Starting the rebuild

Author Judith Cuffe suffered a double loss when her dad died after a long illness and her brother died suddenly just six weeks later. In this column, she explores grief in all its facets

When I decided to change careers mid-life, I discovered that breaking into the world of publishing takes more than enunciating, ‘Hello, I am a writer.’ As a big fan of quotes, one that got me through this time was:

‘We all have two lives, and the second begins when we realise we have only one.’

I interpreted it as chasing dreams fearlessly and that it was possible to achieve whatever the heart desired with stoic determination and a now-ornever attitude. Becoming a published author would do nicely for a second life. Beneath the stark and magnifying light of loss, I realise I was wrong, so focused on the ‘second life’ that I missed the entire point: acceptance of mortality, not taking life for granted, and realising what is and isn’t essential.

Quite frankly, I’d never paid much heed to death or the idea that it might happen to me, especially not when I was knee-deep in constructing a second life. Besides, I had all the time in the world to plan for… what should I call it… a third life? I’d consider my demise then, between minding grandchildren and planning my next Mediterranean cruise, right after my bridge lesson or around the time I’d downsize to an apartment.

I’d likely have a tiny, easy-to-park car to ferry me to a weekly salon appointment for a blow-dry and set. No need to wash it myself any more, with elderly inactivity, I’d get almost the entire week before it turned fluffy, but who’d care? Indeed, not me, when I’d completed all my busy lives. Then one day, when I was ready, tired yet sated, I’d shuffle into bed, close my eyes, and peacefully pop my clogs. Right?

My brother’s sudden death sent an unnatural ripple through my world, teaching me my most brutal lesson yet: none of us knows when our number is up, and not everyone sees old age or has the privilege of time. It obliterated my ideas on resilience, bravery and second chances. Already perched on uneven territory following my father’s passing six weeks prior, John’s death crushed that debris to dust. You can rebuild with rubble, but dust is an entirely different matter.

I stood by, shaken, observing my entire family crumble like someone had taken a sledgehammer to our supporting pillars. One loss is rotten luck. Two is inconceivable. John’s children would grow up without a father, his wife without a husband, my mother had buried a husband and a child, and the rest had lost imagined futures and a chunk of our pasts.

At last, I got it. Life wasn’t about two lives, second chances or ticking off targets on a carefully formulated list. Life was right now.

We claim that we understand the importance of living in the present, but do we, honestly?

Before catastrophe knocked at my door, appreciating life was something I’d say rather than do, but everything changes after loss.

Unlike other transformations, grief leaves you in a far worse position than where you started. It leaves you an emotional and physical shadow of your former self. Routines become defunct. What you once deemed necessary seems pointless. Your memory and concentration are replaced with cerebral mush, aside from incessant thoughts of what was and will never be. You’re numb, temporarily anaesthetised to everything.

Sadly, it wears off, and you have no choice but to reform. The destruction after Dad and John is too great to rebuild things as they once were, even if we wanted to, so we begin from scratch.

Ask me a year ago what my greatest fear was, and I’d probably answer: failure in my career, so consumed with ‘success’ that I thought of little else.

I’d be happy once I made it. Ask me now, and I’ll tell you it’s never laughing again the way I used to with my brother. Come to think of it, what a delightful place to start, with a goal of laughter in place of recognition.

Last summer, I realised a lifelong dream of seeing my book in bookshops. Though pleasant, it coincided with Dad’s sharp decline. I’d swap it in a flash to change all that came next, have my family intact, sitting around shooting the breeze because they’re the real life-defining moments, not the ones you think will make you happy or how hard you worked and what you earned.

So here I am, in my only life, diminished and dusty, free from mundane tasks or unrealistic expectations. I’m reminded of another famous quote, this one from JK Rowling: ‘Rock bottom was the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.’

As luck would have it, I’m the proud daughter and sister of two of the best builders who ever lived and mother to a future one. It’s a start. I’ll rebuild as best I can. If I don’t finish, my legacy: my children or perhaps even my grandchildren can pick up where I leave off.