MY precious daughter has passed away, after a year of serious illnesses and intensive care. Bridget Louise Collits (1982-2025), like JFK (as per Robert Dallek, one of his biographers), led an ‘unfinished life’.
My first point is that all anyone has ever said about the loss of a child barely scratches the surface. It is everything they say, only exponentially worse. The fictional Father Brown lamented, ‘God knows what it is like to lose a child.’ Well, yes. The life sentence imprisonment of the grieving parent might best be seen as a version of the Hotel California. You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.
Next, there are the cliches. Taken too early, for example, comes to mind. She is at peace now. Well, I sure hope so. They did all they could? No, they did not. Surrounded by friends? Alas, no. More sinned against than sinning. Too true. A gift for friendship? In spades. A heart as big as Phar Lap’s? True, again.
Of all the locations you could choose to die, Townsville Hospital, an appalling place, would be at or near the bottom. My late uncle’s old line about wishing he knew where he was going to die, so he would never go there, rings true.
Bridget’s life wasn’t always easy. There were pain points.
No one who knew her well would disagree. There were the voices, which occasioned her take-up of Big Pharma’s anti-depressants over a quarter of a century. I know that place myself. There was her serious eating disorder in her teens. (And we thought that 1998 was the annus horribilis, a mere six years after the Queen’s). There was nasty bullying at school, by the head-girls-in-waiting. There was routine unkindness in the workplace. There were uncompleted studies. There was, sadly, travel in the outback cut short. There was the physical decline of her partner, which ushered in years of home-caring as her second job. Then, there was the final, painful chapter, of course.
These form only part of the story. There was much joy too, and achievement. And fun, facilitated by Mr Smirnoff on the odd occasion. Most of all, there was much love all around.
She got to travel overseas, including a visit to her beloved Big Apple and to Europe for her brother’s wedding last year.
Her great passions in life were many: care for God’s creatures, mostly those with four legs and especially Ella; her love of family; her deep, though sometimes physically distant, connections with her wonderful brothers and her eight, adoring nephews and nieces; her much loved, now grieving partner; her cherished Balmain Tigers of yore and her equally cherished New South Wales Blues; her excellent art and cooking; her affection for outsider-pollies like The Donald; and her OTT customer service and passion in her chosen profession. She wore her vegan badge with honour and not a jot of embarrassment, in the face of periodic alt-right sneering.
There is no peace for us, even in death. A coronial inquiry is under way, such are the ongoing questions about quality of care and cause of death. This will take time, and we will be making a detailed submission.
The last six months have been living hell. Thousands of miles from our home, enduring a tropical summer and floods, with nil support on the ground, as well as bungling and malfeasance in play. An away game, as they say, but an away game readily accepted. What, after all, are parents for? It is our life’s work, with daylight second.
The ‘what ifs’, for us, will probably never pass. How could they?
They say that healthy people have a thousand dreams and ill people, only one. We had dreams for a third (fourth?) go at life for Bridge. Now our one dream is, sadly, no more.
The wonderful Jess at the funeral home said to us, ‘How can this have happened? You both look so young?’ Well, maybe, but yes, she had a point.
Thank you to all my friends. I need your prayers, energy and sheer will to go on, now more than ever. In the end, we just ran out of miracles, I guess, despite the unrelenting work of our massive, global prayer-team.
Now it is time, in the words of the late, beloved Jimmy Buffett, to take another road to a hiding place.
Seen the false horizons fade away like bisons
Headed for the jungle, cowboy can’t endure
Never look back, that’s what he swore
I’ll take my pony to the shore
Somewhere, somewhere
Take another road to a hiding place
Disappear without a trace
Take another road to another time
On another road in another time
Like a novel from the five and dime
Take another road another time
Follow the equator, like that old articulator
Sail upon the ocean just like Mr. Twain
Never look back, this is my plan
Run my pony through the sand
Somewhere, somewhere
Take another road to a hiding place
Disappear without a trace
Take another road to another time
On another road in another time
Like a novel from the five and dime
Take another road another time
Leave my cares behind
Take my own sweet time
Ocean’s on my mind
Take another road to a hiding place
Disappear without a trace
Take another road to another time
On another road in another time
Like a novel from the five and dime
Take another road another time.
A hiding place? For us, certainly. For Bridget? An eternal hiding place, far from the pain and the fear. It was Bridget’s very favourite Buffett song, among many.
Requiesce in peace, dearest girl. We hope and pray that your unfinished life can now be sweetly and sublimely completed, in the bosom of Abraham.
