Grief Is the Price We Pay for Love: (Young Donnie’s Story)

By Aimee Goodwin-Cole

In this warm and touching story eight-year old Donnie shares the joys and struggles of growing up in the Australian outback post World War II. The love of sharing thrills with her fun-loving dad, turns into deep agony and grief when he suicides unexpectedly. Despite the challenges, young Donnie still hopes for something good to come of life.

Will she avoid adoption? Mrs. Sugars has a plan for Donnie but will this set her free to follow her dreams? Will Donnie find a way to move forward and be happy? Does love save the day after all? Grief Is the Price We Pay for Love, (Young Donnie’s Story) is a book that can be enjoyed by adults of all ages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: Oct 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9781982298258

Book preview

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

The purpose for sharing this true story as told by young Donnie is threefold.

First, it is hoped that the reader will understand that it is necessary and normal to grieve after the loss of any loved person, animal, place, or thing. For grief to be good, the sufferer may need to reach out to family, supportive friends, and/or professional grief counsellors who give comfort, encouragement, and guidance. There is no shame in asking for help. Sometimes things just go wrong. Be thankful that professional services, which did not exist in 1958, exist now. Please use them.

Second, it is vital that children be helped through the grieving process. They should not be left alone to work things out for themselves. Their mental health is important, and they should be handled with special loving care. Include pets in the process, as they will be grieving too.

Third, if sadness evolves into deep depression and a desire to end one’s life, please don’t. Useful advice can be sought from medical services, help phone lines and internet sites such as Lifeline or Beyond Blue. Never give up hope. Pray seriously if you can. Be patient and grateful for what you still have, even the little things. Make a list of these things. You are loved and needed. There is a light at the end of your tunnel and it is sunshine not an oncoming train. You can get through this thing. Reach out for comfort and encouragement. Never give up hope.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The author recognises the traditional custodians of the Australian bush, the Aboriginal people present and past, who are briefly mentioned in this book.

The title Grief Is the Price We Pay for Love is associated with the late Queen Elizabeth II and was chosen as the book title prior to the Monarch’s death in 2022.

HRH Queen Elizabeth stated publicly that grief is the price we pay for love after the Twin Towers terrorist tragedy of 9/11.

I wish to thank all persons, past and present, who have contributed in ways both known and unknown during my literary journeys. Special thanks go to siblings, friends, and neighbours for providing sustenance, companionship, and mind-calming discussion on some sensitive issues during the writing process.

A very special thanks goes to my late, best friend Denise, who suggested I write this book many years ago. Memories of sitting in the sun with you discussing its contents still remain with me quite clearly.

If any event in this book is cause for concern for you or a person you know, please contact Lifeline or The National Violence Prevention Centre in your district.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1: Donnie Reflects

Chapter 2: A Sad, Sad Day

Chapter 3: Goodbye

Chapter 4: Me

Chapter 5: My First Memories

Chapter 6: Dad Takes Us to See the Queen

Chapter 7: Memory Work and Community Friends

Chapter 8: Gelignite Jack Murray

Chapter 9: Home, Home on the Range

Chapter 10: Mum’s Garden

Chapter 11: Understanding Nature

Chapter 12: Spider Watching and Busy Bees

Chapter 13: Play School Ends

Chapter 14: Prickly Pear Fruit

Chapter 15: Dreams of School

Chapter 16: School Starts

Chapter 17: I Ate Dirt

Chapter 18: Max’s Zero Turn Bush Cart Crashes

Chapter 19: After School Entertainment

Chapter 20: Dad’s Mum, Nanna

Chapter 21: Fun Dad...Bang! Bang!

Chapter 22: Mum Goes to Hospital

Chapter 23: Dad the Slavedriver

Chapter 24: Uncle Roly the Roller Gets Very Sick

Chapter 25: Dad Takes Donnie

Wildflower Gathering

Chapter 26: Will Max and Roly the Roller Die?

Chapter 27: Dad’s Dog Jokes

Chapter 28: Dad Lets Me Foxhunt

Chapter 29: The Big Flood

Chapter 30: Treasure Hunting for Dad

Chapter 31: Dad Misses Donnie’s Big Moment

Chapter 32: Debutante Night

Chapter 33: Dad, a Brooch Finder

Chapter 34: Dad the Firefighter

Chapter 35: Back Road Adventures

Chapter 36: Dad the Tiddly Clown

Chapter 37: Letter to Rhonda

Chapter 38: Dad the Psychologist

Chapter 39: Christmas at Dad’s Parents’

Chapter 40: More Trouble

Chapter 41: Sputnik Fun

Chapter 42: Nasty Visitor

Chapter 43: Celebrations

Chapter 44: Unexpected Night Journey

Chapter 45: Will Donnie Be Adopted?

Chapter 46: A New Home

Chapter 47: Easter Gifts and Evil Talk

Chapter 48: Dad Doesn’t Give Up

Chapter 49: I Saw Mummy Kissing…

Chapter 50: A Strange School Day

Chapter 51: Quickly Our World Crashed around Us

Chapter 52: After Dad’s Funeral

Chapter 53: Revisiting Purple Paradise

Chapter 54: Music Lessons

Chapter 55: Dad’s Gift to Me

Chapter 56: Donnie’s Last Picnic with Dad

Chapter 1

DONNIE REFLECTS

1958

HI! I’M DONNIE DAWSON. DONNIE is short for Madonna. Dad wanted to call me Madonna, but Mum wanted to call me Marlene. Madonna means My Lady. Dad won the debate, and I’m glad he did. I like Donnie as a nickname.

As you read this, please remember that I am just eight years old. This story is mine, and the events of my first eight years of life in the following chapters are true; some are happy and some are sad. I’d like you to understand that despite the bad times, I still enjoyed my childhood, and I hope you understand the attachment I felt, the love I had, and the deep grief I have now for a talented and unusual man, my dad. He will never be forgotten and can’t be replaced. Yet he would want me to enjoy life, and he would insist that I keep loving despite the grief I struggle with daily. Yes, grief is the price I’m paying for love. I just don’t know how to get rid of the grief or lessen it.

Chapter 2

A SAD, SAD DAY

1958

"DONNIE, YOUR DADDY’S IN THERE," my mother nervously whispered to me as she lowered her head and pointed at the coffin.

I nodded and said as softly as I could, I know that. All the while I was thinking, how stupid do you think I am? Then she tapped my legs gently. That meant I had to stop swinging them.

The coffin was very shiny, and it looked extremely expensive. The patterns in the wood were fascinating to look at. I wondered how on earth Mum would pay for the coffin, especially now that someone had stolen the money Dad had left for her use. What horrible person could steal a dead man’s money from his table while he was still lying lifeless on the floor in the room?

I pulled my new white dress down over my knees. I thought it was strange that my elder sister, Sissy, and I should wear identical white dresses to a funeral. I thought we should wear coloured dresses or maybe black dresses just like adults wear, but with pretty frills and bows of course—even coloured bows.

Kids don’t wear black! Dad would want you to be dressed in white and be happy anyway, Mum explained when she heard me complaining. I didn’t agree. Happy? I thought. Sometimes adults make no sense at all.

Also, I was worried that I may get my white dress dirty and get into trouble. When we arrived at the chapel, Sissy walked in and sat in the front row next to our big brother, Max. Max wasn’t big at all, but he had a big heart. So had Dad. I felt numb while I sat there waiting for the adults to get organised. It was so quiet. I didn’t blink.

I just stared at Dad’s coffin and studied the wood and brass and wondered how they stopped blood from dripping out the bottom of the coffin. Cotton wool?

I was deep in thought when a clear, smooth voice welcomed everyone. Would you all stand please? We are gathered here to remember and celebrate the life of Jack Dawson, a man whom all of you shared a great deal with during his short forty-three-year journey on this earth.

The room in the chapel was small, so people were squeezed in tightly. Just the immediate family were allowed inside, along with a few close friends of Dad and Mum and a few workers from the local milk factory. The shire chairman came to pay his respects. Not everyone who should have been there attended. After a few brief words, a prayer or two, and a suitable sermon, the music commenced, and everyone started to sing.

Nearer my God to Thee, Nearer to Thee,

E’en though it be a cross that raiseth me,

Still all my song shall be:

Nearer my God to thee.

Nearer my God to Thee, nearer to thee!¹

It was a well-known verse from a funeral hymn of trust from the nineteenth century. I believe Dad chose it himself.

Mum had a beautiful singing voice, and both Dad’s and Mum’s families were very musical. Mum sang around the house every day. However, today she didn’t sing with the same gusto, and I felt sad about that. I felt sorry for her.

When the room fell silent, everyone left the chapel, and somehow I was last