Four Weeks Since We Lost Abi: Living with the Unthinkable

Four weeks ago our daughter was killed in a tragic car accident. Four weeks ago, Saturday 31st May 2014. She was twelve. My brother has long been a Jimmy Buffett fan, and I can recall him singing “Come Monday it’ll be all right”. Well, it’s Monday and everything is far from all right.

In fact, it’s easy to feel that everything is wrong. No more Abi. No more bouncing in to my office after school, all blonde hair, big smile, tales of her day. No more snuggling in bed, smooth warm skin and sticky-out shoulder blades. No more, nothing.

Alongside her was one of her best friends, Ella, and Ella’s mother, Sally - also a dear, dear friend of mine. They died too; killed instantly in a moment of motorised madness. Sally and I had been friends for eight or nine years, meeting just before the girls started primary school. She was one of the most creative, clever, loyal, loving friends a woman could ever hope for. We helped each other get through the drudgery of midlife, punctuating it with… well, better moments – some hedonistic, some mindful, many of them outdoors, enjoying the gifts our natural world has to offer. Scrolling through our recent text exchanges, there are lots of reminders of how we supported each other’s quest to get more out of life.

Following a text describing my decision to get up early on the weekend to take part in a half marathon a couple of hours drive away, she replied: “There’s a book in there somewhere. Making & planning for more rewarding moments. Getting more out of yr life. U r clever at that.”

The text my dear friend Sally sent me just weeks before she died, alongside our daughter, Abi, and her daughter, Ella. Texts like this are so precious now.

So, dear Sally, Ella, and my own dear Abi, here, instead of a book, is the blog I dedicate to the three of you: a blog about getting more out of life. Last summer Sally told me about Mary Oliver’s poem urging us to consider, “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” Your lives were just that. Wild and precious. And in the months and years to come, as I am forced to forge on without you by my side, I plan to incorporate my years of research in the field of resilience science (oh the irony) to explore what it is to lead a life well lived.