Cathartic

It’s been almost forty years since the plane crash. After all these years, one would think that it is no longer difficult for me to write or talk about it. In fact, most people assume that the experience of writing my book about that deeply painful time of my life must have been therapeutic. Cathartic.

When I think back to those initial few months after the tragedy, one thing I remember hearing over and over was that time heals. Almost forty years later, I have to say that time does not heal. To heal suggests to cure or restore something back to health.

I don’t think anyone could ever fully recover from losing a mother and two sisters, particularly when those profound losses occur when you are a child. In fact, I believe that I have spent my entire life grieving and longing for them. Losing them affected everything significant I ever have done. The effects have appeared and reappeared. It has been unpredictable. Erratic.

The hurt never went away.

However, staying hopeful, strong and positive, I did create a wonderful life, but the underlying emptiness that can never be filled by anyone else was always there, just not always heard.

Writing my book and then working with Peter, the CBC journalist, involved reliving the intense pain and hurt. Opening the wounds that had been so carefully bandaged all these years. Disturbing the scars no different than if you had picked a scab off your arm.

There were times during my writing, where I had put myself so completely into the past that I forgot about the present. I was actually disoriented, back in time, hurting so badly I could not control the tears.

But I see now that the journey was both difficult and cathartic.

Along with the struggles and sadness came important lessons. As I reflected, it became obvious to me that the life lessons have been endless. My hope for the book is that readers will learn the value of growth in the face of tragedy. If my experiences can help light the way for others, then the intensity of the writing was all worthwhile.

For almost forty years, the field where the plane crash occurred has remained untouched. I have never been able to go to the site. I have heard through the years that small bones and pieces of debris have continuously surfaced at the crash site, despite the original clean-up. How incredibly ironic. That is exactly the way the tragedy has played itself out in my life. No matter how many years went by, the memories, nightmares, fears and worry continued to resurface.

The land was recently sold to a residential developer.

The first step in creating the documentary with Peter was attending a meeting together with people from the City of Brampton and the new landowners, to hear about the plans for the future memorial garden. I was quiet and composed throughout the meeting UNTIL they brought out the display board with the artist’s rendering of the memorial garden. It was surrounded by purple lilacs.

I lost it.

Fortunately my daughter Rebecca was with me at the meeting, and she knew immediately why I fell apart seeing the lilacs. My mother’s favourite flowers were purple lilacs and of all the choices, that was what they were planning to use. Incredible.

When I was able to speak, I explained my tears. They advised us that a woman named Lynne had insisted they use purple lilacs. Who was this woman?