By Sue Dagg
When I was a little girl, I remember saying to my Mum, “it’s not an excuse, it’s a REASON!” That seemed like an important distinction at the time, a finer point of language for a child. An excuse was either my fault, a weakness, or an effort that I gave up prematurely and unnecessarily. A reason, though, was someone else’s fault, something outside of my control, or a situation where I couldn’t be blamed for giving up and letting go because the odds were too stacked against me. Back then, those excuses and reasons related more to whether I had made my bed or cleaned my room.
Now, my reasons and excuses are about something far more serious: my daughter’s death. I suppose this is a mental health issue; a question of when do we give people permission to give up and be broken? And how broken do we need to be before we can tap out and put aside some time for self-care?
In the unluckiest of situations, I’ve been very lucky. Though my daughter Emily was born very prematurely, and she died after only three weeks of life, in both her life and death I was surrounded by the most supportive friends and family I could have ever hoped for. I was advised early to tell people what I wanted or needed, and almost everyone around me was able to give me those things
as I let them know. My workplace gave me space and extra leave, my friends dropped off food at my door and listened to hours of unchanging conversation about the one sad topic, and my family changed their travel and annual leave arrangements when I decided I wanted a week to myself before I saw them. I took a full month off work to write, read, garden, walk, talk and sit to grieve and
contemplate the world. When I returned to work, I felt that I was as ready as I could be. I was supported to return gradually and take days off when I needed. But this story isn’t about that; it’s about the days that followed after.
Three months after Emily’s death, I have returned to work full time. Some days I cry at home, some days I cry at work, and some days I don’t cry at all. I enjoy life much of the time, I hate it on occasion. What I feel has gone now, though, is my reason to fall down or fall apart. When I’m distracted and can’t concentrate and so I chat instead of doing work; or when I get things wrong a bit more often than my pedantic brain used to; or when I don’t want to return a phone call so I just don’t: those are the times that I feel that I’ve lost my right to say that I’ve recently experienced a loss. No one has told me this, but it’s started to feel as if my time is up, and that I should be back on track by now, even if it’s well acknowledged that the grief will never fully end.
What scares me now is the possibility of me using my daughter as an excuse. As a lecturer who has witnessed many a student request extensions and deferrals for grandparents that couldn’t possibly die so many times, I feel a certain resistance to wielding my daughter as a ‘get out of jail free’ card. I don’t want to use her as my ‘disability’, or an explanation for lying down when I should be standing up. There’s a certain kind of guilt war that goes on when I consider letting people know what has happened. To use her for my own gain seems unimaginably disrespectful. But is “I’m sorry I haven’t called while you’ve been trying to get in contact with me for several weeks; my daughter died and even though I’ve been back at work for several months now, I’m not quite fully back on track” a reason or an excuse?
There’s no guide book for this one and it’s ultimately my decision where the line is drawn. The decisions can be complex and I don’t feel that I always get it right. Some days, I feel as if life is hard, but if I push through it then I can make things work; they’re the days that I feel that Emily would be my excuse. Other days, it’s not so much that I can’t push through; it’s that I just have absolutely no drive to try. Last night, I already knew I wasn’t going to go to work today, and I knew I needed some time to write, to read, to garden and to move slowly. I needed the deadlines and the emails to leave me alone and I called in sick, using grief – using Emily – as my reason. This is what the rest of Australia calls a ‘mental health day’, which is mostly used as code for skiving, malingering, truanting or bunking off for the day. But really, is it any more valid for me to ask for a day of slowness and relaxing when I’m three months out of grief than it is for an overworked, stressed worker? Is it OK for me to use my daughter as an unofficial doctor’s certificate?
I’m not sure that I’m fully comfortable with that, but I’m also not fully comfortable with pushing through my grief and not listening to the crunching of the gears in my brain when I’m not coping so well. I think these questions in my mind come partly from a place of inquiry into how we manage mental health in our country (reactively rather than proactively), and how we privilege and prioritise (or even glorify) work compared to other important parts of life such as family, health and life’s meaning. If I had a living child and had returned to work, how comfortable would I be in calling in sick in her name? I think that the answer is clearly that I would only feel comfortable if I felt I had no other alternative, and that a workplace would be significantly less understanding. There’s a part of me that feels guilty for this: I’m given a privilege that I wouldn’t have if my daughter had survived. Her death has benefited me because I am one of the few new mothers who wasn’t pushed and shoved towards pretending recovery and denying the stress and difficulty and the sometimes not being OK.
I’m fairly certain that the mental conflict I feel will not ever go away when I use my daughter’s death as a justification for something. The level of guilt definitely serves as a litmus test for whether I’m being lazy and letting life get on top of me (excuse) or whether I truly need some time and space (reason). I don’t want someone so special to become the justification for her mother ceasing to
attempt anything difficult. Such a magical little life as hers should be the foundation for great accomplishments, not great failures. There’s definitely a difference between stopping for a breather and quitting the race, but I’m just not sure I’ve figured out where the line between each of them is yet.
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Sue Dagg is 35 years old and lives with her husband Rob and bulldog Lilly. Their daughter Emily Beatrice was born prematurely at 23+4 due to PROM and died after only three weeks of life. She was a fighting spirit who beat many odds to be born. For Sue, part of bringing meaning to Emily’s life is found in breaking the stigma of talking about pregnancy and infant loss, and ensuring others know they’re not alone.
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