Jessica's Gift: A mother's journey towards healing after an accident claimed her daughter's life

By Susan Loch

Mother-of-three Susan Loch lived a carefree life until 21 March 2011. Yet when she woke to find a policeman standing beside her husband, she immediately guessed the sickening truth. Jessica, her nineteen-year-old daughter, had been killed, the latest victim of a treacherous stretch of the Princes Highway on the New South Wales south coast.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan Loch
• Release date: Nov 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9780646829616

Susan Loch

Susan Loch is a debut author who lives in Mollymook, NSW. She was inspired to write a memoir about grief after attending a talk by the founder of The Compassionate Friends. Canon Simon Stephens began the organisation in order to help bereaved parents deal with their shared experiences. He spoke about the importance of books written by those who have been through this form of suffering, leading Susan to write about her own journey following the death of her daughter.

Book preview

Prologue

Iwill never forget the moment I found out—the pain is etched so deep in my soul. Instantly I was slipping away, lost in sudden grief. Total panic, sheer desperation. Hopelessness and helplessness. It was chaos in my head. ‘Help me, please someone, hhheellppp mee.’

Losing a child creates a complicated grief, a grief that’s like no other. There are no guidelines to ‘fixing’ this situation. It cannot be cured with a bandage or a pill. It is something that needs to be endured and processed with time. A lot of time. For a long while it felt like I was simply adrift in the ocean, bobbing up and down, the waves and currents of life and grief simply dragging me along on this horrible unknown journey. Some days I’d be dragged deeper, below the surface; on other days I’d manage to hold my own, my head just above the waterline, giving me the chance to catch my breath, though sometimes I didn’t want to. I had no idea of the direction I was being taken, of where I was going or what I was doing. I had no idea what was to become of me or my family. I was steadily being drawn into a maelstrom of darkness and torment.

Like most parents, I was unprepared to have one of my children die before me. That notion is something most of us never consider as part of the equation of life. Tragically, however, that is what happened to me … and now it is my reality. Someone who was such a major part of my life—so vibrant, lively and vivacious, someone I shared everyday experiences with—had died. It is not something I will ever fully recover from, although I am in a happier place now.

In those first few months and years after her death, I tried to hide from my grief. I tried to ignore it and not talk about it, naively hoping it would go away. If I didn’t think about it or talk about her, then maybe it wasn’t really true. I used to tell myself that Jess was simply away for a few days, or for the weekend—I think we all did that. She wasn’t here because she was on holidays or at a friend’s house for a few days, but she would be back one day soon. Of course she would come home, she always came home. My brain simply refused to process and accept the fact of Jess’s death. Yet, Jess had died. She was gone. It was agonisingly difficult to register the fact that I would never see my daughter again, never hear her voice, never touch her soft skin. I couldn’t talk about her; it was too painful. I couldn’t control my emotions or face my new reality, because it was simply too much for me. I was blocking my emotions, which was not healthy, but initially, I didn’t seem to have a choice.

Is it really true that the heart can heal after it has been broken into a million different pieces—shards and fragments scattered everywhere? Is there a life that is worth living after the death of your child? Does the grieving, the heartache and the intense pain ever subside? I did not think so. There is no step-by-step guide to ‘cure’ your pain within these pages; I have found no magic remedy. Unfortunately, this journey is all about endurance. Sadly, you will have to take each painful step. Jessie’s death plunged me into the darkest void for what seemed like an eternity, but slowly, with time, I learnt that it is okay to talk about my crippling pain, to talk about the feelings of loss that I go through, and to talk about my beautiful daughter, Jessica. It helped. Time, and talking, helped!

The death of a child is something that cannot simply be side stepped; the grief that comes with this loss needs to be addressed. It’s a topic that many people, including me, try to avoid, but I finally realised that by avoiding it I couldn’t mourn fully, and without mourning, I couldn’t heal. The depth of my grief is due to the profound love that I have for my daughter; the pain is so intense because the love is so great. Without love there would be no heartache, and years later this makes sense. With time, I have gone from feeling bitter, resentful, angry and depressed, with my life spinning out of control, to finding peace. I feel so blessed that I had nineteen and a half wonderful years with such an exquisite soul—my daughter, Jessica. For that, I am grateful.

The journey through grief following the death of a child is a long process. You move forward slowly, taking one small step at a time, healing as you go. It is a mighty mountain in front of you, that’s for sure, but it can be scaled. If I can do it, so can you. If you are a grieving parent, I know how you feel, and although I cannot bring your loved one back to you—I wish I could—and I cannot change what is, I can try to help you heal your heart. If you are locked in the darkness of depression as I was, I want to let you know that the sun does still shine, the rains still fall, the seasons continue to change, things will keep moving forward and so can you. I want to let you know that eventually you will be able to get out of bed and put one foot in front of the other. You will be able to laugh and smile again.

Life will never ever be the same, but it does get easier. If you are not coping with the heartache, or your whole world feels like it has come crashing down around you, then this book is for you. I have also written this for the friends and relatives of those who are grieving. If you are someone who is supporting a grieving parent, then I hope that my words will give you an insight into the depth of their pain.

I have shared my story because for me, meeting someone who had the same ‘condition’ as me, who was going through what I was going through, made me feel as though I wasn’t so alone. I have opened myself up and exposed my vulnerability, talking about the death of my daughter and the subsequent grief and pain that I have endured since her passing. I am healing daily and I hope that my story might offer hope and healing to you, or to someone you know who is facing the greatest challenge of their life.

This book isn’t an instruction book, it’s simply a story, my story, of my everyday life and how I finally found the ability to be happy again. We all have the power within us to change our lives for the better. I live my life with my daughter forever by my side, always looking for the rainbow. Sending you healing, happiness and love …

1

Unthinkable Shock

How did I get here? This is a question I have asked myself many times since the death of my daughter, Jessica, in the autumn of 2011. In those first horrific days, I knew I just had to get through the funeral. I couldn’t see myself existing past that event. I couldn’t cope with this tragedy; I didn’t have the strength or the will to go on. I was a broken person, merely clinging to life, a life that I suddenly despised.

During those early days, after grief first entered my world and ripped it apart, there were many scenarios that played over and over inside my head, ways that would allow me to be with my daughter again. I would stand outside on our back deck, thinking of putting one leg over the railing. I presumed a fall from that height would end my agony. Simple. Done and dusted. My pain would be over and that would be it. I had it all figured out—it seemed so real, so vivid, this scene on endless replay inside my head. Yes, definitely the easiest option would be to end the agony that was my life. And there I lay, dead, my head split open by that fall; I was finally at peace, away from this torment of living life as a grieving parent.

Those thoughts stayed with me, a constant among all the chaos thrown at me and my family. But I was still a mum to two other children; I knew those boys needed their mum and my husband needed his wife. Damn! For a time I wasn’t sure who had priority, them or me. I had never been a selfish person, but maybe now was the perfect time to start being self-indulgent. Could I?

Losing my beautiful girl carved such a massive hole in my heart; the pain was intensely deep and raw. I thought it would never heal, that my heart would stop beating because it hurt so much. I didn’t think I could survive the pain. Perhaps I would die from a broken heart, instead of that fall. It hurt to breathe, it hurt to live. I didn’t want to breathe and I definitely didn’t want to live. I openly told people I couldn’t go on. I want to die. I need to be with Jess! How am I supposed to live without my daughter? My mind was consumed by these thoughts. I didn’t believe it would be possible to exist in a world without her. The sound of a clock ticking inside my head would not have been enough to distract my thoughts from this single tormenting theme. It was pure torture. I can’t do this! I can’t go on!

On the weekend of Jess’s accident, I was staying with my parents, helping them to pack up the last bits and pieces of their life from the past twenty years. They had sold their home, and the following week were moving from the picturesque South Coast town of Sanctuary Point back to Sydney—back to ‘The Shire’, where my three sisters and I had grown up in an idyllic lifestyle. Mum and Dad were getting on in years, and they needed to be closer to hospitals and specialists.

I remember sitting in the lounge room of their two-storey home after dinner on Sunday night; we were chatting while the television played quietly in the background, enjoying a nice peaceful evening together before they went to bed. Then I watched TV for a while longer, before going downstairs to bed myself. I was sleeping on a mattress on the floor, as the spare double bed downstairs had been packed up, in preparation for the removalists. It was a wet night, and the soothing sound of rain outside was lulling me off to sleep. I had no idea that a few hours later, my life would change forever.

I can still see myself and my daughter, standing in the kitchen of our home two days earlier, on the Friday morning. It was a lovely warm autumn day, and the sun was shining down on her beautiful face from the north-facing window in the loft upstairs.

‘I think I’ll drive up to Dylan’s place after work on Sunday night,’ she said casually, before having another sip of her chai latte.

‘No you won’t, you’ll be too tired,’ I objected.

‘Nah, I’ll be fine. I’ll be more awake, I’ll be amped up from work. I’ll be okay,’ she declared.

Jessica was nineteen years old, and would obviously be doing what she wanted to do, the same as I did when I was her age, the same as all nineteen-year-olds do. We both went about doing whatever we were doing during the rest of the day. I still didn’t like the idea, however, and I let her know.

Jess had a casual job as a bar attendant in the town’s only pub—the iconic Marlin Hotel on the main street of Ulladulla. It was by no means a dream job, but Jess enjoyed it, especially with the great tips she often received. For her, it was a means to an end for the time being, until she felt ready to go to university and study. Her dream was to become a journalist by 2016.

Jessica had decided to have a gap year or two after leaving school. She felt the first year at Uni would be a wasted ‘party year’, and she wasn’t interested in that. She always said that she would go to university as a mature-aged student—work now and study later was her thought process. Mind you, she loved to party too!

Jess also loved to read. I often thought to myself that she would be very happy living in a library. One time, during her later years of high school, when she was home from school sick and in bed for a few days, she managed to demolish a novel, and not just any novel, a very lengthy novel, Gone with the Wind. She absolutely loved books.

Jess had a ten o’clock start at work on Saturday morning. I drove her there because her brother had the car for the day—they shared one car, as we couldn’t afford to buy a car for each of them. I dropped her off and kissed her goodbye. ‘Have a great day,’ I said, as she got out of the car. ‘Love you,’ she said. ‘Love you, too,’ I replied. I was back home within five minutes.

Not long after that Jessica rang and asked me to take some eye drops to her. ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’ll be there soon.’

When I got to the hotel, Jess was serving the few customers already there. I remember thinking how crazy it was that people were ordering at the bar at ten-thirty in the morning. I waited and watched her. I stood in the doorway, leaning against the beige-coloured frame of the closed French doors, watching the way she interacted so easily with the customers, with her friendly nature. She looked so beautiful, confident and happy. When there was a break between customers, I walked over and gave my daughter the eye drops. We both then leant over the bar on tippy-toes and kissed each other goodbye. Then I left. We were both happy, there were smiles on our faces as I turned at the door. I held up my hand to wave goodbye.

Neither of us knew that kiss would be our final goodbye. We would never see each other again, never look into each other’s eyes; we would never hold each other again. We didn’t know that kiss would be the last time our skin touched. That thought never entered my mind, and I’m sure it wouldn’t have entered Jess’s mind either. But that was it. That kiss was our everlasting goodbye.

On reflection, I think I am lucky I had to take those eye drops back to Jessica. In our busy lives we don’t give ourselves time to stop and smell the roses. Often we take things for granted. On that Saturday morning I spent a few minutes simply standing and watching my daughter. There were no other distractions. I remember thinking how beautiful and amazing she was. With clarity I can say that I watched her the same way a new mother stares at her baby—with pride, simply drinking her in with my eyes. I stood there, mesmerised by my daughter, proud that she was my child. I think that moment was meant to be. It was the last time I ever saw my beautiful girl, the eldest of my three children.

Just after lunch I drove to my parents’ place for the weekend. They lived a 45 km drive north. To this day, guilt consumes me that I wasn’t there to stop Jessica getting in the car that Sunday night, when she briefly stopped at home to shower and change before driving to her boyfriend’s place. Part of me knows she probably wouldn’t have listened anyway—who am I kidding, I know she wouldn’t have listened to me—but I still have a feeling of guilt, and imagine I always will.

She never made it to Dylan’s place that night.

I had called and spoken to my gorgeous girl mid-morning on Sunday—she was busy making cupcakes to take to Dylan’s place. She was so happy, so excited. She had only been with Dylan for a few months. Jess loved being in love, if that is what it was—that happy, giddy feeling you get when you are young and have found a partner. Dylan was her first real boyfriend. They just clicked, and to top it off, all the family really liked him as well.

As usual, I had slept well on that Sunday night; I always did, back then. I often wonder why some motherly instinct didn’t kick in, why my intuition didn’t tell me something had happened, but I was sound asleep when the policeman arrived at my parents’ house in the early hours of Monday morning. He had driven there with my husband Brad in the passenger seat; it was the longest, most tortuous journey Brad had ever taken.

Mum heard a knock at the door and went downstairs to open it to the police officer and Brad. I don’t know exactly what it was that woke me. Maybe I sensed that someone was in the room, maybe it was the flick of the light switch that had been turned on in the back section of the large downstairs room. Slowly, I started to wake and look around. Three of them—Mum, my husband and the policeman—were just standing there, watching and waiting for me to come to from my deep sleep. Through bleary eyes I looked from one to the other as I struggled to find my feet and get up off the mattress.

It was then that my gut instinct kicked in. I knew something bad had happened, and I assumed it was Jess. Instantly I started yelling out her name. ‘No, no, no, not Jess,’ I screamed, before anyone had a chance to tell me anything. I didn’t know what had happened but I knew it was bad. I knew it was a tragedy. It had to be, with a policeman standing there.

From the calm, healing peacefulness of sleep, I was thrust into instant panic. I was suffocating, drowning, I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t know what to do, how to fix this, because this just couldn’t be. ‘No, no, no,’ I repeated, over and over and over, inside my head and screaming aloud as my husband held me, as I beat my fists against his chest.

‘No!’ I screamed.

My mind was racing, but everything was in slow motion at the same time. The policeman then told me what had happened. ‘Nooooooooo,’ I cried, collapsing in Brad’s arms. Heaving sobs raced through my body as darkness suddenly wrapped around us, blanketing us in its inky depths.

2

The Mountain

From the moment your child is born you protect them with all that you have and all that you are, but some things are out of your control. It doesn’t matter how old the child is—two weeks, six months, thirty-three years old or just nineteen and a half. For a parent to lose a child is almost too much to bear. With the death of a child, you feel so lost and alone. How could it be any other way? With the amazing gift of life comes the inevitability of death, but to lose your child is the ultimate tragic circumstance. Your life shatters like a crystal vase hitting the floor, fragments of the past scattered in ruins all around you. The hours and days that follow will be the darkest you have ever known.

There is no right or wrong way to go through the grieving process, especially when the grief relates to the death of your child. The journey you take after your child’s death is unique in its devastation. Grief affects us all in similar, but individual, ways, and one person’s grief should not be compared to another’s. It is such a personal journey with vastly differing circumstances. Grief is multilayered. Sometimes grief feels like you are wearing a jacket with pockets full of concrete; it weighs you down. Grief stops you in your tracks. It’s totally overwhelming. You have trouble breathing. Grief is like a cold gust of wind swirling around you. Grief is as unpredictable