Hope as my Compass Catherine DeVrye Hope as my Compass copyright © 2005, 2006, 2007, 2012 Catherine DeVrye First published 2005 by Random House Australia as ‘Who Says I Can’t’ Published 2007 by McArthur Press Canada as ‘Serendipity Road’ Hope as my Compass e-book edition copyright © 2012 All rights reserved. This book is copyright © Catherine DeVrye and may not be electronically forwarded to others without permission from the author. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. Everest Press PO Box 559 Manly 1655 NSW, Australia Phone: (61) 2 9977 3177 Email: [email protected] Web: www.greatmotivation.com Contents Prelude 1. Searching 2. Granddad 3. Secrets 4. Detour to Dreams 5. Much Education, Little Wisdom 6. Mother’s Day 7. She’ll Be Right, Mate 8. Public Service 9. Lucky Country 10. Big Brothers 11. Seasons of the Heart 12. A Change of Career Path 13. Tokyo Tremors 14. Himalayan Horizons 15. Hope as My Compass 16. Bridging News 17. Family Tree 18. Meet and Greet 19. Expect the Unexpected 20. Opening Up 21. Never Ask “What If . .?” 22. Safari Whispers 23. On Top of Africa 24. Dare to be Different 25. Executive Woman of the Year 26. Small-Business Direction 27. Horizon of Hope 28. Police Operations and Strange Encounters 29. A Girl’s Best Friend 30. Almost on Top of the World 31. Waves of Change 32. Help Others Help Themselves 33. Cancer Scare 34. Countries of Contrast 35. Different Tracks and Truths 36. Mid-Life Opportunities 37. My Adopted Country 38. Memories of Tomorrow Acknowledgements List of Illustrations Personal Photographs Other Books by Catherine DeVrye For Mum, Dad and Granddad … and anyone who has adopted a child, a country or an optimistic outlook. Prelude What a good thing it would be to be liberated from any filial complex or be an orphan. Miles Franklin By the time I was twenty-two, I had been orphaned twice. Admittedly, somewhat melodramatic, this statement is technically true. It feels a little strange to now write about events in my life that even close friends were previously unaware of. I suppose I never told anyone because I wanted neither their sympathy nor their curiosity. Or maybe I was simply afraid that the facts would make me seem even more different than I already felt. In March 1994, I was invited to tell my story at an International Women’s Day function in Melbourne. I struggled nervously to prepare my speech, and shared my life’s journey as best I could. I was staggered by the response. Many commented that I’d changed their life that day. That certainly was not my intention. Those are amazing circumstances and coincidences. You ought to write a book. How often had friends said likewise? But, for the life of me, I couldn’t comprehend why anyone would be interested to read about my life. Then again, the comments of others had prompted me to pen best-selling business books. So I now offer my personal story and hope it may help others clear hurdles of aloneness, identity and grief far faster, and more elegantly, than I did. It’s by far the toughest thesis I’ve tackled. But if sharing my sojourn of loss and renewal might lighten someone else’s load, then maybe it’s time to tie together the loose threads of narrative previously confined to the private pages of the diary that I’ve kept almost every night since I was sixteen. This story isn’t just about me. It’s about all of us, because trauma strikes each of us sooner or later. In my case, it happened to be sooner—and if I’d known about some of the setbacks in advance, I’d have said I couldn’t cope. But what I have learnt is that we do cope. I was just an ordinary person, forced to face extraordinary circumstances relatively early in life. Only a minority learn from other people’s mistakes. The majority of us are those “other” people. Often, we are so paralyzed by events that we can see no light at the end of the tunnel—or fear it’s a train coming the other way. Blinded to any potential opportunities, our self-confidence disappears in the shadows of sorrow and self-pity. Although we can’t always control events in our lives, we can always control how we react to those events. It is our choice alone whether we adopt a positive or negative attitude in the face of adversity—to be victims or victors of those potholes in the road. If we approach bleak situations with a lightness of heart and spirit, stumbling blocks can become stepping stones. If you’ve ever felt alone, that no-one understands or you don’t quite fit in, be assured that you’re not on your own. Others share similar inner insecurities and fears. In unearthing the life-affirming aspects of seemingly despairing situations, we become empowered to take personal responsibility for our lives. This book is written from the heart. Admittedly, the heart was sometimes on the sleeve in early drafts, when I shed enough tears to be convinced of a market for waterproof computer keyboards! Everything isn’t always as rosy as it might appear on the surface. It’s been tough to write my story and perhaps I’ve dug up emotional artifacts best left buried in the archives of time. Maybe I’ll look back with regret on these words because my views and values will surely change over the next twenty years, just as they have over the course of my life so far. That’s the risk I take. Conceived before the advent of the pill, I came into the world as an illegitimate baby, surrounded by shame in that era. Maybe it wasn’t exactly what one would call a great start in the game of life but I’m grateful that it made me a player. My birth mother gave me the chance of a lifetime in a lifetime of chance. Luck was with me from the start and life has since offered more success and joy than I ever dreamed possible. It’s there for us all so that’s why I’m now happy to tell anyone who’s interested. But there was a time when I wouldn’t have told anyone at all… Chapter 1: Searching Tokyo, 28 May 1986. Name? Address? Blood type? I answered their questions as best I could. I was ill-plus and sick and tired of communicating via interpreters. My answers had been impatient and automatic until I heard: Next of kin? I gazed up at the concerned faces of these Japanese nurses. Next of kin? Something tore inside me. “None,” I replied, fighting back tears because all I wanted was my mother. I wanted to feel her arms around me. I wanted to hear her say that everything would be all right. But that was impossible. She couldn’t comfort me now. Even less than I could her when I’d helplessly watched her release her hold on life thirteen years before, only a year after my father had also died of cancer in hospital rooms not dissimilar to this one—but on the other side of the world. Now as I lay between starched white sheets, it felt as if their deaths had happened only yesterday. No next of kin. The medicos scrawled on their clipboard notes, or perhaps simply ticked a box. The clinical questioning continued. “Any hereditary diseases?” the interpreter asked. I looked into the dark eyes of these people crowded around my bed—kind strangers whose fathers may have fought against my own during World War II. I bit my lower lip and again hesitated to answer. They had a right to ask. They needed some clues to work out what was wrong with me. A heavy silence lingered in the sterile hospital air as my mind swam and I managed to whisper, “I don’t know.” They looked at each other, surprise registering on their faces. “What do you mean, you don’t know?” “I was…I was…adopted.” The shame of that stigma, especially in Japan. I never thought I’d have to tell anyone again. There was never any need to. They sucked air between their teeth, as is custom. Then silence again. Something else was written down. The origin of my illness remained a mystery. The medicos left and I sobbed quietly into my pillow. I felt vulnerable and disconnected from anything familiar in a strange country. It was not exactly what one would expect of a so-called tough IBM executive but I couldn’t have cared less. At that moment in the Japanese hospital, I was alone as I had been in the beginning. Except I don’t remember the beginning—who does? We can only rely on other people’s memories of those early days. Yet I do remember 1973, as if it were yesterday—sitting in a bank vault, looking down at an assortment of my parents’ legal documents—those neatly typed certificates, proof of their existences. I needed my mother’s birth certificate before I could obtain her death certificate to arrange her funeral. In the safety deposit box, I found a document on Department of Public Welfare letterhead, dated 26 February 1951.