Heavenly Beverley : The Inevitability of Anniversaries

Back in January of 2006, I was living at the northern end of Queensland's Sunshine Coast. Floating in a sea of suburbia, I was intensely lonely. My dreams for a new life near extended family following my marriage breakdown were in tatters. I was working as an aged care assistant and having difficulty making any friends. I can see myself standing in front of a bathroom mirror I was cleaning, crying with frustration and sadness. I knew I didn't belong there. Alex had been placed in Ed Support and Vanessa was struggling as a chef's apprentice. In a well of misery, we fled back to Perth within five months. Although a rather disagreeable remembrance, at least I had the good sense to act upon this now obvious revelation.

Everybody lives through and with anniversaries. Somehow, those of us who experience sadness around festivities seem to endure more acute pain. Perhaps because everybody else seems to be oblivious. And sometimes, they are.

My own personal January contains both delight and grief. Michael and I were married on 2 January, seven years ago. This date is up there as one of the happiest days of my life. Surrounded by family and friends in our growing garden, featuring three BBQs, a marquee, live music and a wading pool, we had the most wonderful wedding. Certainly one that was unforgettable for all the right reasons.

January 7 marked our eighth anniversary of becoming Beverley Hillbillies. The move to Heavenly Beverley changed our lives. Michael had already introduced me to the majesty of the Goldfields. We found a dry and dusty piece of paradise that we transformed into a lush garden and The House that Rocks, albeit a fairly small home. Then came the purchase and renovation of the Forbes Building over five years and the realisation that we needed a low-maintenance property.

We've talked about our memories of previous anniversaries. Pretty ordinary for both of us. In January 1988, I was married to the ex and expecting yet another baby. Or babies to be exact. Vanessa was still an only child. My twins were due in early April. The pregnancy had been very difficult. I was exceedingly anxious given I'd already had two pregnancy losses. The unthinkable happened. My girls were stillborn on 19 January.

Zoe and Melanie's deaths, although a terrible outcome, and horrendous to experience, fired up all my mother's instincts. I refused to be placated during my last two pregnancies. If I believed I needed to be seen by the obstetrician or have a particular test or receive certain medications, I bellowed like a wounded animal until my extremely forceful requests were granted. I went over doctors' heads. I insisted on lung strengthening treatment for Alex before birth. Callum was delivered four weeks early after I stated I would not survive another death of a baby. I have my beloved girls' legacy to thank for their brothers' lives.

My mum's birthday was 5 January. Even though we spent long periods apart, she dominated my life. In fact, she dominated all our lives. Only after Mum died did we discover how manipulative she had been with us all. In some ways, her death freed us from our own private anonymity. I now have the kind of relationships with my brothers that I'd waited for so long to achieve.

Michael was in pieces during the January of 2009. With Hayden, he had performed resuscitation on Joan, after she collapsed on their floor. In spite of their efforts, Joan had died and Michael was struggling to care for his two teenage children. Somehow, he took them camping to Cervantes and organised Hayden's eighteenth birthday party. He was working long hours in the mining industry, specifically in the movement of bulk materials. This was hard physical work. Then he was trying to meet the needs of his children and look after the family home, the shopping, the sports practices and all those other domestic tasks.

The only creature who kept him alive was the Beagle. He had to care for her, feed her, walk her and keep tabs on her steady demolition of household items. For all her faults, Ruby was a Godsend. And if spite of the ongoing destruction and appalling habits, we do adore the Problem Child. Just don't tell her that...

Another hot January afternoon. The routine ebbs and flows. Watering the garden, cleaning up yet another of Ruby's indiscretions, listening to the Pirate Parrot snorting and cackling in his cage and hearing the gentle snoring of both dogs at my feet, Madame Cat watching the world outside.

The beat goes on...