Truly, I don’t know about you, but I am a wreck at Christmas time. Trigger warnings are advised. Not because of the festive fuss, the food, the fun, the family gatherings. My gloom stems from the loss of a loved one who never got to grow old like me. It was the last day of school, Christmas was felt everywhere, in homes, the shops, the mall music, the tinsel bling covering up the true reason for the season. It was the last day of High school, Christmas holidays had arrived and my teenage brother was wheeling his bicycle across the designated school crossing, a woodwork parcel on the handlebars. A large van came through the crossing and ran my brother down, he died in the ambulance on the way to hospital. The policeman who came to the door to tell my mother was less than compassionate. Someone had to tell my father at work. I just stood in the doorway frozen in time. Chillingly my mother whispered to the room, “I heard the ambulance.” Later, a neighbour dropped off my brother’s mangled bicycle, a thoughtless and grim reminder. My brother’s best friend was also crossing the road, however I am doomed to never know what happened to him. I believed he was okay but what he witnessed would have shattered him emotionally. There would also have been cars and high school students leaving the school grounds. No doubt equally traumatised, but I will never know if counselling was offered since classroom assembly would not have taken place until the new school year.

The funeral was attended by crowds of people, families and friends. At the Church service and the Cremation Chapel banks of beautiful flowers and condolence cards were displayed. On the coffin rested a small bunch of freesia flowers, my mother’s favourite. Leaving, my mother, father and I walked in a daze passed them all and got into a black car to be taken home. I don’t remember much else, I cannot recall family faces, friends, but more cards and flowers came into our home. People left food on the doorstep, at dusk a neighbour watered our newly turfed front lawn and slipped away as silently as she had come. My father was stoic, I know my mother cried for a very long time that night, and perhaps forever. I can honestly say now as a mature adult that I was probably in denial, trying to say that I was alright, that I was okay when I was not. I did not accept or know words of comfort to offer anyone, least of all my grieving parents. How could I be okay when my family and closest cousins were also devastated? After a long awhile the pain and heartache of loss, which almost doubled me over, slowly began to subside leaving a void. My parents did not want to talk about it. Did not want to press charges against the van driver. He was interviewed by police and they found his licence expired. On inspecting his vehicle it was found to have faulty gears and a faulty breaking system. In other words he knew he could not stop the vehicle in time. As an adult now many years later, I never forget the shock, the hurt, the need for retribution for the sudden gaping loss, the hole which that illegal van driver so swiftly and brutally left in my life; yet knowing under such circumstances that no amount of legal action would return a loved one.

In small ways it still does affect my life; as I type this I feel the pain, the sudden sense of loss because absolutely nothing could replace my brother. He was cremated and later, on a bright sunny weekend, my parents and I visited the cemetery and his plaque in the columbarium wall. For me it was all quite surreal, somehow misty like a movie. The strongest memory I have from that day is my mother, usually an undemonstrative woman, falling into the car, lying on the back seat sobbing deeply, tears cascading down her cheeks onto the vinyl seat. I patted her, a gesture of comfort, but knew nothing I could do would help. The rest is a blur although eventually we moved away, a new State, a new city, but in hindsight it was perhaps not the best thing to do. Leaving family and friends behind, starting afresh like nothing had ever happened. Slowly we adapted and the climate did help ease my asthma. My Dad found a good job, Mum worked for a time but preferred to stay home. I grew up, made wonderful new friends who were lead to believe I was an only child (still didn’t talk about it) and had some creative and marvellous yet not highly paid jobs. Marriage followed the universal pattern set by my age group. I guess I am pretty average and everybody has one personal story that changed their outlook on life.

However, deep down I think I regret that we left everything behind because my parents support system, their immediate close family had gone. Yes, the relatives, the cousins, flew in during the holidays but it wasn’t the same. Likewise, when we drove interstate to visit them, it was stilted and formal and often uncomfortable although occasionally we had a good laugh about something silly. Nobody ever raised the subject of my lost teenage brother, the kind one, the one who never got to grow into maturity. This is from my perspective, I will never know what my parent thought or discussed in private. I will never know the full trauma it may have caused my relatives and friends and I will never be free from the awful day before Christmas when that policeman knocked on our door. In short, dear reader, although I try to hide it, I am a snivelling scrooge at Christmas time. Bah humbug ‘Carols By Candlelight’ and I crumble. Jingle bells music and I mourn the loss of a brother who never got to come home for the school holidays. My thoughts also fly to those who have lost loved ones at this time of year. Maybe that’s part of what Christmas is all about. Love, loss, understanding and acceptance.

💗 © Gretchen Bernet-Ward 2025