Amie Richardson
“Kids lose that perspective of their parent being able to make everything okay.”
Amie Richardson’s husband, Wayne Biggs, was diagnosed with aggressive lymphoma when their sons were only two and five years old. She quickly had to work out how to support her sons through his sickness, death, and beyond.
Wayne & Amie’s wedding
Amie Richardson comes across as someone who copes. A writer and communications specialist, it’s her job to find solutions, to find the way through. But when she faced life as a widow at only thirty-seven, even she needed time to work out how to massage that message.
I’d known Amie for probably ten years or so by the time we talk at her home on the Otago Peninsula. It’s not the house she and her husband Wayne lived in, but close by, and it’s one she now shares with a new partner.
Despite the ordeal she and Wayne faced, Amie tells her story fluently. She speaks quickly, with some tears, occasionally pausing to take work calls. Her life is full-on.
“I did describe myself as a ‘widow’ for some time. It was kind of like my party trick. People think you’re joking because you’re so young – how could you be a widow? I never thought I’d end up like that. When I met Wayne, he was a healthy guy and so full of life. He was the first person I’d ever wanted to have children with. I knew he was the person for me. We were a real team.”
I knew Wayne, too. I knew him before I knew Amie. He was a total top bloke. One of those enormously capable people who could turn his hand to anything, with a hilarious one-liner for any moment. We worked together in television production, and it was a job he loved almost as much as he loved Amie and their two boys, Oli and Jasper.
Before Jasper was born, Amie, Wayne and Oli moved from Wellington to Dunedin, close to Amie’s family. They lived on the spectacular Otago Peninsula in Broad Bay. Amie tells me the couple’s relationship was under some strain at that stage. She had suffered a life-threatening miscarriage, and when she got pregnant again with their second son, it led to antenatal and postnatal depression.
Then, Wayne got sick.
Amie and Wayne
“I’ve always said to close friends that things like a life-threatening illness are an amazing maker or breaker of a relationship,” says Amie. “For us, it was a total maker. When Wayne got sick, nothing else mattered to me. I put on twenty kilos, probably, looking after him. My entire focus was on him. It was all about keeping him alive.”
Wayne was diagnosed in late February 2014 and died in August 2015. On diagnosis, he was given up to ten years with chemotherapy. “We thought, ‘Ten years, that’s nothing!’ I just kept thinking, ‘It doesn't matter, there are so many changes, advances, and surely over ten years they'll come up with more treatments and he'll live way longer than that’. Ten years – it seemed, to us, that Wayne would live way past that.”
But the chemotherapy didn't work, so the couple’s expectations had to be seriously adjusted. Stronger drugs were tried.
“Those drugs also didn't work. Then we explored stem cell treatments. They managed to harvest some, which was exciting, but then they were not usable. We screened Wayne’s family, but it turned out none of that mattered because they couldn’t get Wayne’s tumours to shrink to a level where he could undergo a bone marrow transplant.
“In December 2014 we were told he was terminal, with three to six months to live.”
Wayne was fighting two types of lymphoma – an underlying lymphoma Amie says had probably been there for years, which had mutated into a more aggressive lymphoma that wasn’t responding to chemotherapy.
“Wayne totally accepted that. He didn’t go, ‘Why me?’ He went, ‘Of course, me. I’ve been dealing with chemicals pretty much my entire life’, as he grew up on a tobacco farm and had worked in other jobs with chemicals. That whole grief process, he managed that really fast. He also decided not to look for a miracle cure and put us through a cycle of hope, and use up what little money we had.
“He accepted his lot far quicker than I accepted it for him. Of course, he minded, but he wanted to live what life he had left, for whatever time he had left.”
Wayne and Michael Huddleston ‘Hudsie’
Amie’s role after that, as she saw it, was helping Wayne do what he wanted to do before he died. And what he wanted was to spend a week or so riding his beloved scooter around the South Island with his best mate, Hudsie, raising money and awareness about lymphoma and blood diseases, filming as he went.
“But I didn’t perceive his trip like that at the time. From my selfish side, he was going away from us for a week when he had very limited time left. It's hard looking after someone who's dying. There's the constant guilt that they're dying, and that if they want something, you feel like you can’t think about yourself. You have to put them first. But people undergoing chemotherapy can be really hard work, too. They feel rotten and they’re dying and they know they won’t see their kids grow up. It’s a totally shit situation.”
In July 2015 Wayne went to the hospital for the last time. It was a quick trip – he was sent back home to die. He lasted five more weeks, nursed by Amie with daily support from hospice nurses, and their family GP who visited Wayne most days.
With the constant care requirements and the medication and needles in the house, Amie knew their two small boys had to be elsewhere. “We thought it would be only for a short time, so Jasper went to my mum’s and Oli went to stay with my brother and his family. Both boys would come and see their dad at different times, most days, one at a time.
“Those five weeks were so intense, but so full of love. We’d hold hands and talk about the past, and we’d hold the boys. We also talked about what might happen after he was gone. Like, how would I know I was doing the right thing? What if Wayne might be disappointed in what I did, in what I decided for the boys as they grew up? He kept saying that he knew I’d make the right decision, because it would be me making that decision.”
When Wayne died, Jasper was three and Oli was six. “Oli had just had his first few weeks at school when Wayne got sick, and suddenly his whole world was turned upside down. He didn't even know who would be picking him up from school every day. It was a lot for a little kid.”
Amie says that the impact did result in some behaviour changes in Oli, like some trouble with toileting. “And me, I had to learn to live without Mr Practical. I mean, I didn’t even know how to use the lawn mower, and suddenly I had to do it all. Wayne was such a great dad, so hands-on.”
On diagnosis, every parent must decide how much to share, how much to tell their children. They must work through the calculus of how much their children can process and cope with. Even though their children were very young, Amie and Wayne wanted to be as transparent as possible.
“We told them straight away. We wanted to keep them informed right the way through. Kids tend to think that if someone is in a bad mood, it’s their fault – that was certainly my experience growing up – and we wanted to eliminate that possibility. We wanted them to know, without making them frightened, that Dad was very sick and we were doing everything we could to make him well, but we didn’t know what was going to happen.
“Oli didn't believe his dad was going to die right up to the end. I remember the day before Wayne died, the family came around, and Wayne got up and sat in a chair, but he wasn’t really with it. Oli had come too, and afterwards I said to him, ‘Darling, I don’t know how long Daddy’s got to live’, and I gave him a big hug. And Oli said, ‘Dad’s fine, he's fine, he's still there’.”
Oli has said he can remember the day Wayne died. “Oli remembers me arriving at Simon’s house where he’d been staying. He came out and saw me – I hadn’t left the house before without Wayne, and Oli knew that if I’d left the house alone, something was not right. We sat outside on the steps, and I told him, and he looked at me with this desperate look of ‘just make it better’. I couldn’t make it better. It was so horrible.
“There’s a loss of innocence when a parent dies. Kids lose that perspective of their parent being able to make everything okay. I kept that up until Wayne died, pretty much. But then I couldn’t do anything to make it right. At six years old, Oli lost that surety that everything will be okay at the end of the day.”
The words used to tell a child their parent has died are so important. Amie says the words should be kind but clear, so there’s no confusion. Amie can’t remember exactly what she said to Oli in that moment, but she and Wayne had discussed some of the wording.
“The one thing Wayne wanted me to remember was to never say to the boys they had ‘lost’ him, ‘lost their father’. He hated that term, like somehow it was their fault, that they had somehow mislaid him. He wanted me to use words like ‘dying’ or ‘dead’, rather than ‘passed away’ or ‘lost’. So, I think that’s what I said. I think I said something like, ‘Daddy has died and I’m so sorry’. We hugged, and I took him home, and we hung out for the rest of that day.”
Wayne had been taken from the house by then but was soon returned to lie at home. Oli didn’t want to stay in the house with his dad, and Amie said it took him a long time to even go into the room where Wayne lay. She gradually coaxed him in by first letting him see Wayne via a mirror hung to show the coffin. Then the day before the funeral, Oli went and wrote a message on Wayne’s bright orange coffin and looked at his dad.
“Jasper, on the other hand, who was three, was hanging out in there like he was fine with it all. He kept singing that ‘Daddy is in our hearts, in our hearts’, which must have been what I’d said, that ‘he’ll always be with us in our hearts’. I’d told Jasper that Daddy had died, but he didn’t fully understand the concept, of course, and neither did Oli. ‘Dead’ was just a word to them. This was their first experience of death.”
Both boys were involved in the funeral as much or as little as they wanted, and Amie would never have considered them not going. “Wayne had an open coffin, and his big wish was for everyone to hang out and have a cup of tea. He would not have liked his boys not to be there. Jasper basically played around the coffin the whole time, while Oli was much quieter. It was pretty full-on for him.”
Amie and the boys moved back into the house the night of the funeral, and they slept together for months. “I wanted them close, and they wanted to be close, and it felt like the best thing. There were days I felt like I didn’t want to get up, but I did it for them, for my boys.”
Oli stayed off school for about a week. Amie made sure he knew he could go back to school, that she would be okay without him, that it was okay to go on with life.
Wayne, Amie and their boys
“I wanted to keep things ‘normal’, but that can go too far. The community was amazing while Wayne was sick and during the funeral, but I think many people found it difficult in the weeks and months that followed. I remember the day after Wayne died, driving into town for the first time on my own and being utterly shocked by the brutality of everyday life. Here I was coping with this catastrophic event, and everyone was just walking to the shops, or driving their cars to work, and I remember thinking, ‘How can the world not stop? Wayne is dead, but everything is just going on as normal’. It felt that way for a long time.
“When Oli got back to school, they tried to get things ‘back to normal’ for him. But nothing is the same. And I understand it’s hard because you’re only six years old, and maybe if people talk about your dead father, you feel like you have to be all sad, and you don’t have the option to be happy and have a normal day at school. I remember feeling upset on his behalf. There is this huge, devastating, life-changing thing that has happened and no one is talking about it.”
Back at home, for some time, Wayne’s things stayed as they had been when he was still alive. His jacket still smelled of him, and Amie would put it on and give the boys “Daddy hugs”. A life-sized cutout from the lymphoma fundraising film Wayne made called “Tiny Wheels” remained in the living room and became known as “Daddy Cutout”. A big soft toy turtle had a Wayne-smelling t-shirt pulled over it for more hugging opportunities. It was Amie’s way of keeping Wayne present for the boys – and for her.
“Oli is very empathetic, and he really looked after me. If I looked sad, he’d go and get Daddy Cutout and walk him towards me, talking in his Daddy voice. It was amazing. And he might call my mother to come over and help if he was worried. But I always got up for the boys. I always did my best.”
While checking in with the boys about their feelings meant reminding them of their dad’s death, Amie says talking about it was – and still is – important.
Jasper, Wayne & Oli
“Having your father die is a massive thing. I want the boys to know they can talk about it, that nothing is off the table. Often, especially early on, we’d talk about it while driving home, so we’re in the car. I’d usually start it off by talking about how I was feeling that day, or what I had been thinking about, or what I was missing. Then I might say, ‘How are you guys? Do you miss Daddy? How are you missing Daddy? Do you want to talk about it?’ And if they wanted to talk, we would.
“Other times it might be just taking any opportunity to mention him, so, ‘Oh, you like that chocolate? That was Daddy’s favourite as well,’ which makes them feel connected to Wayne because they like the same chocolate, and maybe they got that preference from him.
“That is all about finding roundabout ways for them to talk about Wayne and how they might be feeling, without always saying, ‘How are you?’”
Amie says, when talking about Wayne to the boys, she tries not to deify him or let others make him out as an angel, so they get the full picture of their father. “No one is perfect, and Wayne didn’t want people to make him out to be a martyr, so I do try to keep it balanced.”
Wayne's grave
It may sound macabre, or mightily handy, but the cemetery where Wayne is buried is visible from their new house. Thus, it’s a short walk for the boys to go and visit Wayne. “We go quite a lot, and we take Wayne cake because that man loved cake. Each of the boys gets time alone to talk to Daddy. Sometimes they tell me what they talked about, sometimes they don’t.”
It took a long time for Amie to change anything around the house she and Wayne had shared. Over time, having “Daddy reminders” around became less important for the three of them, and they were gradually removed. Amie would ask the boys if they were ready to put something aside before removing it.
Not to be culled were the little things Wayne had taken care to leave behind for his sons – mementos, legacy pieces, heirlooms, reminders. Wayne had written cards for each of their next birthdays, Amie included, and made memory boxes for Oli and Jasper, filled with bits and pieces he’d accumulated over his life that meant something.
“It was exhausting for him to do those things. His “Tiny Wheels” documentary, which told the story of his week-long journey around the South Island on his scooter, was also his way of showing the boys who he was. I had forgotten, but Wayne and I did a whole series of interviews in those final weeks, with me asking him about all sorts of things. The boys will be able to watch those videos. And they have lots of photos of Wayne in their bedrooms and access to lots more digitally.”
I’m somewhat envious, but also grateful on their behalf, that Oli and Jasper have access to gigabytes of material about their father. They’ll be able to see him move, hear him speak, know for sure what he thought, how he felt. They will know his favourite kind of cake.
Wayne, Oli, & baby Jasper
When Amie and I talk, Wayne has been dead for six years. Life has moved on a lot for the family. They have a new father figure in their lives, they live in a new house, and they talk about their dad less and less. “Now, maybe it’s monthly,” says Amie.
“We talk about him at milestones. Me turning forty-four was a big one as Wayne died when he was forty-three, so they were quizzing me on how I felt about being older than Daddy. Jasper said he thought it will be weird when he’s forty-four as then he’ll be older than his dad. He thought that was a funny, weird thing.”
When Amie and her partner moved in together, they had to make hard decisions about how much of life with Wayne to bring with them. Even before that, Amie had to decide about getting romantically involved at all.
“When Wayne died, I leaned on my male friends a lot as I wanted a male perspective on everything. None of it was romantic. It took a long time before I thought about having another relationship. However, Oli wanted me to find another man straight away – he wanted a new dad.
“I thought that was harsh, but he was used to having four people in his house, and now he had only three people, and he didn’t feel as safe. He wanted four again and as soon as possible. It could’ve been anyone. My Mum would come and stay and he’d feel better.”
Amie says the boys seem fine, but she’s acutely aware that Wayne’s sickness and death will have affected them.
“Throughout chemotherapy, Wayne was immunocompromised so there were a lot of alarming trips to the emergency department. There was a life-or-death situation on a weekly basis. My mother could come over in the middle of the night, or the boys would be sent off to stay with family. Oli’s first year of school was compromised, Jasper had to come out of daycare, I had to stop work and nurse Wayne. For that year, my entire focus was on Wayne. I couldn’t focus on the boys. The boys ate a lot of baked beans and spaghetti that year, and any screen-time limits went out the window.
“The thing is, if I'm completely honest, I don't feel like there's anything I could have done better or worse. I said to my sister-in-law one day, ‘I should have died – Wayne would have done this way better’, meaning about looking after the kids and moving on. But she said, as I was sobbing away, ‘No one can do it better. You just do it. There’s no right or wrong’. And I think that’s right. You find your way of doing it.
“Maybe you need to be closed off for a while, or maybe you put it all out there, but you do what works for you and your kids. Just be confident that you’re making the best choice because it’s you who is making it.
“I’m lucky that Wayne was prepared to talk it all through – he’d even planned his funeral. Then I picked up from where he left off when he died and tried to make sense of it all. I tried to make the boys feel as safe as I possibly could.”
Amie says when she looks at photos of herself from that time, she sees a woman who was living for other people. After Wayne’s death she was able to concentrate on herself again, getting herself fit and healthy. That’s for her boys, too.
She’s done therapy, and still does sometimes, to work through stuff, and is open to the kids needing to go if they want to. “I still think, ‘When is the trauma going to show? When are they going to get really fucked up?’ Because there’s this narrative of people being screwed up by their parents dying at a young age, so I’m always on the lookout for the signs that they’re fucked in the head. To date, those signs haven’t come, but I’m always terrified they’re about to show.
“I do think about how different the boys might turn out without his influence. One thing they might not develop is the same sense of humour. Wayne was very, very funny. He had such clever, quick responses at his disposal every single time. He was super dry. Without that around them every day, hearing that, will they have the sense of humour they may have had?
“All I can do is do my best for the kids, and some days my best is shit. That’s what you need to understand as the parent that’s left – you are going through this terrible grief and you’re trying not to traumatise your children, and some days you can’t control it. You’re in survival mode, and your best intentions die the moment you wake up and that person isn’t there.”
But the surviving parent and the children are still there. Amie says, while yes, the kids perhaps could have eaten better and had less screen-time over Wayne’s sickness and death, they also had a lot of her time. “We did a lot of hanging out together, reading books. We did whatever I could cope with together.
“Being a unit, being one unit. That’s how we got through it.”