Sally Collings

The morning after my first daughter was born, my father came to visit us at the hospital. He brought a stuffed Winnie the Pooh toy for his new granddaughter. I loved that, especially because I remember Dad reading Pooh Bear stories to me when I was little. He did the voices so well.

It’s one of those everyday memories, but it’s only now, eight years on, I can write about it. You see, Dad came to visit me by himself because at the same time my mother was in another hospital being treated for lung cancer. She had not wanted aggressive treatment: she was 75 and had smoked for many years before giving up in a courageous late-in-life effort, so her illness came as no surprise to any of us.

Even so, when Mum died 10 days after my baby was born, I was left reeling. The spheres had shifted and I didn’t know what to hang on to. Just two days after that, my father died. It was one of those almost trivial household accidents that plague older people, especially when they are off balance with grief.

Out of nowhere, my sister, brother and I found ourselves parentless. I felt completely adrift. I remember waking up to breastfeed my little girl with tears streaming down my face. I tried not to cry, feeling that somehow the sorrow would mix with my milk and poison my baby.

I was almost obsessively determined that my child would have the best, unaffected by circumstance. And to me, breast milk was part of that. We struggled through with breastfeeding for almost six months before introducing solids. At nine months, a dietician asked me to describe what my daughter was eating. I rattled off details of a rigidly healthy, nutritionally balanced diet. She looked at my child’s growth chart thoughtfully, then looked at me. ‘A biscuit won’t kill her, you know.’

What sort of mother would I have been if my parents hadn’t both died right then? Maybe not a whole lot different: I’ve always been quite conscientious, some might even say pedantic. But I did tread more lightly before. Afterwards, everything seemed to be a matter of life or death – and probably for good reason.

At times, though. I felt nothing bad could happen to me – it had already happened. That made me reckless. Early on, I attended a book launch and left my baby parked in her pram while I chatted with friends. She was well out of sight and hearing, and there were 100 or more strangers between us. More often, I was a cautious, even fearful, mother. I felt death was behind every door. I rarely carried my baby outside the house: someone could bump me and I might drop her, or I might fall down some stairs. I just didn’t feel strong enough to support her in my arms and keep her safe.

In a park with my mothers’ group one morning, one of my friends described how her mother, visiting from interstate, was ‘taking over the household’. She was frustrated and couldn’t wait for her mother to leave again. As I listened, I felt myself trembling with suppressed rage and envy. To have your mother there, cleaning your benches and putting a load of washing on. ‘Don’t you know how lucky you are?’ I felt like shouting. I stayed silent and left early.

How long does it take for grief to go away? Maybe a year. Maybe a lifetime. Little by little the sharp edges soften. When my second daughter was born, I wanted her to have my mother’s name as her middle name. I like to feel that my mother is at the heart of her, and she is – this girl is wise and funny like Mum. I also see my father in her: sharp, straight talking, no-nonsense. Strange to see an old man in the face of a little girl perhaps, but it’s lovely to me.

For a long time, Winnie the Pooh sat on the shelf in my daughter’s room. I couldn’t stand the thought of him getting damaged, so he stayed up there out of reach. When my older daughter was about five, it seemed right for Pooh Bear to come down off the shelf. It was time for him to take some risks, time to be vulnerable again.

[A longer version of this article appeared in the Dec 11/Jan 12 issue of Melbourne’s Child magazine.]

Original Article

Everything I do at the moment seems to come back to the Ride to Conquer Cancer. Even my Christmas present.

I have a trusty but rusty mountain bike that I’ve ridden for ten years now. The lovely people at my local bike shop gently suggested that I might find it hard going to do 200km in two days on the thing, unless I wanted to be riding from dawn to midnight. (No thanks.) So I was delighted when my family gave me a Christmas card saying ‘IOU one new bike’.

Not that it’s all suffering and sacrifice. Last weekend I went out and got fitted up with my new darling, a very gorgeous dark red Specialized road bike called Vita (a bike has to have a name – and it is really the model name). It’s true love.

I’ve already done a couple of training rides on Vita. It’s taking me a little while to get used to her, but she’s smooth and zippy and I think we’ll get along just fine.

On the fundraising side of things, I’ve just about got my website up and running. Pretty soon you’ll be able to go online and buy copies of my book Positive to support my Ride to Conquer Cancer efforts. When you buy the book through my website, you benefit three ways:

• you get 50 inspiring stories
• you get the chance to contribute to the fight against cancer, and
• you get a bargain: Positive retails for $27.99, but you can buy it for $20.00 – and that includes P&P. All the profits go to my Ride to Conquer Cancer fund.

Thanks for your patience in waiting for the books to go on sale. If you would like to support me in the mean time, you can go to The Rio Tinto Ride to Conquer Cancer website here and make a donation via the website (Participant ID: 660879-2).

Original Article

I do wonder who is raising whom, sometimes.

My elder child is a night owl (or “night hour”, as she would say). Sleep has never come easily for her; she seems to fight it, and we’ve wrestled through many long evenings with her bouncing out of bed and up the hallway time and time again.

I can hear some of you, dear readers, drawing breath to offer me advice on how to get a child to sleep. Stop right there. I believe I may have heard it all and tried most of it.

This time I decided to bring the message home with a role play. I involved both of my girls: one has empathy and emotional awareness by the bucket load (that’s my night owl) and the other is very cool and pragmatic (that’s my easy sleeper). One afternoon I sat them down on the sofa…

Read the full article on happychild here.

Original Article

My training for the Ride to Conquer Cancer is underway now. I’ve done one 23km ride and surprised myself by a) completing it and b) not hurting too much. I’ve increased the length of my gym workouts, building in extra strength work to build the muscles that will power me up the hills.

Here’s the thing that is driving me on this week. Like most people, I’ve lost someone I loved to cancer. My mum died of lung cancer, eight years ago – just a few days after my first daughter was born. She lives on in my heart, but there are not many days that pass when I don’t wish she were still here to see her granddaughters growing up.

As I spin my wheels up a hill or work up a sweat at the gym, I think of her. Always my biggest supporter, mum was a generous spirit who would love to see me doing something to cancel out cancer in the lives of others.

The Rio Tinto Ride to Conquer Cancer® is a unique, two-day cycling event. On 18-19 August 2012, a couple of thousand people will cycle over 200k through Queensland’s scenic countryside to conquer cancer. The money we raise for The Ride will benefit the Queensland Institute of Medical Research, a worldwide leader in cancer research and discovery. QIMR devotes half of its research to understanding the causes of cancer and developing better diagnostics and treatments. Our efforts will have a real impact in our community, across Australia, and around the world.

If you’d like to back me in the Ride, please make a donation online. In January I’ll be offering special sales on my book Positive, about 50 amazing people who found life in the midst of cancer, to help raise funds for the Ride too. Watch this space to find out more.

[Disclaimer: those are not my legs in the photo - still a way to go before I’m that fit.]

Original Article

An interview with Elliot Perlman in the Sydney Morning Herald’s Good Weekend magazine contained a lovely thought about writing and inspiration. I haven’t read his books (yet!) but I like what he says here – it also connects with what I’ve been talking about with other writers lately about needing to switch off parts of your brain at various stages of the writing process:

Seldom are those moments when you feel as though there’s an antenna attached to your head that’s receiving direct communication from the sky. Most of the time you’re slogging away and trying to get rid of the voice in your head that’s saying, “That’s not very good”. Of course, you have to have inspiration sometimes, otherwise you’ve got no basis for telling a story. But once you’ve had that, it’s overwhelmingly perspiration and endeavour.

What is the process of inspiration like for you? Do you have to consciously switch off your internal ‘critical voice’?

Original Article

Next August, I’ll be participating in a 2-day major cycling event called The Rio Tinto Ride to Conquer Cancer®, benefiting the Queensland Institute of Medical Research (QIMR).

I’ll be cycling over 200 kilometres that weekend through Queensland’s scenic countryside, with thousands of other riders. All the proceeds will go to QIMR: a worldwide leader in cancer research and discovery, and one of the largest research institutes in the southern hemisphere.

I’ve agreed to raise at least $2,500, but I’ve set my personal goal to $3,000. So here’s where you come in - because I need your help to do that. Please consider making a donation of $100. Use the link here to visit my webpage and support me. It’s easy to set up a regular payment plan, too, if you prefer to spread your donation across several months. Please keep in mind the commitment I’m making to end this heartbreaking disease, and the personal efforts I’ll have to make to accomplish this.

When I say ‘heartbreaking’, here’s what I mean: with 1 in 2 Australians diagnosed with cancer in their lifetime, and an estimated 115,000 new cases of cancer diagnosed in Australia in 2011, cancer is the second leading cause of Australian deaths and affects almost 20% of the population. More than 43,600 people are expected to die from cancer in 2011. That’s why I’m riding. To do something BIG about cancer. I hope that you’ll share this incredible adventure with me by supporting my fundraising efforts.

One of the major ways I’ll be fundraising is by donating the profits from my book Positive. This book is a collection of 50 stories of people who, against all odds, have found something good in the midst of their cancer experience. One of the big reasons I’m doing the Ride to Conquer Cancer in 2012 is to honour the amazing people who contributed their personal stories to Positive.

Every copy of Positive bought directly from me (personally or through my website) will play a part. I’ll have more information on that for you in January, once I’ve got the webpage up and running.

Thank you in advance for your generosity!

Original Article

In the Dec 11/Jan 12 issue of Melbourne’s Child, I write about what it was like to be struck by grief from two directions just after my first child was born.

The morning after my first daughter was born, my father visited us at the hospital. He brought a stuffed Winnie the Pooh toy for his new granddaughter. I loved that, especially because I remember Dad reading Pooh Bear stories to me when I was little. He did the voices so well.

It’s one of those everyday memories, but it’s only now, eight years on, that I can write about it. You see, Dad visited us by himself because at the same time my mother was in another hospital being treated for lung cancer. She had not wanted aggressive treatment: she was 75 and had smoked for many years before giving up in a courageous late-in-life effort, so her illness came as no surprise to any of us. …

See the print edition for the full story.

Original Article

Smug, smug, smug – it’s one of those words that the more you say it, the stranger it sounds.

What is it about human nature that means we feel better about ourselves when we hear about someone else getting it wrong? It’s why gossip magazines sell in the millions, pushing sales with pictures of celebrities getting into endless varieties of trouble. It’s why we read about mothers who drive and breastfeed at the same time and think, ‘I might not be the best parent on the block, but at least I wouldn’t do THAT.’

Read the full post at happychild here.

Original Article

I feel like a proud parent. Indeed I am one of those all the time these days, but this week I’m particularly chuffed to announce that my book, Parenting with Soul, has been nominated for the Kibble Literary Awards. 

The Kibble Awards are for Australian women writers; they ‘recognise the works of both established and first-published women writers of fiction or non-fiction classified as “life writing”. This includes novels, autobiographies, biographies, literature and any writing with a strong personal element.’

Brenda Walker won the 2011 prize for her memoir Reading by Moonlight.

Will I win in 2012? I’ve temporarily mislaid my crystal ball, so unfortunately I can’t answer that. But for now, it’s more than enough to have the peer recognition of a nomination.

Original Article

Tired of hearing that worn-out phrase, ‘what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’? Like most cliches, there’s a kernel of truth inside the battered casing.

Hermit priest, writer and retreat leader Cynthia Bourgeault explores the idea in a most delicate way in ‘reflections on suffering’, which you’ll find here. This was part of a longer debate on the Contemplative Society’s website and it grabbed my attention:

… suffering is the inevitable outcome of the conditions of this planet, which include hard edges and finite boundaries. But this is not random; God has created it in precisely this way because it is precisely in these conditions and only these conditions that certain aspects of love shine forth so luminously—and it is precisely this luminosity which God is trying to reveal, the innermost self-disclosure of the heart of divine love. I’m trying to avoid the trap here that god “creates” suffering (for our education, our growth, etc;) that may make suffering meaningful, but at a high cost in the perpetuation of the image of a micro-managing, sadistic God. I’m saying that God doesn’t cause the suffering directly; the conditions do that. But the conditions are necessary for the full revelation of love, and God is infinitely, immediately present in these conditions to reveal this love as the silver lining in the suffering if we are open to receive it.

Original Article