Forged with Flames

by Ann Fogarty

  Of course, there were still bumps in the road.

  During the time I was seeing Maureen, Terry’s father became very ill and was taken to the Alfred hospital. In many ways, John had been more of a father figure to me in adulthood than my own father; we had been closer geographically and emotionally. I hadn’t been back to the Alfred, with all its painful associations, for decades, but knew I had to see him. It was November 2008—twenty-five years since the bushfires.

  I had an appointment with Maureen on the morning of the day I was to visit the hospital. This was helpful in preparing myself. I left her office in Beaconsfield to catch the train for the city feeling confident. I can do this, I repeated to myself. I can go back to the Alfred and it will be okay. I caught the tram up Commercial Road, feeling composed. But the moment I stepped down from the tram and stood opposite the main entrance of the hospital, I was back in 1983. For a while I couldn’t move. I stood transfixed as people brushed past me. I tried to remember where I was, and why I was there, and couldn’t. What was this place?

  Shaken and confused, I remembered. I tried to breathe deeply as Maureen had taught me and take control of the way I was thinking. Eventually, I calmed down enough to cross the road, forced myself through the Alfred’s main doors and headed into the cafeteria where I ordered a cup of tea. That would help. But I felt so sick I could hardly drink it. The cafeteria was awash with noise—clamour and clatter—people going to and fro. I had to get out of there, and quickly.

  I knew that if I didn’t get up to John’s ward then that I might never see him. So I quickly found the lifts and somehow got myself up to his room on one of the higher floors. John was delighted to see me and, in spite of my disturbed state, I was glad to be there. It was hard to sit and concentrate on him and what he was saying; all I wanted to do was run as fast as I could out of there. After a while, I excused myself and bolted to the bathroom to take a few deep breaths and compose myself. I looked in the mirror. ‘you have to hold it together’, I told myself. ‘Breathe deeply.’

  After kissing John goodbye with a heavy heart, I ran out of there, as much as I could run, dodging a few people as I fled. I had to get outside into the fresh air. In my haste, I took a wrong turn and found myself in an unfamiliar corridor looking up at a sign that read ‘Psychiatric Ward’. That made me smile. ‘If you don’t calm down,’ I told myself, ‘That’s where you’re going to end up.’ I retraced my steps and found my way out of the maze of corridors.

  John died soon after.

  Maureen explained later that I’d had what’s called an “abreaction”—an unconscious reaction to stimuli that reminds you of a previous traumatic experience. It was one of a bundle of behaviours that we worked on and, after two years of valuable help from her, it was decided that I was ready to manage on my own. My anxiety, or the ‘legacy of the fires’ as Maureen called it, was reduced—not gone. I didn’t like it, but I had stopped being afraid of it.

  Fear no longer controlled my life. And, for me, that was huge.

  43

  BLACK SATURDAY

  It was the 7th of February, 2009, the day that would soon become known as Black Saturday. Outside, the air was filling with smoke, nauseating; and a red ‘bushfire’ sun hovered. The devastation I had dreaded every summer since Ash Wednesday had struck—only more savagely than even I could have imagined.

  I wept as I watched the stunned and grief-stricken families on television that night. This time an observer of the tragedy, I vowed that if I could help ease their pain in any way I would, as so many people over the years had helped and comforted me.

  The day after the Black Saturday fires, perhaps predictably, I had a massive reaction. My body shook uncontrollably and I felt physically ill; I started to cry and couldn’t stop. This time I knew what was happening and I wasn’t alone with it. I had Maureen to talk to and in the next few days the phone ran hot with sympathetic calls from so many friends and family members. People I hadn’t spoken to in months rang to say they were thinking of me. Professor Masterton called, concerned. In an uncanny twist of fate, he told me his own daughter and her family lost their house and possessions in the fires. She and her children sought refuge in a pool as the fires raged around them. They were all safe, he said.

  Rachel came to stay the Monday after Black Saturday with her new baby Erin, my first granddaughter. It was a timely distraction—there’s nothing like a new baby to take you out of yourself. I was approached later that week by a journalist at The Herald Sun and asked if I’d be willing to be interviewed for an article—something with a more positive slant to it after the saturation coverage of destruction and sorrow. One hundred and seventy-three people died during the fires; thousands had been displaced. I remembered the promise I’d made to myself and said, yes, right away. If my story helped one person it would be worth doing, I said to myself. It was hard, as I anticipated it would be, recounting the firestorm and its aftermath after all those years, though having Rachel there helped. I was able to honestly reassure others who’d endured the current fires that there was hope; that for me, everything had been worth the struggle. I heard as soon as it came out on the sixteenth—the twenty-sixth anniversary of Ash Wednesday—that the article had given comfort to people recovering from the recent tragedy, and was glad I’d done it. After a week, Rachel left, promising to return if I needed the company.

  As she drove away I settled down, and waited for rain.

  44

  NIL DESPERANDUM NEVER DESPAIR

  I would have liked this book to have an extraordinary ending where all my physical and psychological issues are miraculously resolved—but actually it hasn’t.

  While I’ve made great headway in many areas in my life, in others the struggle continues. Anxiety still takes its toll, physically as well as emotionally. I sometimes think, though, that anxiety is like the tide—if you wait long enough, it ebbs away. I still have panic attacks, less frequently, but I’m much better at coping with them. The professional help I’ve sought at times has given me an armoury of strategies to help counter these episodes and to lessen the effects of PTSD. There’s no one cure-all; sometimes it’s a matter of whatever works at the time. I know that the jack-in-the-box that is Ash Wednesday and Black Saturday will open and strike again, but I now know that when it does I’ll be able to deal with it. Fear is now an enemy I face head-on, not one that stalks me from behind.

  I’m still totally obsessive about neatness. On a total fire ban day you’ll find me going compulsively from room to room, straightening objects down to the nth degree. It feels like medicating myself without drugs, calming myself by actively imposing control on all that surrounds me. I can laugh at my neat-freak ways and tell myself, you really know it’s nonsense, don’t you? I find that talking to myself helps. More importantly, I talk—and laugh—openly to other people about my Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. My sister-in-law, Marilyn, gave me the Monk DVDs—the OCD detective in the US television series. He’s so like me; I roared with laughter. But I can let go—when Rachel and my granddaughters, Erin, Ava and Amelia, come to stay, I forget the fussing and tidying. It doesn’t matter if the house gets messed up when the grandchildren are around; it means that when they’re gone I can tidy up for the rest of the day!

  Desperation exposed me and caused me to become much more honest and open. Once, I was able to hide things in boxes but how much better it is not to lock them up. Over the years, I’ve largely come to terms with the physical legacy of my burns and the limitations on what I can do, particularly those caused by the inability to keep my body temperature stable. No one really knows what long-term damage was done to my major organs at the time of the fires and later, and what impact this might have on my health. All I know is that something vital within me was gone by the time I recovered from the burns; it felt as if my internal batteries had gone flat with the effort of staying alive and couldn’t be charged again.

  Now I value and take care of my body which has carried me through so much—far more t
han it should have. I eat well, walk every day and take the time to relax and appreciate all that is around me. I’m more comfortable with the way my scars look though I haven’t stopped noticing them in the mirror. I might smart when someone laughs or stares but I remind myself that they just don’t understand and that I’m doing okay, which is what matters. It’s taken so many years to reach this serene place, to find a measure of acceptance about my lot in life, but it’s been worth every small step.

  I have constantly told Mum that I don’t see her burns at all when I look at her—and I don’t. I know she struggles to believe this, even though it comes from her eldest daughter, whom she knows wouldn’t make it up. I so don’t see them that I don’t think I would recognise her as Mum without them.

  I think I was lucky. Mum could have been hit by a falling branch and suffered a brain injury. She could have been blinded or deafened in the fires. She could have become bitter and twisted about it all but didn’t. Her ‘shell’ might be damaged but she can still hold my hand, still teach me the important things in life, be my mother and be involved in my life.

  Philosophically I’ve discovered that no matter how bad a situation is, there’s always a point at which it turns around—something I remind myself of if I’m ever feeling low and dispirited. Nil desperandum, or as I tell myself, ‘Never give up because you never know what you’ll be missing if you do’.

  My friendships would never have been as strong were it not for the fires; nor would I have met and befriended the people I have. There are friends to have a meal with or go to a movie. Friends just to wave to as they go by. Friends to share the deepest matters of your heart. Friends who take you in when your house has burned down and who look after your children as if they were their own.

  I value my family in a way that’s perhaps different from the way I would have: the long-distance chats I have with my mother every Friday, the heart-to-hearts I have with Sarah, the times I enjoy with Rachel and her three little daughters and her step-daughter. Terry lives in Sydney now but we still speak on the phone about once a month. We both want the best for each other and although it took a while to arrive at this friendship, it’s a good place to be.

  I’ve experienced and learned so many things since the fires that I never would have had I not been burned. I’ve learned that God is always bigger than whatever you’re going through, that laughter can revive you like nothing else, that kindness abounds, and that there is always much more in you than you ever thought possible. I found out that life can hurt you so much that sometimes you can’t see how you could ever recover, but then, as quick as a wind change, the same life can bring so much joy you can hardly contain it. As one attuned to suffering, I trust I’ve learned to become a more compassionate person.

  I’ve learned that the most important ingredient for surviving extreme suffering is having a powerful reason to keep fighting, keep going, keep breathing—which for me was my children, who were too young to lose their mother, and whom I loved more than anything in the world. I had a really strong feeling that no one could or would love my girls as I could and I just couldn’t seem to let go and surrender that. It was like an ache in my heart for them that just wouldn’t allow me to stop fighting even when I really wanted to.

  This memoir came about because my daughter Sarah urged me to tell my story. Writing has been therapeutic, but I hope that there’s something in this story—perhaps even just a line or two—that will make a difference to someone else going through rough times. In spite of everything that’s happened, I have to acknowledge that life is truly amazing.

  This book doesn’t have a fairy-tale ending, it has something better.

  It has hope.

  POSTSCRIPT

  In 2010, I was re-united with the firefighter who lifted me from the pool that fateful evening. I’d thought about him over the years—a vague image of a man in uniform with a sweaty, streaked face—and hoped that some day we might meet so I could thank him for saving me. All I knew about him—and the others on that tanker—was that they weren’t from a local brigade. Tony, too, had thought about me since 1983 but felt it was too intrusive to make contact. He’d moved to the north-east of Victoria to live. When someone showed him the story about me after the Black Saturday fires, he thought, ‘What the heck’. He approached me through the newspaper, I emailed him back, and he phoned. When we spoke it felt as if we already knew each other. It was an emotional call as we talked about that night. Tony spoke of seeing me in the pool and how he’d never seen anything like it; it obviously had a profound, and disturbing, impact on him.

  I got to know him more when he invited me to stay with him and his partner for a week at their home soon after. Tony’s a few years older than me, a plumber and very communityminded, the kind of man who always helps out when it’s needed. Ever the reluctant hero, he’s a straight-talker with a big heart. He introduced me to his neighbours and took me to the local Lions Club. He left the CFA a long time ago. Tony contacts me regularly and never stops reminding me that I will always be part of his life.

  The bushfire threw a number of people in my path with whom I have kept in contact. Judy, the nurse who looked after me in the Intensive Care Unit at the Alfred Hospital, rings frequently. She told me a while ago that when I was at my sickest, my heart stopped over fifty times. I was staggered to hear that, and saw afresh how hard the hospital staff fought to help me stay alive. Wonderfully, I have since met Petrea, who talked me through the mastectomy on the phone that day. I also keep in contact with Mary, the nurse from Hampton Rehabilitation Hospital. Pat remained a friend I treasured until her death in 2003—I still think fondly of Hampton’s ‘sergeant-major’ and her colourful cursing. Sadly, Sheila, my friend from the fires, died of cancer a few years ago. I miss her.

  TONY, FORMER CFA FIREFIGHTER

  When they made Ann they broke the mould, I reckon.

  She’s one hell of a fighter. I call Ann a second sister.

  I tell her if she needs anything I’m here.

  JUDY, ICU NURSE

  Ann always had a positive attitude. You’d rock into her room and there’d be this big smile on her face. She’s a special woman. She just endured all the terrible things she was going through at the time. She had incredible faith.

  MARY, FORMER NURSE

  We all just fell in love with Ann. Everyone loved her—you couldn’t help it with her spirit and energy. Her commitment, strength and willpower to be with the girls got her through.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Firstly, thank you to Sarah, without whom this book would perhaps never have been started and most definitely would have found itself in the bin on numerous occasions!

  I wish to give my heartfelt thanks to:

  Terry, I honour and respect your unflagging loyalty to the girls and me during 1983. It was magnificent.

  Alan, Carol and Janet, you were neighbours in the truest sense of the word on that terrible night.

  Tony, for appearing when you did, along with Richard, Barry and Rodney. You’re all definitely heroes in my eyes. And to all the brave firefighters, Australia-wide, who risk their own lives each year to keep us safe.

  Prof Masterton, your expertise, your commitment to your patients and your long-term interest in their wellbeing makes me feel very lucky to be counted among their number.

  Mum, having you by my side, both in the Alfred and during those first months at home, meant everything.

  Audrey and John, what peace of mind it gave me to know that the girls were in your care. You have been there for me in every way, always.

  All the health professionals who have helped me in these past 30 years. They say it takes a village to raise a child. It’s certainly taken a village to bring me to this point! I appreciate you all.

  Tracey, who generously typed up the very first draft of this book for me in my pre-computer days.

  Bernadette, who believed in this book from the first time she read it and has done more to advance it than I can possibly tell. you ar
e a wonderful friend.

  Karin, who besides being the best hairdresser ever, first brought Wild Dingo Press to my notice.

  A special thank you and mention, to Alex, Arthur, Bob, Keith, Jan, Jo, Judy and Peter. your many beautiful kindnesses have touched my heart.

  And to all my family and friends, even though many of you are not mentioned in this book, your help has been priceless and all of you mean so much to me, particularly Auntie Peg, who just knew I could do it, but sadly didn’t live to see the end result.

  Thank you, Dad, for bringing me up so ‘tough’. Neither of us could have imagined how much I would need it. I love you.

  To the people who turned my story into a published book:

  I thank my co-writer, Anne Crawford who has been an absolute delight to work with. I feel so lucky to have had your help these last two-and-a-half years. This book wouldn’t be half the book it is now without you.

  To the Wild Dingo Press team, especially Catherine Lewis and Iris Breuer, your thoughtfulness, skill, passion and belief in my story have resulted in a book I feel so proud of, and I am so grateful to you both.