Holding Back the Tears

By Susan Tickner

In 1952 Susan and her brother were given away by their mother and subsequently sent to Australia under the Child Migrant Scheme. Susan’s first book Goodbye, Mummy Darling described her journey through life and her constant search for reasons why.

Does a return trip to Australia, compensation from the Australian Government, vital information from the Children’s Aid Society of Ottawa, Canada, an invitation to the House of Commons – AND a personal apology from Prime Minister Mr Gordon Brown finally allow Susan the forgiveness and understanding she craves?

Holding Back the Tears follows Susan’s incredible life and her continued search for answers and information about her tormented childhood. As you read you will see there are many coincidences after the death of her husband which drive her on to achieve her ultimate goal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amolibros
• Release date: Sep 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781908557582

Susan Tickner

Susan Tickner was born in Cheltenham. At the age of three she was fostered out to several institutions in the UK. Then finally at the age of nine, she was sent to Australia as a child migrant.Writing her life story Goodbye, Mummy Darling has given Susan the therapy she needed, and although sadness has dominated her life, bitterness does not. Her four children will always be her rock.Since the recent death of her beloved husband, Susan spends most of her spare time writing poetry and walking her Jack Russell dogs, Holly and Jessie.

Book preview

Holding Back the Tears

by Susan Tickner

Published electronically by Amolibros at Smashwords 2013

Table of Contents

About the Book

About the Author

Notices

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

About the Book

In 1952 Susan and her brother were given away by their mother and subsequently sent to Australia under the Child Migrant Scheme. Susan’s first book Goodbye, Mummy Darling described her journey through life and her constant search for reasons why.

Does a return trip to Australia, compensation from the Australian Government, vital information from the Children’s Aid Society of Ottawa, Canada, an invitation to the House of Commons – AND a personal apology from Prime Minister Mr Gordon Brown finally allow Susan the forgiveness and understanding she craves?

Holding Back the Tears follows Susan’s incredible life and her continued search for answers and information about her tormented childhood. As you read you will see there are many coincidences after the death of her husband which drive her on to achieve her ultimate goal.

About the Author

Susan was born in Cheltenham in 1943. In and out of care from the age of four years old, put up for adoption at the age of seven years, she was sent to Australia as a Child Migrant aged nine years. She returned aged fifteen years old to her mother and stepfather. Pregnant at sixteen, her own child was taken and adopted.

She ran away to Dublin aged seventeen, then returned after three years, married a Dubliner and had five children. The first child died aged eighteen months. She eventually divorced after eighteen years.

Later she remarried and moved to Spain, returning after five years. Her second husband died eleven years ago after suffering a long illness.

Susan continues to work part-time and has four wonderful grown-up children who share more love as a family than anyone could ever imagine possible.

Notices

Copyright © Susan Tickner 2013

First published in 2013 by Moran Publications | 20 Hanover Court, Rectory Lane, Filton, Bristol BS34 7BE

Published electronically by Amolibros 2013 | email [e-mail] | website http://www.amolibros.co.uk

The right of Susan Tickner to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted herein in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data | A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This book production has been managed by Amolibros | www.amolibros.com

Dedication

In loving memory of my best friend Leila

Acknowledgements

This book would never have been finished without the help and confidence given to me by my family and friends.

To Leila, my best friend who died just over a year ago, her kind and caring nature will remain in my heart forever. Her belief in me held no bounds and her encouragement and thoughtfulness for others made her unique. For all this and more – I thank you Leila.

Special thanks must go once again to my children Paul, Sean, Wendy and Denis. Without their love and total support this book would still be on the shelf gathering dust.

To Bill who came into my life and despite our many ups and downs, I feel a very personal ‘thank you’ should be awarded.

To both the Australian and British governments for their long awaited apology and recognition, helping to give the closure so badly needed by me and many other former child migrants, I also say thank you.

Then last but by no means least – you the reader – who by word of mouth can perhaps prevent something like this ever happening again.

I thank you.

Publication of this book has been sponsored by Qbic Carpentry & Joinery Specialists.

Chapter One

The day of the funeral was over. I had buried my beloved husband Dave. Everything was fuzzy in my mind. All I could remember was forgetting the flowers – the special roses I had purchased to place on his coffin before I left the chapel. A red rose from each of my four children and a yellow rose from me. Yellow roses had been a symbol of our love for each other for almost seventeen years. I had carried a bouquet of yellow roses, and Dave had worn a yellow rose in his lapel, on our wedding day. I remembered how Dave had promised to buy me yellow roses on each of our anniversaries. How horrid I thought that the tables of time had turned and I was now buying yellow roses for my ‘dead’ husband. Even worse, I had left them on the back seat of the car and had to leave the chapel not being able to carry out my last wish. I remember making a fuss. Almost refusing to leave the chapel until somebody, anybody would fetch the missing flowers. My children tried to comfort me by telling me that one of the funeral directors had gone to look for the missing flowers. He returned with a bunch of flowers, with a look of panic on his face, in the hope that they were the right ones. But they were not. They did not contain one single yellow rose.

I remember walking back down the aisle, but this time was different. There was no wedding march, only the sad music of a funeral and the muffled voices and sombre faces of family and friends.

Wanting, but not daring to look back at the coffin for fear I might realise that the love of my life was truly dead, I somehow led the crowd out of the chapel. I did not want the funeral to be real, and I knew if I looked back, it would be. Half of me seemed to be floating above the ground, whilst the other half was wondering why Dave was not by my side helping me get through whatever it was I had to get through.

My children were wonderful. They had arranged everything. There were two funerals that day. My dearly beloved husband and his son David, and to this day I feel ashamed that I remember so very little of his son’s death. The torment of my husband dying had, in a way, selfishly blotted out all recollection in my mind, of the death of his son who had died just three days prior to his father.

Then as the usher took us to view the flowers and wreaths at the back of the chapel I stood staring in a daze and could not help thinking how I wish that Dave could have been here to share this moment with me. It was a strange feeling. For a split second I could remember telling myself how dreadful it would be if anything ever happened to my husband, how would I cope without him? It seemed he had only gone somewhere for a while and would be back later.

§

For almost six years Dave had been ill with emphysema, a respiratory disease, which according to the doctors’ report had been brought about by Dave’s heavy smoking over a period of forty-eight years.

But on top of this Dave had developed a chronic nervous disorder. From the moment he had been diagnosed, he was unable to come to terms with the fact that he was seriously ill. In a very short period of hearing that diagnosis, Dave had gone from being an active person who loved life, to a very frightened, seven stone bitter old man.

Physically looking after Dave was not difficult for me, but coping mentally with him became a living nightmare. We had always been inseparable. We were so much in love. The very thought of ‘anything’ coming between us was unthinkable. Yes, we had our ups and downs much like anybody else, but somehow after the making up period this brought us even closer together.

But all that had changed. Dave was now living in a world of his own, a world of torment and fear. I tried to understand how it felt not being able to breath properly, but I couldn’t, and it is only now that I realise ‘breathing’ is just something we all take for granted.

The last year of Dave’s life was, for him, an agonising existence of pain and depression, and for me, one I will never forget. I became impatient, frustrated, verbally abusive, and often very selfish, and all of these characteristics that were really not me, kept pounding and bashing away outside the door of my heart.

‘Pull yourself together’ were words I uttered in an irritable manner. ‘Why don’t you try helping yourself like others do? There are thousands of people out there much worse off than you are!’ This was definitely not the correct way to deal with Dave’s illness, and most certainly not the right medicine to help his depression, therefore it only aggravated the situation, making it much worse.

Looking back now, I can see that all Dave wanted was reassurance. He was so afraid. But I too was afraid. I somehow began to convince myself that because Dave had given up, then I must too. He had been my whole life and now suddenly I could see all that disappearing before my very eyes, and what was worse, I could do absolutely nothing to stop it. Not for one second did I ever try to envisage my life without Dave. We were as one. How could I possibly survive without him?

Of course there were many times whilst I was looking after Dave when I felt overwhelmed with sympathy for the suffering he had to endure, and the love in my heart would pour out and smother him with care and affection. But this seemed to be just as difficult for Dave to accept as was my negative attitude towards him, and only resulted in both of us becoming more and more distant from each other. I often reminded myself that I too had been a heavy smoker for almost as many years, hence, ‘There for the Grace of God, go I.’

I remember pushing him to do things. Little things, like making a cup of tea, or walking down the stairs of the apartment, to sit out in the garden, or perhaps take a slow walk to the local paper shop, and hopefully meet someone to chat to on the way. But looking back now, I can see, what might have been ‘little things’ to me at that time, were obviously mammoth tasks for Dave. Not being able to get one’s breath must be one of the most frightening things for anybody to deal with, and I ask myself a thousand times since Dave’s death, why is it I can understand that now, but didn’t then?

I was holding down a full-time job, luckily I worked from home so in between working I was able to look after Dave. But there were many times when I would rant and rave, screeching out the words, ‘You will have to go into a home, I cannot cope with you anymore!’

To this day I can still see the frightened look on my husband’s face. ‘I’m sorry, Sue,’ he would say. ‘You don’t need all this, do you?’ Often my response would be negative, and with a loud tutt and then flicking back my head I would say, ‘Well why don’t you do something about it then?’ It was times like this when I truly felt that all our love for each other was slipping away.

I was angry, he was only sixty-four years of age and although we had been married for seventeen years, I felt six of those years had been taken from us due to Dave’s illness. How horrible of me, I think, looking back now, and how guilty I feel ever to have thought that way. How could I have ever questioned my love for him when he himself was suffering such pain and degradation?

I recall my eldest son Paul, saying to me shortly after the funeral, ‘Mum, perhaps this was nature’s way of softening the blow. Dad was very ill and it was inevitable that he was going to die. There was no cure for his illness. You loved each other so much, it would have been far worse to bear the pain of his death without nature’s way of intervening by prising you both apart gradually.’

Could it have been worse? I ask this question time and time again.

§

Watching the person you love suffer, is truly one of the hardest things to do. Living without that person because they have died, is the hardest.

Almost every minute of every day, my family kept a watchful eye on me. Friends were telephoning daily to check if I was OK. At that time I felt as if I were in a bubble, floating farther and farther away. When my mind was distracted, by shopping or just enjoying a coffee somewhere with my daughter Wendy, I felt fine. But the minute I returned to the house and put the key in the front door and walked up those stairs, I was reduced to a babbling wreck. Firstly, I started to talk to myself. ‘Hi there!’ I would shout out. ‘It’s only me!’ remembering that this was something both of us did whenever we came into the house. Then I would stop dead in my tracks and burst into tears. Was this because I wanted Dave to be still lying there ill? Or was it just habit? Some people say ‘old habits die hard’; I don’t know, I just felt empty. I, who had always been a person who loved life so much, now felt that there was no point to anything anymore. No reason, no nothing, for me to be alive anymore. For years I had grumbled about Dave being ill and with my hand on my heart as I sit writing this story, I would not ever wish him to have to suffer like that again. But, to be given the choice to have him back like that or not at all, I would selfishly choose to have him back.

Why is it we never seem to miss what we had until it is too late? This is often when the guilt sets in.

Suddenly I found myself lying in bed night after night sobbing and yelling out loud those immortal words, ‘I am sorry! Please forgive me.’

Shadows that at one time I would never have noticed now stand out boldly on the bedroom walls. ‘Is that you, Dave?’ I would sob. Then closing my eyes tight and holding both arms outstretched, I would pray with all my might that Dave would take hold of my hands and whisk me off into oblivion with him for all eternity.

Only the black mascara all over the pillow and the red swollen eyes in the morning would bring me back to reality. Back to face another day. Then there was the loneliness and the quiet almost eerie feeling in the house which at times was quite scary. And being surrounded by photos, ornaments, furniture and all his personal belongings became a constant reminder. But perhaps worst of all, his clothes. So many times I would bury my face into his clothes just to be able to smell my husband one more time.

I remember being asked by the funeral directors to choose a suit of clothes for Dave to wear after his death, and how I talked out loud to myself, asking Dave which one he would prefer. Then, laying the suit of clothes with his favourite matching shirt and ‘Concorde’ tie over the back of the arm chair, I stood back and said, ‘That looks lovely, darling, what do you think?’ I remember I had chosen an outfit almost identical to the one he wore when we were married, and once again I was in a flood of tears. I then placed his wallet in the inside pocket of the jacket along with lots of other little keepsakes that we had both treasured over the years. All of a sudden I found myself cramming everything I possibly could into this suit. I then remember taking it to the funeral directors, but as I was leaving, the thought crossed my mind that perhaps they would not dress Dave in these clothes, perhaps they were just saying they would to make me feel better. So, to clear up these doubts of mine, I decided to inform them that I would like to see my husband laid out. Of course I had no intention whatsoever of doing this, I wanted to remember Dave as he was during all those happy years we had spent together, not as he was when he died in hospital. But, I thought if I said I was coming to see him then they would surely dress him in the clothes I had chosen.

All this craziness was going on in my mind, and each day I came into the house I could not understand why Dave was not there for me, so I could tell him all these things.

I can only describe my grief as a living hell. People say over and over that ‘time will heal’ or ‘things will get better’. Yes, time does heal and things do get better, but it never goes away, and life is never quite the same again.

There are constant reminders, and what is most odd, is that I want those reminders. I want to play a sad song, one that will make me cry. And if a particular tune comes on the radio, I don’t turn it down or off, I turn it up full volume then burst into tears! I always have this scary feeling that one day, I might forget Dave, so somehow or other to avoid that ever happening, I keep hurting myself by purposely remembering!

Folding up Dave’s clothes and bagging them up for the local charity shop was something I did, almost in anger. Most of his clothes were just a reminder to me now of his illness. I remember at that time wanting everything that was a reminder of his illness to me, gone. But of course there were special things. A blue check shirt and a rack of ties hanging in the wardrobe brought back a flood of tears. Dave who had been a ‘shirt and tie’ man loved to collect ties. Rugby ties, cricket, football, anything sporty, he just loved ties. As I gathered up these ties I remembered his favourite was no longer amongst them. It was of course his Concorde tie! He had loved and worked around aeroplanes nearly all his life, and although I was his ‘Queen’, the Concorde, he would say, was always his ‘Baby.’ Then just for an instant as these memories all came flooding back to me, I looked out at the sky and looking up I could see in my mind, Dave wearing his suit and Concorde tie, with a yellow rose in his lapel. His arm was around the shoulder of his son David. There was no sign of any pain or suffering, and as they turned to look back at me and smile, a safe warm feeling swept through my body.

I think I knew then that although life without Dave was not going to be easy, somewhere out there in the hidden mysteries of the universe, he would always be there for me.

§

Life after death is true as we know it. True that is for the person left behind, who has lost his or her loved one. Dave died and my life is going on, until my Maker decides otherwise.

But love has many forms. One of them is the love we have for our children, and the love I have for my children has no bounds.

My children are not Dave’s. I was almost forty years old, divorced and the mother of four children when I first met Dave. Having experienced a turbulent and violent marriage for eighteen years with my first husband, I was being very cautious and determined to try not to make the same mistake again, which probably accounts for me spending the previous three years on