Amberleigh Jack on love, loss and life during the pandemic

Amberleigh and Darren on their wedding day. Photo / Ethan Lowry Photography

I remember the day my mum met my husband Darren for the first time. He'd stepped outside and she pulled me aside.

"Oh, Ambs," she whispered.

"I think he's a keeper."

There's a pōhutukawa tree near Mum's house that will always bring the greatest joy and most intense heartache. It was under that tree that Darren and I stood while Mum was in hospital. He pulled out a ring he'd crafted from a wine barrel and asked me to be his wife.

I called Mum. At this point she was delirious but she understood. She told me the news was "wonderful". She asked me when and I told her it had happened that afternoon. I thought she meant the engagement. She thought I meant the wedding.

"No, you can't without me," she cried.

I laughed. And promised her I'd never get married without her by my side.

Ten days later we brought my mum home from the hospital. Three days later we held her as she died.

I try not to think about that conversation these days. That promise I made still haunts me.

When I look back to 2020, the year is a blur. Within it were both the happiest and one of the worst days of my life. And through it all we – like everyone else – tried to navigate a pandemic that was completely foreign and terrifying to pretty much everyone.

Mum had been sick a while, but she went downhill quickly during level 4 lockdown. The roads on the way to Whangārei Hospital were empty and the emergency department – usually bustling - was eerily quiet. They had us in a cubicle and at one stage I stepped out to find a bathroom. A nurse spotted me and snapped at me to get back behind the curtain.

Because of lockdown, I couldn't stay with Mum. I told her I loved her, and that I'd be back to get her in a few days. It was our last coherent conversation.

I was staying at Mum's with her cats that night. At some stage I had a call from her doctor. She told me Mum was sicker than they realised. They were expecting her to get much worse throughout the night.

"I hate to do this over the phone," she said.

"But if she goes downhill, do you want us to attempt to resuscitate?"

I hung up the phone, two hours from Darren, and sat alone - waiting for a call to tell me she'd died.

She survived the night and doctors seemed to think her condition would improve. The doctors aggressively treated every issue, but with every treatment she seemed to decline in other areas. She had a feeding tube. She was bloated. She was confused.

And she was alone.

Darren came up one day to help clean Mum's house. It was that day that Darren took me to the beach when we finished and proposed under that pōhutukawa tree. We drove home and I smiled for the first time in a while. That night, we celebrated among the chaos with vodka and blue Powerade, as that's what we had at home. Shopping during lockdown was something that needed to be planned ahead.

For the first time in a long time, I was truly happy.

We decided on a quick engagement. I'd lost my dad and brother years earlier and Mum was my only surviving family. And I'd made her that promise. She had to be there.

Within a few days I had a call from the hospital. They wanted me to come in to chat with the doctor.

He sat me down in the visitor's room of the ward. Right now it was empty, because visitors weren't allowed. He told me they were fighting a losing battle. That they weren't getting anywhere. That Mum was suffering through treatment they didn't think was working. That they'd been aggressive because she was fairly young but that they weren't winning.

"What do you want to do?" he asked me.

I said I wanted to take her home. Immediately hit with self-doubt. I asked him what he'd do if it was his mother.

He looked at me for a moment.

"I'd take her home," he told me.

He made the arrangements and I went back to Auckland so Darren and I could arrange to head back north the next day.

A few days earlier we'd been celebrating the start of the rest of our lives together. Now I was faced with losing one of the biggest parts of my life until this point. I remember being so angry at the thought that she'd never get to see either of her children marry. It seemed so incredibly unfair.

The next few days I barely slept. With level 4 lockdown I couldn't let any of Mum's friends visit. The hospice caregivers came in twice a day. Every other hour was simply Darren and me. When Mum got upset and was in pain one night, there was nothing I could do and nobody I could call.

Mum died in my arms at 8.40am, three days after arriving home.

The funeral directors couldn't give any of their usual comforting touches that are standard. At one point I noticed if I accidentally stepped forward, they would take a step back. As they wheeled her away, I remember crying at them to please take care of her. Then I collapsed on the couch and sobbed. I felt like my world was crashing and I had no idea how to stop it.

After my brother died, Mum found a sense of solace in fantails that would follow her, and convinced herself that one particularly cheeky one was him. Moments after she died I went outside and immediately had two pīwakawaka turn up and dance around Mum's deck. I smiled for the first time that day.

Lockdown made everything harder. We weren't allowed a funeral with friends or family. There were no gatherings at home or people stopping by for chats or hugs. To top it off, I now had a wedding to plan. The thing that had brought me so much joy a week earlier, suddenly felt completely overwhelming.

I felt guilty that something so amazing was becoming something I was dreading. I wanted desperately to marry Darren but I was drowning in grief. I remember days when I'd simply cry, then I'd have intense and frightening dreams, only to wake up and start again.

I missed my mum. I missed my whole family. And the thought of not being able to share my wedding day with them made the grief almost unbearable.

But we were getting there. Our wedding party had planned a combined stag and hens do, the deck was built, the booze stacked in the garage and the marquee ordered. Everything seemed to be coming together and I just desperately wanted the day to arrive.

And then Covid hit again.

The country went into a second level 3 lockdown, weeks before the wedding. We were due to come out of it before the day, but Darren and I sat down and made a list of the 10 people we'd have with us if we remained locked down.

The hen and stag celebrations were cancelled. The small wedding party came for dinner instead.

And a week later we listened to Jacinda Ardern announce the reduction of alert levels. Darren and I and our 50 closest people were free to celebrate.

And then, suddenly, it was wedding week. The house was ready, the caterers and flowers and drinks organised. I woke up in a hotel room one of my bridesmaids and I had shared the night before and felt calmer than I had all year. I knew I was where I was meant to be.

My florist had created a mini version of my bouquet for me to take to Mum's grave that morning. She would have loved it. I told Mum – through tears – that I loved her. That I wished she could be here.

The actual wedding is a blur. But I remember the important parts. I remember being incredibly grateful that my father-in-law was happy to take my arm and walk me down the aisle. And turning to the aisle and seeing Darren. I remember the little reminders of my family – three roses on an empty seat at the front, a few mementos in my bouquet and a song that was incredibly important to my whole family being played during the ceremony. I remember crying and laughing and dancing and being so grateful to have our friends and family with us after a year that we'd all happily forget.

And I remember waking up the next day and crashing. I realise now that the wedding, as stressful as it had been, had given me something to focus on and plan. And without it, the year caught up to me in a big way. It probably took the best part of the rest of the year to start really smiling again. And many more months after that to start to feel like myself.

So many times this year I've thought about how unfair this has been on my husband. That his wedding day was marred by my grief. That his celebration was tied into my heartache. Do I wish I'd waited to get married? Sometimes. But then I wouldn't take it back for the world. I think the day would have been tinged with sadness no matter when it happened. That I'd always be very aware that there was an empty seat with three white roses in place of my family. That my mum, dad and brother would have given anything to see me and celebrate with me on the happiest day of my life.

But one thing I know is that I would never have survived last year if not for Darren, his family and some incredible friends that may not be blood but are family just the same.

The family I married into is my future, and I love them for it. But my past – the family I grew up with – the family that was by my side for every triumph and heartache - is gone.

My new family don't know the little details of the history that made me who I am. We don't have in-jokes that we've shared since we were kids. They weren't there for the deep and meaningful chats over beers on the deck, the tears every time we lost someone we loved, the laughs we shared and traditions we created over the years.

My new family mourn for me but never had the chance to know my family and mourn with me.

But we're also creating our own little family of misfits. Darren, me and the animals. Shortly after the wedding we adopted a kitten. We named him Jack – he's doing a great job of keeping the family name adorably chaotic.

Despite everything, the heartache, the madness and the joy of 2020, I'm pretty damn lucky to be where I am.

And every so often, just when I really need it, I'll look up to see the pīwakawaka flying around the backyard and wonder if maybe my family aren't so far away.