, when it had become apparent to my husband that I was struggling emotionally and physically with the care of our five children, he invited Amy to come and help me once a week. That day, she came with us to my Mum’s. Mum sang the theme song from The Nanny. It was a happy, hopeful moment. We laughed.

Amy would visit on Wednesday afternoons and help me with the washing or play with the children while I cooked dinner. Sometimes she stayed for a meal. Daddy Duck always enjoyed coming home from work to see his sister here; of his estranged family, she was the only member he still communicated with and with whom he shared a positive relationship. There was an eight-year age gap between Daddy Duck and Amy. He had helped care for her when she was a baby and a toddler. When Amy was around, Daddy Duck was in “big brother” mode; making jokes, being silly and teasing. The bond between them was obvious. We paid Amy for her time. She often said that she wasn’t “doing it for the money” and that helping me with the kids was the highlight of her week. As much as this was probably true, we knew that paying her helped her to be here regularly.

I am ashamed to admit it, but Daddy Duck and I often complained about the lack of work that was done after she left; only half a basket of washing would be folded after three hours of mostly just hanging out with the children. One time she was supposed to be putting clothes on the line, and I found her having a wonderful game of chasing with Mr E in the backyard. There was something very childlike in Amy’s character. We showed her Miss L’s favourite show at the time because I knew the silly song and dance performed by Baby Jake, which included bottom wiggling, would make her laugh. I remember her bemused expression. She couldn’t resist the girl’s requests to play or read to them, and she liked showing them games on her phone. A couple of weeks before she died, we explained that we couldn’t afford to keep paying her so much and that we needed to reduce the amount of money we gave her. She said that was fine. We regretted this decision later. Every dollar we gave her was worth it for the seven months of happy memories. I would have tripled her pay if I knew what was to come; if it could have somehow meant that she might still be alive.

There is a folder in my head: “Amy: Best Hits” where I go to replay memories and conversations. I can still hear her voice; her shy, unassuming way of speaking. She often spoke about a pregnant friend of hers that she was helping. She loved being useful. On a hot summer’s day, she brought over a packet of water balloons and she filled them all up for the children to play with outside. One time she saved an echidna, another time helped a man who was overdosing in a car. We talked about our nieces (she was an even closer blood relative to Miss A and Miss L than my husband, and she had babysat them when they were younger).

She called me “super mum” and said that the girls were in the right place in our home. I remember one conversation where she said that if she ever had children removed from her she would want them to be placed with us. I remember saying to her clearly; “Amy, that is not going to happen to you.” She loved children so much and I had the impression that she did not want to have children until her life was “together”.

Amy had a difficult life. Growing up with the same drug-addicted mother as my husband, there was never enough stability or food to eat. She spent time in different foster homes and refuges, even living with my family for a few months when she was in Year 7. In her mid-teens she left school and eventually became part of an on again/off again de facto relationship with a man much older than her. She started courses and jobs, never able to complete them. We never talked about it, and she always appeared clean and sober in my home, but I knew that she struggled with substance abuse. Her final years were hard. She had zero contact with her mother and other brothers, she had lost touch with most of her friends, she was grieving the death of her father and she was basically homeless; living on a boat parked on the river when they could afford the mooring or in people’s yards when money was limited.

 

One Wednesday evening last August, Amy came over late to our house asking if she could stay the night because she and her partner had had a bad fight. All she brought with her was her handbag and a large yellow tiger onesie to sleep in. That night she watched an episode of Lost with us as she cuddled and played with Baby J. She pulled a block of her favourite chocolate “Oreo Bubbly” out of her handbag and shared it with me (I had caught her on a few other occasions sneaking pieces when she thought the children weren’t watching). We talked about the fight she had had with her boyfriend. Discussed her plans going forwards. I set up the couch for her with blankets and she watched half of Marley and Me on Netflix before going to sleep. Daddy Duck left for work the next morning before she woke up. She ate one Weetbix for breakfast and played Lego with Mr E. I gave her about $15 for the day’s bus fares as she was planning to visit the friend she had often helped. Amy asked if she could leave the tiger onesie here as it would be too heavy in her bag, I agreed as she was planning to come back that night. She stayed a few days with her friend instead. On the Saturday she messaged me, saying that she could come over and return the money I had loaned her. Knowing the infrequency of weekend buses I replied that I could wait for the money and not to trouble herself.  At some point she returned to her boyfriend. The following Wednesday she messaged me saying she couldn’t visit me that day and asked if she could come on Friday instead. I agreed. That week on Facebook Amy had shared posts about Anxiety, Depression, being “over everything” and “just wanting to be pretty”. I responded in the best way I could, planning that on Friday it was time to have a real conversation about what was going on.

Friday arrived, but Amy never did. I messaged her to ask if she was still coming over, not really concerned when I received no response. That night I saw the movie Bad Moms with a friend. When I came home, Daddy Duck told me that Amy was missing. Her boyfriend had come to our house looking for her. My husband showed me a Facebook post from the NSW police force; it was a missing person’s alert with a picture of Amy.

It is surreal to see a missing person’s poster inset with a picture of someone you know and love. Daddy Duck and I prayed together that night. I was confident that Amy would show up; that she was avoiding everyone. I even checked the garage, thinking she might be hiding in there and had been too embarrassed to ask if she could stay the night. Early the next morning, I rang the police to ask if we could be of any assistance in their search for Amy. I imagined putting up posters like they do in the movies. The police told me they were starting their search for Amy in the location she had last been seen, and they would call if they needed any further help.

They didn’t call.

Later that morning, a police car parked out the front of our house. A middle aged balding police officer smiled awkwardly and asked us if we could go inside the house to talk.

My heart sunk as panic filled my chest.

In our quaint green kitchen on a sunny Autumn morning, the police officer told us that they had found Amy’s body. She had ended her own life in bushland near where she had last been seen. I began to sob inconsolably. I remember being shocked that my husband was not crying or even acting surprised or upset in anyway. After the police officer left, my husband broke down in tears, gasping for breath, his face blotchy and red as we wept together for his little sister.

I called my family members, asking each of them if they were sitting down before I told them the terrible news. It came as a shock to us all. Family came over, pastors too. That afternoon I went with police to inform Amy’s mother and brothers of her passing. Her mum half collapsed in my arms, wailing and shaking with grief. That was the last time that I saw her, as the following day events transpired between my husband and his family that tore to shreds any chance of reconciliation. Due to these events, we decided to host our own memorial for Amy, as it was evident that we could not work together peacefully with Daddy Duck’s family to plan the funeral.

In the coming days, especially once visitors had gone and the children were asleep, my husband and I cried together for Amy, sharing our regrets and sadness. Amy’s yellow tiger onesie moved from the couch to under my husband’s pillow. We blamed ourselves for not preventing her suicide. We were devastated by her death, horrified as we couldn’t help imagining the end of her young life; the fear, the panic, the loneliness, the pain. Whether she changed her mind and was powerless to take back her decision.

Several times I was hit afresh by the shock of her loss. At any moment, surely, I would awaken from this nightmare and be able to shoot Amy a text message saying that we loved her, come over. It was as if my brain was refusing to compute the new information; rejecting the idea that somebody who once was here, was no longer here. Somebody who stood in my house, cuddled my children, talked with me and who had become my friend, was gone. I could still hear her voice, see her facial expressions, remember her body language. How could I not when I see her embodied daily in my husband and children? I remember walking through Woolworths when the grief was still fresh, feeling frustrated that the whole world was carrying on as if nothing had changed. The cashier half-heartedly asked me how I was and I responded honestly that I felt terrible because my sister-in-law had died. He was lost for words.

That first week was a roller coaster. Daddy Duck was struggling terribly with grief; he withdrew into himself, while I was running on adrenalin planning the memorial and frequently answering messages from Amy’s old friends who needed consoling. On top of that and the fallout from the incident with Daddy Duck’s family, all of my children contracted a bad stomach bug. Baby J caught it worst and was unable to keep food or milk down for days. I felt angry with God. How much did He expect us to handle?!

The memorial service was beautiful and we were surrounded by loving people and guests. Daddy Duck had worked hard to pull together a photo slideshow set to the music of Youth Group’s version of Forever Young. He bought every block of Oreo Bubbly he could find to hand around during the service. We used a butterfly motif and the colour scheme of purple, silver and white in our decorating (Both my mother and I had remembered that Amy liked purple and butterflies). There were beautiful arrangements of flowers. We had a large glass jar and invited people to write down their memories and messages to Amy. Miss A handed out packets of flower seeds which we had purchased for everybody to plant in Amy’s honour.

 

It had been difficult to talk to the children about their aunt’s passing. Miss L and Miss R were too young to really take it in; to them it was an anecdote to cheerfully share with people in the same tone they would talk about a holiday or a new pair of sparkly shoes; “Aunty Amy died!” Mr E and Miss A were more affected and pushed for answers about why and how Amy had died. We explained that she had died from a broken heart.

Miss A and Miss R had both had birthdays in July. Amy hadn’t made it to their parties but she had promised them a gift. I assumed she had been lying and hadn’t bought them anything yet. The girls were quite upset thinking of the present which would never come, however as Amy’s boyfriend’s family had sorted through her possessions, they found it. The girls were thrilled with the Kinetic Sand Amy had bought them, but it felt strange. Watching the girls play, somebody was missing. I imagined that Amy had bought the kinetic sand with the idea of using it with them.

We received other things that had been Amy’s. Her clothes, jewellery, make-up, body lotions, books and toys. From these things, we learned that Amy had liked romance novels and collecting toys from the side of the street or charity shops, like scruffy teddies and porcelain dolls. I cried when I re-read the words I had written in her 21^st birthday card; “You are a bright, beautiful young woman. Don’t be afraid to follow your dreams- we believe in you. Thank you for all your help this year. You are always welcome in our home…” For all of my regrets, it gave me some comfort to know that I had told her she was loved and welcome in our home. Her collection of jewellery was small; I kept it to give to my daughters when they are older. Particularly poignant to me was the silver bracelet with a love heart pendant I had given her for her last birthday; I had often observed the self-harm marks on her wrists and I wanted to cover the scars with love.

After one week’s leave, Daddy Duck threw himself back into work. We stopped talking about Amy daily, but we never stopped thinking of her. My husband no longer shared his feelings with me, although, he occasionally bared his soul on Facebook with heart wrenching messages to his sister.

Life without Amy became “normal”. The meals stopped coming, people no longer checked in on us. From the outside, it looked like we were doing fine- and we are- but some things will never be the same again.

An ordinary packet of desiccated coconut is now a packet of Amy-didn’t-like-coconut. A bowl of pears is a bowl of 12-year-old-Amy-loved-pears. Miss L’s pile of washing is Amy’s comment about how Miss L always had the largest pile of washing. Marley and Me is Amy-didn’t-finish-Marley and Me-and-we cannot-lose-her-place.

When I found picture books with her neatly printed handwriting inside them, and a Christmas card which otherwise might have wound up in the recycling bin, I felt like I had discovered treasure.

As a mother, I sometimes lament how poor my memory is, that time is moving by so quickly and I’m not remembering enough. Grief has sharpened my recollections of Amy. It is like my mind has realised that there will be no new memories made, so it scrounges around, bringing forth any old memory. Remember. Remember. Remember. As long as you remember she’s not really gone yet.

The first time I met Amy when she was a very cute little freckle faced girl on a kids club outing to Bicentennial Park, constantly tripping over and hurting herself.

Young Amy dressed as Mary in a Christmas concert, her Mum crying.

Eleven year old Amy on the flip out lounge that first time she ran away from home. Our excitement at having her come to stay.

My foster sister Amy, driving us crazy. It didn’t work out.

Amy coming to youth group with her foster brother.

My bridesmaid Amy in her purple dress, she and my brother impersonating the people performing Tai Chi on the other side of the lake.

My husband and I taking Amy to see District 9.

Rebellious teenage Amy, worrying us.

Ratbag Amy with her cheeky sense of humour, having a laugh.

Pouty faced ‘selfie’ Amy revealing the latest hair colour, tattoo or piercing.

Amy coming to carols with us and sitting on a picnic blanket with Daddy Duck and our two kids eating hot chips.

Quiet, reserved Amy, working by my side sorting out clothes.

Amy choosing schnitzel with veggies over schnitzel with salad for her birthday dinner.

Amy walking out of the bedroom with Baby J in her arms because she didn’t like hearing him cry- and I haven’t been able to leave him to self-settle since.

Amy and I sitting on the floor chuckling together as we looked at elaborate cake decorating books, planning Baby J’s first birthday cake.

Amy in her yellow tiger onesie.

 

Whenever Facebook Memories shows me an old post and I see her name- that she liked my post, shared something with me, that she commented- Grief slugs me with a fresh punch to the chest. The ache I feel is probably more real today than it was eleven months ago. Writing this blog entry has allowed me to cry for Amy for the first time in almost a year.

I didn’t sleep well last night, I just kept crying. This morning I told my son Mr E about it and he started crying too. “She was so nice,” he said. “I miss her. When I think about her it makes me feel really sad.”

“The sadness we feel for Amy is special,” I explained to my beautiful son. “It means that she owns a little piece of our hearts.”

 

 

There are still times when I cannot believe that Amy is gone. I have moments when I think ‘Surely it didn’t really happen. Surely it was all just a bad dream. I am going to wake up at any time now and this horror will be undone.’

Sometimes I want to scream out loud, to beat my chest and rally at the world ‘Bring her back now! I have learnt my lesson. I will love her harder. I will intervene. We will help her. We will save Amy!!’

Because I am just so sad.

Sad because I miss her.

Sad that she never got to break free and live her dreams.

Sad that she didn’t make it to Baby J’s first birthday or get to see him walk and start to talk. I think she would have been besotted with the adorable, cheeky toddler he is now. I imagine him running into her arms at the front door and snuggling his curly blonde head into her shoulder.

Sad that she never got to watch Moana with Miss L and Miss R or sit and play Barbies with them again.

Sad that she didn’t see Mr E and Miss A in their school uniforms, that she didn’t get to listen to them read, watch them write. I think her heart would have swelled with pride.

She must have been in terrible emotional pain to have ended her life. She suffered a long battle with Depression and we did not realise the extent of this until it was too late. I am no expert on mental health so I will not use this space to lecture, however, in my opinion the absolute worst thing about suicide is this: It. Is. Permanent.

 

Unlike most of the mistakes we can make in this world, there is no moving on from suicide, no turning back.

 

You are not alone, dear friends. If you are drowning, please raise your hand and don’t stop waving until somebody grabs it and refuses to let you go.

Choose hope. Choose life. Remember Amy.