Grief On The Run - Julie Zarifeh - Extract

Grief on
the Run
JULIE ZARIFEH
H OW AC T I V E G R I E V I N G H E L P E D M E
C O P E W I T H D E VA S TAT I N G L O S S
Prologue
I
will never, ever forget the moment I received the call that
every mother dreads.
It was Saturday, 9 December 2017, around 10.30 p.m.,
and I had just come out of a movie with my friend and colleague
Michelle McCarthy. I looked down at my phone and saw I
had missed a call from another close friend, who was also my
neighbour, Colleen Naylor. She’d left a message.
‘Hi, Julie,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to alarm you, but can you
please call us back when you pick this up? We’ve had a couple
of young policemen here looking for you. They wondered if we
could try to track you down. They’re going to return in an hour
or so. Give me a call when you pick this up. I have no idea what
they want, by the way.’
A wave of nausea crashed over me. I turned deathly
white, and my breath caught in my throat. My thoughts went
immediately to my elder son, Sam. He was away on a rafting
trip on the Landsborough River in Haast, over on the West
Coast of New Zealand’s South Island. I’d been feeling antsy all
day, and somehow—call it maternal intuition—I just knew it
had to be about Sam, even before I called Colleen back.
I
had driven the two of us to the movies in my car,
but now I was in no state to drive, so Michelle had to drive
me home from the cinema in central Christchurch. The
journey was surreal. I can still see the moon hanging over the
estuary, its glittering light flickering across the water’s surface,
and the glow from the houses scattered across the Port Hills at
the city’s edge. I gripped onto the sides of the passenger seat
and concentrated on trying to breathe deeply, while Michelle
valiantly commandeered the controls of my new car and kept
up a cheerful patter of distracting conversation.
‘It’s probably nothing,’ she said hopefully. ‘Or maybe it’s
something to do with Gussie?’ she suggested, referring to my
little cocker spaniel.
‘I’m worried about Sam,’ I confessed. ‘It’s been pouring on
the coast today. I know—I’ll call him.’
As I began dialling, Michelle said, ‘Don’t read anything into
it if it goes to voicemail. He’s probably out of cover.’
Sure enough, it went straight through to voicemail. I
tried again and again and again, but without success. I
clutched my phone and found every possible reason I could
for why Sam wasn’t picking up.
As we crossed Ferrymead Bridge on our way towards the
seaside suburb of Sumner, I felt a profound sense of déjà
vu. I’ve been here before, I thought, and indeed I had—but not
in a car. Eight years before, on 22 February 2011, following
the devastating earthquake that felled so much of our city, I’d
picked my way through liquefaction, in my high heels, Sumner-
bound. That day, too, my breathing had been shallow and the
adrenaline coursed through me as I wondered what awaited
me at home.
W
hen Michelle and I finally got to the Naylors’,
the scene that greeted us was uncharacteristically
sombre. Colleen and Brett, friends of ours for
30 years, were there. With them were their close friends Helen
and Craig. Their faces were drawn, and I soon realised that
Craig—who was also the local police officer—was not there
in a social capacity. That was when the penny fully dropped.
There could be no doubt: it was not good news.
‘Come and sit next to me, Julie,’ Craig said, shuffling over
on the bench seat.
Then he went on to explain that Sam’s trip had not gone
according to plan. The raft had flipped on the river, and
Sam and his companions had all been tossed out and washed
downstream. They had all survived bar one.
‘Julie, I am so sorry,’ Craig said. ‘Sammy didn’t make it. He’s
deceased.’
(Later, Michelle commented on what an oddly formal word
this was to use—but, of course, what else could he say, in his
official role?)
I cannot remember what I did next, but I do remember one
overriding thought: Now life really is never going to be the same again.
For, unbelievably, Sam’s death came just sixteen days after
his dad, Paul’s. It was an incredibly tragic double whammy,
one that altered the course of our family’s lives irreparably
from that moment forward.
Author’s note
When you are inspired by some great purpose, some extraordinary
project, all your thoughts break their bonds. Your mind transcends
limitations, your consciousness expands in every direction, and
you find yourself in a new, great and wonderful world.
Dormant forces, faculties and talents become alive,

and you discover yourself to be a greater person by
far than you ever dreamed yourself to be.
—PATAÑJALI
I
wrote this book because I felt an enormous urge to do
so. It was a story that just needed to come out. I hoped
that writing it might help me to move forward in the
healthiest and most productive way possible after the deaths
of my husband, Paul, and my elder son, Sam. I wrote to try to
comprehend, process and—ultimately—accept it all.
In order to try to remain positive and keep moving forward
after such overwhelming and unanticipated loss, I deliberately
set myself a series of Big Hairy Audacious Goals (BHAGs).
Writing this book was just one such BHAG. To begin with, I
thought I was writing for me and my family and friends—for my
surviving children, Jared and Kristi; for my grandchildren and
future generations, cheated out of meeting their grandfather
and uncle; and for the friends who have travelled with me on
this journey. I didn’t necessarily think it would go much further
than that. The idea that it could have a broader reach only
dawned on me when people started suggesting it. Perhaps, as
people kept saying, my tale might help others?
What follows is a very personal account of my passage
through bereavement. I am not quite there yet. I possibly never
will be, not fully. However, writing this memoir has, for the most
part, been a cathartic experience. There have been times when
I have sat writing while the tears have silently streamed down
my face, and other times when my body has been wracked by
convulsing, all-consuming sobs. But, for each sad time, there
has also been a happy one: I have found myself repeatedly
smiling, laughing out loud, reminiscing and rejoicing in my
recollections of Paul and Sam, and of our family. I feel so lucky
to have such a rich life. I have so many wonderful memories.
Grief on the Run was originally scheduled for release in June
2020. Unfortunately, however, that plan was thwarted by yet
another adversity: this time a global pandemic that swept the
world! Who would have thought?
The Covid-19 crisis has affected each and every citizen of
this world in some way, and will continue to have long-lasting
ramifications across a number of life’s domains—some of which
may have been taken for granted up until now. It is my belief,
however, that the messages and themes in the second half of
this book hold true, and that adopting this kind of approach
can enable us to cope with—and even embrace—a changed
future. As humans we are still able to connect with each other
in meaningful ways, we are still able to share (of ourselves; of
our resources), and we are still able to choose what we focus on.
We can continue to learn and appreciate; we can set our minds
to remaining as active and healthy as possible. We can choose the
behaviours we endorse and the perceptions we adopt, and thus
respond positively to adversity.
It is my hope that you will take heart from my story. I hope
you will see that even after significant loss there is still so much
hope, joy and love to be experienced in life. It might be in a
different context than you anticipated, but it is still there.
Remembering this has been my way of coping. May it help
and inspire. For, at the end of the day, true grief is the price you
pay for true love.
JULIE ZARIFEH
MARCH 2021

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Dormant forces, faculties and talents become alive,

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