Eight: The Shift

Jean, 42

I lost my mother when I was nine.

Mum was always unwell. When I think back to my childhood, she was always quite unwell. She had Ulcerous Colitis and was diagnosed with that when she was 16 or 17. There were always gut issues for her as I was growing up.

When I was five, she was diagnosed with Bowel Cancer. She had an operation at that point and everything sort of quietened down and went into remission.

When I was nine, the cancer came back. She did have another operation but she also chose not to take all the treatment options that were offered to her.

My mum and dad divorced when I was four and dad got remarried. He has other children with that wife. I was living with mum so it was essentially just the two of us full-time in that single parent relationship. We were very, very close.

She had a group of very close women friends. We were living up in Fremantle so they were very present during that time. As mum started to get sicker and entering that phase of coming to the end of her life, my maternal grandparents from New Zealand came over. My mum's sister also arrived. All of us lived in the house together for those last months.

It was just such a beautiful time to have that extended family there. Having it just so quiet with just mum and I together, living that life then having all the kind of funny, messy craziness of extended family life and what that looks like. That was a very rich time having them there.

She was a really gentle person and incredibly creative. I remember her very much doing a lot of sewing. She worked on the sewing machine a lot and used to make puppets and costumes and these puppet magic wand things. A big part of what I remember about her is her sewing and the sound of the sewing machine and the smell of the sewing machine.

I often feel sad about that because I don't know how to sew at all. It was just too much for her to try and teach somebody to do that. She just needed that as her therapy I guess. Just to sew and create.

Even at the end of her life, when there was all the health issues going on, I know she picked up other types of art. She started sketching a bit and then also playing with watercolours. I remember going down to the beach with her a lot and her just playing with watercolours to do the sunset down at Port Beach in Fremantle.

Her reading her book and me chatting away. Very natural. Very close. She was very affectionate. There was lots of hugs and just being together in simple ways.

As I think back on it, she was probably very acutely aware of how precious this time was. Not having any other children or a partner who was permanently there. It was very much just the two of us in our relationship.

I think she was very connected to nature. That was a big part of her as well. Whenever I said that I was bored or I didn't have anything to do, she'd tell me to go and make something for the fairies. I'd go into the garden and I'd just spend hours... I'd get lost in making little walnut shell beds and little umbrellas. That really connected me to that spirit of nature. Being a custodian of that. Being a caretaker of our environment. That was something that was really imprinted on me from her life and the way that she lived.

Because her sickness was a big part of our time together, it was the way that she ... It kind of came more afterwards - I guess it was imprinted at that time - that I developed more of an understanding. Really understanding how she did tread her own path and responded to things that came up in her life in a way that was really true to her. I think that's really marked me as well about how I approach my life.

I can only remember a couple of times of when mum wasn't well enough to get up and make dinner or something. I would really enjoy boiling some eggs or doing something and bringing that to her. I don't ever remember feeling any sort of responsibility in that way that I had to take care of her or feeling any burden from that at all.

I guess in some ways, and being an only child as well, probably the greatest thing I remember is sometimes on the weekends wanting to go and do more. But mum needed to be in bed and just needed [for it] to be quiet. That's a little bit difficult and days can drag on a bit when you've got to do that.

I really enjoyed school. I went to a Montessori School up in Mosman Park. Mum was a primary school teacher and the close girlfriends that she had all had daughters my age. When friends came over maybe to be with mum or support her in different ways, it wasn't really evident that was what was happening as well. They would have their daughter there and we'd play. It was a bit seamless in that way.

She worked quite far into her illness. I think she must have finished work the year before, in 1986, because she died in a March. I remember the presents and things coming home and the card saying that they were going to miss her. She really did work right up until the end.

I think she dealt with her illness incredibly well. I'm starting to realise more as I grow up. I think a big part of her own personal treatment was really looking at some of her own personal issues, childhood issues. She really ventured into that place of having one-on-one therapy sessions and group therapy sessions. She was really wanting to uncover what was there for her. That was a big part of her healing and I think that's how she understood it. She realised that this was an opportunity for her to explore other parts of herself and maybe heal some of those parts.

My grandparents were quite involved when they came over from New Zealand and they were there for about six months or more. I think my granddad went back to New Zealand but my nana stayed on. They were involved a lot and they were incredible.

They also struggled with some of that personal growth work that she was doing. That was quite difficult for them and it was something that they had never delved into. That was something that I only sort of learned a bit more about later on.

When you're starting to have a look at that, certainly issues come up with how you were raised or parental issues. They were a close family but there were still things there. That was challenging for my grandparents.

There was a dedication to the journey and what was happening. Certainly there was parts that she found really hard. I think she engaged fully with what was happening.

Mum had a little bit of treatment. She did have some chemo. I wasn't really aware of what was on offer. I only heard snippets of stories when you are a child.

I remember her deciding to not have her bowel fully removed. That was something that was on the table and I remember that it was interesting for me as a child, hearing her say that. She was like, "I want to keep my bowel. I don't want to have that removed. I want to keep it intact as much as I can."

I remember thinking, "That sounds fair enough. That sounds reasonable."

She was a very strong woman in how she wanted to approach her illness and her end-of-life. She really stood by that.

I think there's different ways to do things. I often find if people tell me this is how it has to be and this is what you need to do in response, I often don't believe that for a minute. There's always other options of ways to do things.

Mum decided to have a Living Funeral. That was still in summer so it was only a month or two before she died. That was the things that I remember the most.

[I like this idea of the ill person being active rather than passive.]

It was in Serpentine. That was a space that the people that she was seeing for therapy had as a therapeutic retreat. I remember very strongly that mum was in the middle and all her friends made a big circle around her. People sang songs. Everyone had an opportunity to speak, and to speak to mum about their friendship and their relationship with her.

I wasn't in the circle. I chose to stand and just to observe. I remember being really taken by it and finding the whole thing beautiful and fascinating. I was just really intrigued at the ceremony of it, the ritual around saying goodbye.

I also remember though how incredibly confronting that was again for my grandparents. They stood literally outside, looking in. My mum's dad just ended up going for a walk around the bushland because I think it was just too painful for him to see his daughter ... just having that confirmation that she is going to die. She's not dead yet but she is going to die.

That experience was a really meaningful thing for my mum. It was quite big. There must have been at least 50 people in the circle. It took a long time.

She had pretty comfy bed in the centre and she was lying down. They made a bed up for her.

I remember the actual drive from Fremantle out to Serpentine was a big deal. It was difficult for her to be in the car and to be comfortable and to make that journey.

I think it did hold a lot of meaning and a lot of value for her. It was just that whole collective holding of everyone there and everyone with that intention to share.

My mum was responding but she was also just taking it in as by that point she was quite weak and quite frail. She didn't have a lot of energy and I imagine she may have even slipped in and out of sleep as well. There was definitely response and there was recognition, being able to really feel those words and the love of people.

I imagine a big part of that letting go - when you've got an only child and you're not with your husband - is just to feel community. To be reminded that there is community there and to trust that whatever is to come will be ok. For myself as a mother, that would be something that would be really reassuring to me to feel that.

They did sing Amazing Grace as the whole group. That was really moving and beautiful. I wonder what that experience would have been for mum, right in the centre of all of those voices surrounding you.

Her passing was an interesting experience because I remember the details of her dying so clearly.

I used to go and stay with my dad every second weekend. It was full-time with mum and it was his weekend, the weekend she died. He was living in the hills and mum lived in Fremantle. So we went up to the hills and we'd got into bed. It was about 10 o'clock on Saturday night and dad came in. I was just about asleep and he said, "This is ridiculous! I need to take you back home. You need to be with your mum."

He bundled me in the car and drove from Mundaring down to Fremantle. I feel asleep and woke up Sunday morning back at home with mum and my nana and pop and my aunty.

It was a really hot Sunday in March. Mum was really quiet and in her bed. My aunty loved the beach so my nana, aunty and pop went down to South Beach and I played on the beach and went swimming. It was really, really hot! I collected up all this seawater and shells and seaweed because I wanted to make my own rock pool when I got home.

I came home and I was making the rock pool outside. It must have been about one o'clock and my aunty came and said, "You need to come inside."

I came in and went into mum's room. My nana said to me, "Your mum is going to die soon. Go and tell her that you love her." I went over to mum and gave her a big hug and a kiss and I said, "She knows that I love her."

I ran out of the room, back to my rock pool and made my ...

Her best friend was there. My nana, my pop and my aunt were in the room when she died. About 10 minutes later my aunty came out and said that mum had died. I came in. She was just in her bed and I then just had the most beautiful couple of hours with her. With her body.

It wasn't something so much that was planned but being the 1980s and a Sunday, I don't think the Funeral Director got the message for a while.

I had this gift of two hours, it might have even been more, of just being in the room with mum. We'd been so close but as she got sicker and sicker and frailer and frailer, I hadn't been able to kind of jump all over her and hug her and do what I'd always done.

After she died, I just spent these incredible two hours with her. I was on the bed and brushing her hair and putting her favourite perfume on. I picked flowers and put them all over her. I was trying to close one of her eyes that just didn't seem to close.

She just looked so beautiful. The pain had gone. Taking in every inch of her body. I remember at one point I looked at her feet and her ankles were crossed. I thought to myself, "I wonder if that's when everyone dies? Their ankles are crossed when they die." [laughs]

Just having these little girl thoughts as you're going about just being with my beloved mum's body. It was just this really intimate, beautiful time.

When the Funeral Director arrived, he was a very lovely guy. He just explained what he was doing as he moved her body and was taking her body away. The whole way he was just very open and honest and had a lot of empathy. He was really straight up which I really appreciated. There wasn't any attempt to make it any different to what it was.

I always imagine what would have happened if I hadn't have got that. I think that would have changed my whole experience of my mum's death.

She died on a Sunday and her Funeral was on the Wednesday. It must have been the Monday and my nana took me to the Funeral Parlour to see her body again. That was awful. She was so cold and stiff. Everything had been forced into a position that just wasn't hers. Everything was hard.

It was like this contrast to this home, this warmth and this softness and then this... hardness of everything. You could just get a sense of everything being stitched and closed. She wasn't there anymore.

I left really quickly. I didn't want to stay. I didn't want that to be my memory of her.

The funeral was quite meaningless for me. I think there were a lot of people there. It was at the Fremantle Cemetery. She was cremated. I just remember being very alone. No-one sort of talked to me. I think everyone felt so sad and pained by the whole situation. I felt everybody's pity, really strongly.

I didn't get it. I didn't understand their pity and their sympathy. My mum had died but just there wasn't any space for the experience that I had and the beauty of that experience. There wasn't any space to share that. No-one was able to be curious about what my experience was and be able to approach me in that space. It was too hard for people to even come close to me.

My grandparents were there. My nana and I got very close in the lead up to mum's death. We used to walk the streets really early in the morning. She was a early riser and we used to walk the streets and talk and just be together.

They were well versed, I guess being older and being at other people's funerals, of the process and the procedure of what a funeral looks like. They knew what to expect and how to behave. Where people were coming from I guess.

I can't remember much at all about the funeral. It's so interesting ... I cannot remember ... I remember buying my outfit and my nana saying that we weren't going to wear black. I remember shopping for this dress to wear to the funeral.

I used to sing a lot in the back of the car and I used to love singing Somewhere over the rainbow. My nana really, really wanted me to get up and sing. I was so adamant that I was not going to sing. I felt a kind of pressure that she wanted me to do that so that it would ... I could feel that it was for other people. It wasn't something that I wanted to do and I felt that it was going to be a performance. I think I really felt that gaze of that pity and I didn't want to put myself in a place where that would be amplified.

At the time, I didn't really talk about the funeral at all [with my family]. I never really shared that with anyone. In some ways, I think that would have held more meaning for me or there would have been a greater sense of sadness and disappointment and incomplete process if I hadn't have had ... the living funeral but also that time I had just after she died. That, for me, really was the ritual and the ceremony that I needed.

In some ways, I just didn't ... it was more like ... this is weird and this is kind of irritating. "What are we even doing here?" It just felt like it had no meaning. I already had this kind of preciousness with this experience that I'd had previously. It kind of didn't stick. It was such a meaningless thing for me.

I remember us having this really strong time at home - it must have been after the funeral - with all the sympathy cards and flowers. The sympathy cards were all over the kitchen and I got so angry this one night. I started taking them down and my nana was really upset that I was taking them down.

I was taking them down because I didn't feel that people's pity and their sympathy was something that I wanted to be surrounded by. I didn't have the language as a 9-year old to explain that. That was difficult.

I guess with my nana losing a child and me losing a mother, we kind of gained each other in that time. It was such a huge loss. She's now died. We were quite different people but we always had this very strong bond through that shared experience. That loss of somebody so important in our lives.

Mum was a kiwi. Her ashes were divided in half and half was to be taken back to New Zealand and sprinkled in a river in the North Island.

My New Zealand family sent me a fridge magnet which I had on the fridge for a while so that I knew where it had been. It was a very funny looking magnet with a blurry picture of a volcano. [laughs]

Equally, someone took a photo of them sprinkling the ashes into the river and it was just the funniest picture. It was so blurry and I couldn't see anything. They were the two keepsakes from that part of the ashes sprinkling.

The other half we sprinkled at the same place where she had the living funeral, out in Serpentine. There was an area in the bushland, like a bush chapel. That had bench seats there and so we gathered there. There was a circle of trees that we sprinkled the ashes around. She used to like to go and sit there.

When we sprinkled the ashes it was quite windy. I remember putting some up into the air ... or maybe my nana was putting them up into the air in front of me and then I inhaled. [laughs]

I remember feeling quite chuffed in a way by that. That I'd inhaled some of mum's ashes. That I'd sort of absorbed ... digesting some of my mother.

I have been back again. It's a difficult place to access. The people who owned it don't own it anymore.

I remember being really fascinated by these ashes as well. When they came home I looked through them and I found something that I thought looked like a filling.

Mum's ashes were just in a plastic box and I do remember it feeling quite insignificant. This is what you end up receiving at the end of the day.

"I'll just put that on the shelf." [laughs]

I remember my father not really being very present. He was going through his own stuff in his own personal life. His own self-exploration. He was also having a separation period from my step mother. He was very kind of focussed on that in a way. He was sort of around but I can't ever really remember him being this solid rock of a father.

That was really difficult. I know that was so painful for my nana because they left. They settled the estate and got everything sorted and then went back to New Zealand. I was left with dad in the hills.

Another saving grace was that dad lived up in this community, up in the hills. In some ways it was a strange place but it was a very naturally beautiful place. That's where I found ... I guess ... my anchor after mum died. I used to wander around in bush, along the creek lines and the streams. I really entered in that space of what mum had shared with me.

This place had acres and acres of space and there was paddock and there was bushland and creeks. Big orchards and things. I used to just go and lose myself in those places. That's were I really found that solace and companionship of nature. That's when I really felt that ability of nature ... there's just no judgement and there's no questions or avoidance. It's just there for you.

It's able to hold that space. I guess it can bear witness to whatever you are going through and it doesn't need to change it for you.

Something happened when mum died. [laughs] I was talking to a friend about this sort of download that happened. That's the best way I can describe it. I really felt like with the magnitude of what happened and the intensity of it, there was also some sort of strength or confidence that came with mum's death.

That really held me for quite a long time and there was an anchoring in that experience. I really found my voice at that time which I hadn't before.

Living up in the hills, dad said, "Just go to local primary school." I just went, "I'm not going to go to the local primary school. I'm going to go to my school." He went, "That's ridiculous! How are you going to get there?"

I did all my own research. I worked out that if I got up at five o'clock in the morning and then walked to the bus stop, I could catch the bus down to Midland Train Station, change trains in Perth and then catch it down to Victoria Street Station. I could then walk down to our school on the beach. [laughs]

It was a long, long way! Especially back in those days.

Dad didn't think it was a great idea but I just did it. I used to put my alarm clock at the other side of the room so that I'd have to get out of bed and go and turn it off. I would make my own lunch and just get the whole thing happening.

I guess there was some part of me - it wasn't a conscious thing - that went, "Why would I leave my beloved teachers?" It was a very small, close knit school. I just continued on and kept that part of my life going when dad had suggested that I just stay close.

My relationship with my dad is a whole other story in itself. It's actually a really, really good relationship, especially now. From what I can see now from that time, he was doing the best that he could with what he had available to him. As I got older, I've learnt more and more about his family life.

I didn't know at the time but I know now that he was doing the best that he could. That was what it looked like. Even then, it wasn't like I held it against him. I sometimes didn't quite understand why he didn't support me in different ways.

I just went, "If he's not going to do it, I'm not going to spend time trying to make him do it. I'm just going to get on with what I want to do to make this thing happen."

I am very grateful for whatever it was that kept me ... there were just moments, there were people and things that came at the right time that helped to hold me in something while everything else was pretty crazy.

As I grew up and became a teenager, I thought mum's death was my 'issue'. I didn't ever really truly feel anything was stuck around it or that I had problems with it.

I remember once talking to someone and he wanted to get a bit of a history and said, "Tell me a bit about your story or things that have happened in your life that might be useful to know."

I started offering up the story of mum's death and saying that this might be where some of my issues come from.

He went, "Tell about your relationship with your dad."

I just then absolutely ... the tears came and all the emotion came. I think in that realisation it was like, "Wow! He's still alive and I've potentially got a lot more time with him. There's a lot of stuff that I really need to work through with him."

I've never really dealt with it or gone and done things professionally.

My dad, in all of the interesting things that happened in my life after mum died, is a very open person and he has had a lot of therapy himself. We've been able to have some very frank, open discussions for me to be able to share things with him and for him to be able to hear them and acknowledge them. He can apologise or give some sort of explanation of where he was.

We've been able to work through a lot of stuff between the two of us.

I often joke that I've got so many fathers, more dads than I can poke a stick at. [laughs] I've got my own dad. I've got my step dad ... that's another complicated story. He's actually the father of my step brother and sisters. I got together with my partner when we were 16 so his dad is another one.

I ended up with all these fathers and not really a lot of mothers. I met my partner's mum when I was 16. They never had a daughter so I sort of came in to fill that position. She has been a very solid female figure in my life and an incredible grandmother. Very, very supportive.

I had my step mum who I lived with for a long time. There were lots of issues there but now we've got a great relationship. I am very close to her now but when I was growing up it was a difficult relationship.

Her son and her two daughters - the family that my dad married into that was already set up - very much took on a care role. Even though one of my sisters is only three years older than me, she very much took me under her wing and helped to navigate through some interesting times. [laughs]

I do have some of mum's things that I've kept which are precious. At the time I thought it was from the fairies but it was from her. There's a book with little responses from the fairies to say, "Thank you for making this beautiful home for me."

I've got a book that my nana put together with all of those things. It's a really beautiful thing that I still have.

I also have one of her charm bracelets that I used to be fascinated with as a little girl.

My mum was a really big journal keeper from when she was about 16. She would journal and sketch in there, put pictures and things. There was this journal that was always talked about and I think my nana was just desperate to find it. As soon as my mum died she wanted to find the latest edition of the journal. It seemed to have disappeared. It was only when I was 18 that it got sent to me. My aunty had it. Mum had given it to my aunty to keep to send to me at a certain age.

There'd always been this kind of mystery around this journal. When it arrived and I read it ... I've still got it but I don't really know what to do with it anymore. Every time I read it I feel so ... depressed. She used to write like how I write. If I'm feeling happy and connected and joyful, I don't tend to go and turn to writing. Her journal is just filled with all the angst of life so it's not a great thing to have. It really gives this one dimension of stuff that was going on for her.

I've often thought about maybe doing some sort of ceremony and burning the journal. Just to kind of let it go because there's nothing really in there ... there's no history of anything. It's more just her doing a blurt of her internal landscape. "This is how shit I'm feeling."

I used to do a journal when I was younger. If I'm feeling bad, nature is where I get relief. Getting blown around down at the ocean and walking on the beach or going into the forest.

I've been working as a Death Doula for about two years.

That really came out of having had such a strong experience early on in life where it was real and true and very authentic to who my mum was. It was very inclusive of myself as a young girl and our family. Through having that experience and then learning that there was such a thing as a Death Doula, I thought this is one way that I could potentially support people when they are on this journey ... with themselves or with a loved one who is dying. To hold space and to bear witness to what it is that's happening for them.

The biggest distinction between a Doula and a mid-wife or palliative care nurse is that there isn't that medical training. There isn't that responsibility to answer to that or be in service to that.

In the world that we're in at the moment, there are so many reports to be written or numbers to be kept. All of those things have to be accounted for and written up. I think so much time by mid-wives and palliative care nurses goes towards keeping those records and keeping things reported.

[Like visiting the doctor and they spend so much time typing.]

There's the time pressure. You go and you see someone and they've got 15 minutes or half an hour and then they've got to go and see the next person ... As much as they want to be there and connect.

In my capacity so far I've only been working with one person at a time. I haven't got clients or patients one after the other so I can really spend time with that person and just allow things to naturally be revealed or unravelled.

Sometimes in a 15 minute session you can't think of all the things you're trying to deal with or what's going on for you.

[You might have four things but only have time to address one ... the other three have to wait for another time.]

The role of the Doula is that continuity of care and creating some bridges between the gaps that are there, connecting people up with other services.

The majority of my Doula work has been through a palliative care nurse who works here. She has passed on my number to people that she feels might need that extra care. So far my experience has been with people who are quite close to the end of their life. The people I've worked with have all died within a couple of months.

There's been other people, more friends of friends, that have contacted me. Those two cases were just after a diagnosis of a family member and just wanting to have someone just to talk to about what's coming up for them.

[It's a bit like death literacy. Knowing your options before you need to make a decision.]

It really is about holding that space and really just listening to what the person is saying to you. Often something can come to light or really stands out and you respond to that.

For example, there was a woman that asked me to come and sit with her and listen to her story. This was connected to her mother who was at the end of her life. I could see the stress and the worry for her not being able to have her mother at home, having her mother in a care facility. From what I could hear, the real concern for her was that she wanted to clean her mother's body and dress her mother's body. She wasn't aware that that was actually possible and that she could bring her mother's body home. Even though she was at a care facility, she could bring her home once she died.

Hearing that that was her main concern and responding to that, the weight just lifted from her. She was so relieved to know that it was a possibility.

Sometimes the questions that we have seem irrelevant or seem stupid or don't seem to fit into the medical framework. One of my sons had a diagnosis and we ended up in Princess Margaret Hospital. We got given the Frequently Asked Questions sheet. I just looked front and back and I just went, "None of these are my questions!" There are other questions that I have that are so much more at the forefront of where I'm at, just finding out about this diagnosis. I didn't know who to ask.

A lot of the time I think a Doula might not have the answers but they might be able to explore who does or where those answers could be found.

One of the times I worked just with the person who was at the end of his life. That was a difficult situation where the family wasn't really present or involved. It was just working with the person who was dying.

Other times it has been with the person who was dying as well as their family.

Like with birth and death, as soon as I enter into that space of being invited in, it never ceases to amaze me and fascinate me all of the dynamics and relationships that are there. How this event of a birth or a death is bringing things to light. People who you thought were going to be there have now slipped back into the shadows. New friends that you hardly even know, they might be the ones that are just right there and able to be present and to be a beautiful companion for you. Sometimes closest family members retreat.

Living in a small town, [looking after someone you know] is simultaneously the most beautiful and can also be the most trying and challenging experience. It will certainly come up.

[Over time you will likely be involved on an intimate level with many people in your community.]

I haven't yet had that experience of all of those intimate times in people's lives all starting to be compounded. Even with the people that I haven't known that well, I've noticed how much it changes your relationship with people and the way that you see and experience your community. I'm much more aware of where people are at and I find that incredible and so humbling. To walk around and see somebody and to know what's going on in their life. To know that this person's just been diagnosed and maybe it's not common knowledge yet. To be the receiver or the holder of some of that knowledge. That's an interesting experience.

I was thinking about a person that I worked with the other day. Her person died and I'm actively calling this into my life.

To have these experiences with more awareness of death and death happening and people dying. You know what goes on but it's not always very visible.

I have got a couple of people, two in particular that I did my Death Doula training with, that I have called upon already to have a debrief of things that are going on.

Our local palliative care nurse, who I've made a connection and friendship with, has been working in this field for a long time. She's brilliant at being able to hear what is being said and to be able to reflect back.

My experience of mum's death and my connection and relationship with mum and her not being here as [my boy's] nana has always been something that has been spoken about. Always on her birthday and on the anniversary of her death, I brought a photo out and put a candle there in honour of her.

That's something that they have always seen and been aware of. I've always spoken very openly about that.

I haven't asked them directly about this work but there hasn't been any, "Oh my goodness! Mum's going to be the death person of the town! How awkward is that going to be?" That hasn't come up ... yet.

I did ask my 17-year old, with his carpentry skills, if he would open to doing coffins. He went quiet and was thoughtful and went, "Yeah... I'd do that."

For me, the interest in birth and end of life is really about those transition times of life and the importance of marking them and honouring them. Actively bringing people in to support at that time.

 

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