Corryong's Marita Albert reflects on life, loss and 'the space in between'

"I remember him standing on the other side of the kitchen and I had my boots on," she recalls.

"He was fussy about muddy boots inside ... (so) I didn't kiss him goodbye and I left."

FOURTEEN years earlier the diagnosis for the then 34-year-old Corryong farmer and dad of three had been fairly quick in one way, Marita reflects.

"Jack woke up one morning numb down one side of his face and he was slurring a bit - we thought it was Bell's palsy," she says.

Their doctor referred them to a specialist who ordered a CT scan and then sent them for an MRI; it was the late '90s and at the time there were only two machines in Australia, Marita explains.

They made their way to Canberra through bitter winter snow for an MRI that was "inconclusive".

"Basically we were told if (the symptoms) come back in two years it's MS," Marita recalls.

"All I knew about multiple sclerosis was we raised money for it in school read-a-thons and that an MS patient was a guy in a wheelchair."

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It was the first and only time Marita saw Jack cry.

"On the way home he said, 'I'll shoot myself first'," she says.

They didn't speak of it again.

"Meanwhile I was counting off the years in my head," Marita says.

Four years later Jack went shooting at a friend's property when Marita got a call to say they'd rolled the car but were fine.

On the drive home Marita's brother joked with Jack he was "getting as bad as the old man and losing his marbles".

"Jack went quiet and said, 'I think I am'," Marita says.

"He told me he had trouble balancing and when he tried to move the levers (he was a loader driver for the shire) he couldn't make his hand move."

It was back to the specialist who told them, "Ah yes, that's typical MS - didn't I tell you that last time?"

The stunned couple went home with videos and instructions about medication.

Marita got in touch with the MS Society who organised for Jack to see a neuro-psychiatrist.

"They did some testing, which showed Jack wasn't getting the typical physical symptoms but had cognitive changes," she says.

"It was like his brain was reverting to a previous saved copy on the computer and his ability to learn new skills was gone.

"It was terrible to sit there and hear it."

Jack was officially diagnosed with MS at 38 and they broke the news to family and their sons.

"They say MS doesn't kill you," Marita muses.

Slowly but surely over the years, Jack lost his independence and his memory.

It was a struggle to keep doing what he was accustomed to doing on their 80-hectare property.

"He got very frustrated and angry ... it got hard," she admits.

Eventually Jack couldn't read or follow a movie plot.

"He'd ask me what I had on tomorrow and a minute later he'd ask again," Marita explains.

"I had to learn patience."

Marita tried to compensate by going along with what Jack wanted to do.

"He used to be able to fix anything," she says.

"But he'd try to fix things and say it's buggered and we need a new one.

"I just quietly extended the mortgage."

As the MS took Jack deeper into its grip, he grew deeply depressed.

"He hated feeling a burden to me," Marita says.

THE WEEK before he died, Marita went away for a long weekend with "the girls" to celebrate her birthday.

"I rang him from up north and I remember he was just so grateful that I called him," she says.

At home on the day of her birthday she asked her husband what he wanted for dinner, suggesting nibbles and a drink.

"I knew if I told him it was my birthday he'd feel sad ... but I still felt frustrated," Marita admits.

Marita's brother rang and the cat was out of the bag.

"It was one more thing for Jack to feel bad about when he already felt bad about himself," Martia says.

ON JUNE 12, 2009 - two days after her birthday - Marita was at work when the police rang to say they'd received a "strange" call from Jack.

"At the time I thought it was odd that he hadn't rung me as we had a deal he would keep ringing if something was wrong," she explains.

She'd heard her phone ring but was on a work call.

The phone rang twice. The first call was from Jack.

"He left a message saying, 'I can't do this anymore babe, tell the boys I love them'," Marita says.

Later, she would learn Jack had hung up from her and rung triple-0.

"I followed the ambulance out; I knew he had a gun and I knew he'd be gone," she says quietly.

"The police wandered out from the back of the shed in no particular hurry ... and walked me inside."

Marita made calls and paced - "I avoided using the word suicide" - before deciding she had to see her husband of 24 years:

"I didn't need to touch him but had to see him.

"(When I did) I felt this wave of peace come over me ... it has made such a difference to me accepting it."

SUDDENLY the house was full of people; there were family, friends, food.

"I kept saying to everyone, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry'," she recalls.

"During the week of the funeral, some people said 'I suppose you'll be leaving now'.

"I kept thinking this is my home, why would I be leaving?"

Marita flung herself back into work by day and went home and sat in an empty house at night.

"I'd drink a bottle of wine, eat chocolate and sob myself to sleep," she says.

"Then I'd get up and do it all over again."

She knew she was sinking into the black hole of depression and at one point feared she too would end up taking her own life.

"I knew I couldn't dig myself out of this," she admits.

So two years later she booked herself into a health retreat at Phuket for a month and "came out a completely different person".

It was to be the start of a journey back, of healing and finding a new path in life.

It was when she first considered that she might write a book "one day".

But like any heart-breaking story, Marita could never have expected the twists still to come.

IT WOULD take her a decade - and a rather remarkable 48-hour author retreat that saw her produce 16,000 words of her book in one weekend.

She very nearly didn't go; only weeks before she was burnt out in the devastating Black Summer bushfires in January 2020.

"We had no power, no water for weeks, we lost five sheds, fencing and the orchards, and were putting sheep down," Marita says.

"I thought there's no way my head is in the right space to write a book."

The savvy publishing company asked for five photos of the farm and whipped up a nifty cover design.

So she went - "with nothing but chapter headings and a nice cover".

How the rest of the book unfolded is a story in itself but at the conclusion of the retreat a launch date of June 24, 2020, was set for Shock to Shock and The Space in Between.

Then, in quick succession, "everything happened".

Marita's father-in-law passed away in June and, very unexpectedly, her beloved mother died in November.

The awful blows of grief kept coming when Marita's older sister, who had endured cancer for nine years, lost her battle in February 2021.

Unbelievably, less than three months later Marita was diagnosed with rare and aggressive breast cancer.

She has spent the past year undergoing treatment in Melbourne - chemotherapy, surgery and radiation, which finished a month ago.

And while she's cancer free at the moment, Marita will spend the next five to 10 years on hormone blockers.

She has found peace and purpose in her energy work while mornings are spent on the farm with her small flock of Wiltshire sheep and 60 cows and calves.

She struggles most on "black fog days" when the fog sits low and only rises to the trees before descending again mid-afternoon.

"I first arrived in Corryong in it and Jack left in it," she remarks.

Marita hopes in her book, others might find comfort on their own journeys.

She is learning to live with her regrets, her grief and to let go of what could have been.

"Jack did not want me and the boys to drag ourselves down looking after him - he did it for us," Marita reflects.

"At the end of the day me kissing Jack goodbye would not have made any difference.

"(But) would I have walked across that kitchen in muddy boots? Hell yes!"

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