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Jessie never would have known if she hadn’t gone searching for the postage stamp.
The book of stamps was still in her old brown purse, the one which hadn’t left her side for all of ten years. Christmas Day had changed that. Her sister-in law – her brother Mark’s wife Susan – got her in the Kris Kringle, and decided on a shiny red wallet. Mark, an investment banker, had told Susan on Christmas Eve it was a stupid present to give his sister because women, he argued, were thingy about their purse; they chose their own. He doubted Jessie would give up hers easily, even though he’d once heard her describe it as Boring Brown.
‘Nah,’ said Susan, fondling the wallet one last time before smothering it in Santa Claus wrapping paper. ‘She’ll love it. Just you wait and see.’
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Monday, 7 February 2011.
My son died last week.
There. I’ve given you the ending. No twist here.
(Note: Do you have any idea what it's like, how hard it is to write and read 'My son died last week'? Another huge chunk of me dies within me every time I read those five words.)
Jamie was twenty-eight. A boy. Diagnosed with juvenile diabetes at twelve, everything imaginable went wrong for our second son. Failing eyesight at five; problems with feet at ten. By Year Seven, a daily regimen of testing, injecting, diet and exercise. Fortnightly sessions with a psychologist. Throughout, Jamie continued his school basketball, hockey and each summer the Murray Marathon kayaking.
Once on the Murray – Jamie was in Year Nine – his kayaking partner Jonno drank his water before they paddled, and within moments of starting became dehydrated and all but collapsed. Jamie paddled the 11 km leg single-handed. His teacher, paddling by in an adult division, saw Jamie’s effort and over dinner in front of seventy boys, parents and teachers Jamie was awarded ‘Effort-Of-The-Day’. For this dad it was tantamount to him winning a Nobel Prize.
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