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Loss, Grief and the Healing Power of Words

I have been absent a while, haven’t I? For that I’m so sorry and please, I ask that you read and accept this blog as a rather poor attempt to both apologise  and explain why before I beg your forgiveness and let you know that I’m back and invite you to return as well…

The reason I’ve been gone is twofold: I’ve had several operations this year, related to post-cancer complications, and which mean I now have a pacemaker. It’s been hard to become accustomed to and I’ve had periods of terrible illness and pain. But all that pales by comparison with my second reason for deserting this cyberspace and puts what I’ve been through into perspective – the terrible illness and death of my beloved friend, Sara Warneke who most of you know as the writer Sara Douglass.

Ten and half months ago now, my partner, Stephen, and I shifted temporarily to Hobart, Tasmania, to care for Sara as she tried to deal with the last stages of ovarian cancer. I have written about this elsewhere, mainly in my obituary for Sara on the Voyager website a day after she died.  You can read it here:

(I should add that Lucy Sussex also wrote the most amazing obituary for Sara that’s appeared in many newspapers.) I also write about Sara – her life, influence and works as well as our relationship that spans twenty years – in the Introduction to the beautiful compilation of her short stories, The Hall of Lost Footsteps, which was published posthumously by Tinconderoga Publications.

Together, these, along with a brief piece I wrote about Sara in Australian Author, explain the months and weeks that led up to her death and give a glimpse into our long-term friendship. What none of these do, however, is elucidate the impact her death has had in other ways and on other people – not just me, but Stephen, her other very close and loving friend (and mine too), Dr Frances Thiele (who adored and was in turn, adored by Sara), or the grief felt by her family, other friends, and loyal fans.

While I always knew the day of Sara’s death would come and, as she became sicker, tried to prepare myself (as did Stephen), it wasn’t until almost a week after she died, that the reality of her absence hit me. She really wasn’t going to phone or text me again. When I went to her house, she wasn’t going to open the door and fold me in one those tight hugs I loved receiving. She was gone… for real. For good. When the realisation struck, I felt like the sun hadn’t gone behind a cloud so much as imploded; as if the lights had gone off in not only my house, but, for the time being, my life, and plunged me into a grey world of shadows and murkiness leaving me to stumble and misapprehend. Sara had been my anchor for the last nine months, my life had been tied to hers in the most intimate and loving of ways and now, suddenly, I was cast adrift. I could no longer talk to her, hold her, share my thoughts and fears, and she couldn’t with me either. A part of my world that, despite the encroaching presence of death was remarkably light and love and hope-filled, had been swallowed by darkness and, worse, an enormous silence that I didn’t see, despite everything being there in front of me, coming. It was the strangest and scariest of sensations. There was not the silence associated with quietude or stillness, but an agitation that had no way of being expressed or relieved. As if the frequency we operated on and within could no longer be tuned. There was only static, no clear signal. Weighed by grief, I swam in circles, barely staying afloat, my ears pricked for a sound, a sign, for a signifier that this lostness was temporary. For Stephen it was the same. We lived and worked in a haze, thinking we were coping when in reality, we were sinking into this hungry silence.

And yet…

Every time we spoke of her, recalled something either with each other, or Fran, or someone else including the many and beautiful homage on FaceBook and other cyber-pages, the silence cracked and the load diminished slightly. Memories came in the most unexpected form and ways. The first time Sara’s cat, Luther, walked into my arms and curled into my neck like he’d always belonged, giving me the audible cuddle that we call a purr, an image of Sara with all her cats surrounding her filled my mind and put me strangely at peace.

I laughed out loud, scaring the other cats and, most of all, myself – but not Luther. After that, each time one of the others came to us for attention, licking, purring, kneading our legs and arms in the way cats do, putting you on edge as you wait for the claws to stick, we found our pain eased and smiles bloomed where tears had once fallen.

Then there were the notes – to me, herself, to others – that we found and treasured. Simple things, like remembering to pay the ‘butcher lady,’ put the bins out, remind Karen about Cromwell (one of the Birmans); there were lists of ‘things to do’ which conjured both sadness and delight at her orderliness; or the folder of recipes that Sara used and which we all enjoyed at her table together, using produce she grew in her garden and which we harvested and cooked as a family. These little paper treasures rip a hole in you when you find them, but then they catapult you back to the moment and the unexpected recall has its own terrible beauty. I loved finding these things, how they would throw us off emotional balance, only to repair our hearts after all. Together, they amounted to a record of a person and life that was rich, complex, giving and simple at the same time – one that we were privileged to share.

When the gardens of Nonsuch began to bloom a few weeks ago, our souls felt renewed. Here was the life that, together, Sara and, later when she became too sick, Stephen under her instructions, planted and nurtured. I felt Sara in every new bud, every blossom that burst into life and colour. Bees hummed, butterflies danced and birds sang while the supine cats, grooming themselves in the sunlight, pretended not to watch them. This was her creation, her gift to everyone, continuing, just like her stories will as well.

After weeks of not being able to conjure a word or creative thought and becoming despondent about that, a story, unbidden but so very welcome, took seed in my mind. I was in, of all places,  a Whisky Distillery when it happened, taking me by complete surprise. I was in no ordinary distillery mind. I was in Larks in Hobart with my sister and her friend who were visiting. This place, like so many others around Hobart, has also become a special part of our shared life with Sara. You see, not long after we arrived here, Stephen and I introduced Sara to the joys of a locally made Whisky liqueur – Slainte – that is made by Larks.

It’s like nothing I have ever tasted before – pure golden sweetness followed by a warm caramel heat that coats your throat before it delivers a small kick below the heart. It is magic. The first time Stephen and I tried it, we knew Sara would love it, and bought her some. We were right. Sara called the woman who made it a goddess and swore it was ambrosia. Stephen would ensure there was always some for Sara and Larks, in a spirit of generosity, not only discounted what we bought, but gave Sara a bottle for free with every order as well. That a simple drink could bring so much pleasure amidst so much pain….

It seems fitting somehow that the first time I returned to this place after Sara died, a place that though Sara had never graced its cosy rooms nonetheless brought her so much comfort and joy, I found a story – the basis for my next novel. It was there, waiting for me, and I accepted the gift of its presence gratefully.

Doing the research and starting the writing process has brought me a healing I never expected. It’s not quick and nor would I want it to be, but it is a sweet and tender ache that brings with it unexpected bouts of sadness followed by moments of sheer joy – joy in the power of words and imagined characters to transport you beyond your own life and propel you into times and places otherwise denied. This is something Sara knew as well and used after her initial diagnosis and towards the end. It might be escapism, but it’s also a blessing. I like to believe, perhaps indulgently, that Sara made sure that tale came to me on that day the way it did. Anyhow, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Every word I write now, I raise an imaginary glass to my darling friend: Slainte Sara.

So, there you have it.  That’s why I’ve been absent from my website and blog – I retreated for a time, firstly to begin my own process of recovery and then to care for a friend who needed me, needed Stephen too. That I needed her just as much was always apparent to me, but her death has made that awareness acute and hard to overcome. She didn’t choose to leave me, us, this life, her life, and that’s why I’ve struggled so hard with her absence: the unjustness of it. What I didn’t expect was that, just as she was in life, she’s there beside me in death and, in my writing, whether it be this blog or the stories I have yet to tell, she will be with me every syllable of the way.

There you are, my friends. I am back. I hope you forgive me. After all, we have a journey to take and I have many tales to tell…

Thank you.



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Comments: 15


  1. Thank you for your beautiful, wonderful post, Karen.

    You are indeed welcome back, and I wish you so very much joy in the writing of your new story, just like Sara would too.

    Slainte, my friend. 🙂 xx

  2. Thank you, Sheryl. And thank you for our wonderful talks xxx

  3. Words cannot express how much I admire you and Stephen and Sara. I do believe she’s watching out for you and making sure you’re carrying out her wishes (and making sure you’re continuing to write and look after her kitties). Thank you so much for sharing. I remember at the time thinking what wonderful friends you were to go to Tasmania to help Sara through this difficult time, but I can see too, what an awesome person she was as well. What a special friendship you all shared. Much love to all of you. xo

  4. Gorgeous. Absolutely wonderfully gorgeous.

  5. Thank you for sharing your journey through your beautiful words. It really is inspiring to read!! I had gathered that Sara was an amazing person from her books, blogs, etc but what you wrote in her obituary and more so here have revealed just what a unique, amazing and special human being she was and it makes perfect sense that such a wonderful person should have an equally wonderful friend. You are so strong and positive and an inspiration!! xxx

  6. Karen, that made me cry.

    I’ve lost friends and family to the dreaded Big C and took it hard. My beloved Gramps was diagnosed when I was 16 and died when I was 17, two and a half weeks before his 61st birthday. I cried and cursed at any and all gods that it wasn’t fair. I made all kinds of deals – save my Gramps and I’ll do anything – I’d work harder at school, I’d be better behaved at home, anything. But of course it didn’t help. After he died, whenever someone told me that he will always be with me, I scoffed and said it wasn’t possible. But it is.

    He played the bagpipes, and Amazing Grace was played by the Queensland Police Pipe Band at his funeral. Whenever I hear that song, I stop and sing along, and it makes me think of him. I have one of his old police shirts hanging on the bedroom wall. My husband knows what it is, and even during his constant fits of rearranging things in the house, he never touches the shirt. My husband and I were even married on the anniversary of Gramps’ passing.

    You never get over someone leaving your life in such a way. You just learn to live without their physical presence and to embrace the memories and reminders.

  7. Dear Karen, you know how much I admire you & Stephen & also how much I miss our friend Sara. Little things that once bought tears, now bring a slight smile & I know that I will laugh as I remember some special things that passed between us. Grief is so personal & some can share whereas other can’t – it’s private
    Love Joy xxxx

  8. oh Karen. My heart breaks for you and Stephen. Ironically you have a pacemaker to heal that broken heart which we know will always bare the scars of loss. The Silence of Dying has also become the Silence of Death for our little group. We feel quite adrift as such a presence can never be replaced…she was so many things to so many different groups of people. I miss her comments and advice sooooooooooo much. She was, not by her own choice, a shooting star burning brightly but she wont fade. I smile as I think of her beautiful garden blooming in her and your honour. Roll on the pages of time to soften this unfair loss. You are always in my thought and held close to my heart.

  9. Karen, my heart goes out to you. You are truly an angel. With all the illness and struggle you have had personally, you found the strength and energy to be there for Sara in her time of need. May God bless you and help you heal. You are in my prayers. The world has lost a true and amazing writer. Praise God we haven’t lost two. May Sara rest in peace. Take the time to rest and heal. All your friends and loyal fans will still be here when you are well again. xxx

  10. What an eloquent and sweet tribute and description of your path through grief!

    I am still grieving, though I do not think anywhere near as much as yiou have been. I loved her, and talked to her on most days, but we did not have 20 years of friend family behind us.

    All I can say is that you’re not alone in grief, and also not alone in the joy of seeing her in budding flowers and happy bees at nonsuch. I have pictured this many times and it soothes me. I feel like she’s still around.

    I’m glad you’re back Karen! We’ve missed you.

  11. Oh Karen that was such a beautiful post and I am glad you could share such a special time with us.

  12. Thank you, Karen for sharing such a beautiful and insightful post. Having shared my mother’s last 12mths on this planet where she too lost the battle to cancer – I relate to your every word, your every sorrow and the emptiness that it leaves behind. And now you have had a major health issue as well. I hope your pacemaker is becoming easier to live with and so glad to hear the joy of words and hope and inspiration is creeping back into your life and knowing that Sara is with you always. Much Luv Michele xxx ??

  13. Karen, your beautiful words have touched my heart and I hope have also brought you and Stephen peace. Thank you for caring.

  14. Karen, thank you for your beautiful, heart-felt post. I’m going to show it to my mum who lost her best friend to ovarian cancer two years ago. Much of what you have written I know she also went through. I hope your health and heart are on the mend.

  15. Thank you so much, all of you, for your beautiful thoughts and words. They are lovely. I wasn’t sure whether or not to write this post – I mean, I felt I had to for a whole range of reasons, but still procrastinated and wasn’t sure. You have made me feel it was right. Thank you. Thank you. xxxx

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