Loss and sorrow

In the space of about a month there has been a string of bereavements around here. My sister’s wonderful Aussie husband, Lionel, died of mesothelioma. It is a lung cancer from asbestos dust, which no doubt he inhaled many years ago when builders worked with that stuff. Lionel was in his mid-80s, and he and my sister had enjoyed 11 years together.

Then word came that our aged Kiwi aunt Jean had died in California aged 103. She was a wonderful lady. I used to visit her when I could. Jean had known much sorrow and loss. Her husband, my uncle Lex, died suddenly far too early. Her son David later committed suicide -- and that, I think, for a parent, is a grief far too far. Jean battled on, inimitably in many ways.

The same weekend came news that a much loved cousin Nora, in Glasgow, had died, also at a great age. Nora and her husband Jimmie were very good to Mary and me when we lived in Scotland for a while, long ago.

Still absorbing all that, we got news that a dearly loved friend in Fiji, Ethel Naidu, had died. Ethel was a widely loved parishioner and Elder at St Andrew’s Church in Suva, and was known all around the Arts Club, education and musical scenes.

Next, my younger brother Morris suddenly took ill with metastatic melanoma. He went downhill quickly and died last Sunday. Of all of us, Morris was the most remote, yet we feel his loss keenly. He had decreed that there was to be no funeral or other commemoration. It certainly seems strange, but his wishes have been respected.

Perhaps then I have been a little bristly, cantankerous you might say, in recent days. It has not been a smart idea to cross me. And this morning I walked into a local shop into the middle of a general “debate”, actually an airing of clichés and prejudices, about the state of the nation and in particular the wreck of the container ship Rena on a reef outside Tauranga. Thick oil and large shipping containers are now washing ashore on their beaches. Strange, how these beaches apparently were “pristine” -- but that’s just part of the general journalistic abuse of the language and of the meaning of words.

One bloke in the shop immediately tried to enlist me to agree with him that the bloody government bears the guilt of all this. That seemed to be the general default position in the shop. So I said that was absurd, and that we are turning into a nation of chronic grizzlers. Silence reigned in the shop for all of 30 seconds, and then this bloke bawled, What are yuh, some bloody greenie...? He had somehow to reassert dominance and resume being the alpha male. I guess whoever else lives in his home has long since learned to submit. I said, Yes, I’m an environmentalist. Are you not...? And I walked away. This bigot can’t cope with anyone not singing from his hymnbook. He shouted after me, Garn, yuh bloody greenie...

I simply couldn’t conceive trying to explain to this loudmouth that in the rhythms of life and death, loss and sorrow, it’s better to be grateful. We are not starving, although plenty of people are having to watch their spending carefully. Our country is not at war, let alone riven by civil war. We get the governments we vote for, which is more than ever happens in many countries, including Fiji. It is indeed sad about the container ship. It is sadder about Christchurch’s sorrows. But grizzling as a reflex reaction is to be avoided, it seems to me. St Benedict saw that long centuries ago. If people were to live together in community then what he called grumbling was to be actively discouraged. And I am a Benedictine.

Groin injury

We appear to be at the end of the all the Pool Games in the Rugby World Cup, and are poised for the Quarter Finals. I am struggling to keep up, let alone give the impression of interest. Mary on the other hand is entering everything on a large wall chart which permanently occupies our dining table. Yesterday Wales thrashed (don’t you loathe these silly overkill verbs...) Fiji 66 - 0, while Ireland saw off Italy 36 - 6. Poor old Fiji can’t expect to thrive in the midst of an oppressive military dictatorship.

Tonga, usually classified patronisingly as a minnow, on the other hand dismissed France, not classified as a minnow, 19 - 14, to the accompaniment of much exuberance, although we haven’t yet heard from the Tongan king. France is in serious despair, despite the curious fact that they still, rather than Tonga, go forward to the Quarter Finals. Much about all this is veiled from my understanding.

But now it is reported that the nation is in much dismay because All Black Dan Carter, the handsome one, managed to tear his Adductor Longus at footie practice. This is called a Groin Injury. It is somewhat dreaded. I researched this, and it is not the groin at all. Goodness knows where they got that idea, and I hope the All Black doctor has done some anatomy. It is a thigh injury. The groin is further up. We got repeated TV shots of Dan Carter in obvious pain, limping off the field holding the relevant place. Now it seems he is out of the rest of the RWC.

And so a black pall of misery has settled over the land. Almost the whole front page of major newspapers is devoted to it this morning. On radio there are serial interviews with anyone with an opinion or a prognostication. We were already nervous because Richie McCaw, the captain, has been getting niggles from a foot injury. His foot has a metal screw in it which sounds inconvenient to me. Perhaps they need to tighten the screw.

And so my breakfast was made miserable by the Dan Carter lamentations. His estimable parents in Southbridge were unable to fly to Auckland to be with him because there were no available seats. They are distraught. We got reassuring words from some previous All Black citing crises of the past. The All Blacks have to “step up” and “do the business”. I turned to the Concert Programme to save my digestion.

Yes it’s sad. Dan Carter is an icon, a role model, a legend, a hero and a heart-throb. He is also crucial in the All Black game, we are told. It remains to be seen whether he is essential. Meanwhile there are other events in the world that really do matter, and there are a few other good people with health issues somewhat more dire than a sports-inflicted torn Adductor Longus.