When I was 12 years old, we suddenly lost my Dad to a massive heart attack. He went to work one morning and didn’t come home. I had only been in year 8 – my first year of high school for a month. My Brother Paul was in year 12 – his final year.

We were siblings and friends. A passionate Dockers fan and cricket supporter and lover of the water. We were mates, my confidante – so very close. We would go to movies, dinners, parties, sailing and attend footy and cricket matches together. He was smart, grounded, mischievous, fun and so funny. I loved his sense of silly and his brilliant smile. He was my big brother and I was his trailing shadow.

At 3:30am Friday 13 April 2001(Good Friday) police arrived to tell me that Paul had died. I can remember how much my body started shaking, and that I had no control over stopping. I was 21 years old and now faced with the task of telling my widowed Mother that she had lost her only son.

Both losses were sudden, unexpected and in my Brother’s case – violent. In one moment my life was normal, and the next – destroyed. My Brother’s death smashed me like a sledgehammer – my heart physically did feel like it was shattered. In a fog, barely surviving, wondering how I would get through the pain – and also not knowing if I wanted to. I often wonder how I kept my job at the time, and my boyfriend (now husband.) I deferred and never went back to my Uni course.

My world no longer felt safe – I needed to be babysat when Mark returned to work. Anxiety attacks would wash over me sometimes every 20 minutes, psoriasis broke out and cortisone shots needed in my jaw as a result of clenching my teeth so hard to try and make the pain go away.

Life is so different now. I barely watch TV to avoid violence, music can evoke grief, The Easter aisle in the shops and flashbacks to the time make me feel sick. If my Mums phone rings out, my husband travels, lose my kids in my line of sight for more than a minute I am already preparing myself for the worst because in some strange way It will hurt less if I am already prepared. I don’t cope well with sudden change to plans, relationships, how I anticipate things to pan out – my version of reality. Shutting off as a hurt avoidance technique comes across as ignorance.

In 2009 I met a couple who introduced me to The Adventurers. My son made his first friend at Pre-Kindy and Samuel's little sister was diagnosed with Neuroblastoma.  Compassionate to their story, my cousin and I held a small fundraiser. It was fun and felt so good to hand over the cheque that from there I organised another few events. Even though I had got married and had children, those events were still bittersweet – Paul should’ve been there for them. This was the first time I truly felt free of my grief for an extended period of time.

Years later, I realise I am drawn to The Adventurers as it was Paul that enabled my sense of “crazy” – A larrikin that would encourage me to swim out to the bell at Cottesloe Beach and jump off, jump in the pool from the high dive board, boat ride through crocodile infested waters, go trekking in the Kakadu…and find it oh so funny and flash his megawatt smile in doing so. He was the only person I had in my life that enabled my sense of adventure – yet I didn’t realise I was missing it until I found The Adventurers.

Climbing to the top of summit, being amongst the clouds I feel is the closest I will ever get to him, and I get to spend a minute alone with him and my thoughts at the top.

A self professed sook, these Adventures do remind me that I have some toughness and strength in me each time I achieve something new.  Challenging myself for these kids gives me perspective that my life circumstances are good, lucky to now have three healthy children. Every adventure I take Paul away with me – to do the things that make me feel alive. It is a whole year of training and making a difference – doing the things I love to avoid going to the place that doesn’t make me feel good. And whatever adventure I chose, I am reminded of the beauty in this life and the things I enjoy to do – the very same things that take away the despair of losing my big Brother.

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