Learning to live with an autoimmune disorder – A mosaic of my journal

Cathy Beesey Founder Stories Connecting Us

Part 4: Choosing Families 

Chapter 15: My Other Families

The link to my memoir Contents and published chapters is at the end of this post.

26 March: psychologist Ava Davis, ‘You have chosen Stan’s family as your own. You talk of people in your life, not biological relatives, as family.’ This is as I learn to live with Wegener Anca Vasculitis. I write and write of the day to day alongside memories of my life and those I chose as family. I wonder of the influences they have had on the person I have become. Wanting to understand what have I learnt from them as I travel on this journey.

Wedding of Beatrice and Ernest Fraser with Beatrice’s sister Nancy White and William Beesey my father, Melbourne 1940’s    

My Aunty Triss (Beatrice) and Uncle Frank (Earnest) Fraser, lifelong friends of my parents celebrated my birthday and Christmas Eve, always. I describe them as my other parents, my journal dotted with stories of my times with them. They showed pride in my achievements large and small with unconditional love. As a child and adult, it is to them I go, always. 

My fondest memories are in their home: as a young child playing in a garden that felt magical, drinking tea from flowered fragile China cups with matching saucers and sandwich plate; and as an adult Uncle Frank and Aunty Triss sitting either side of their fireplace, I am on the floor. Uncle Frank shared his many collections and passion for the arts: music, painting, and performance. From him I find my curiosity. Aunty Triss and Uncle Frank showed me how to be an aunt in my biological family and importantly to those children I chose as nieces and nephews, as they chose me. Aunty Triss and Uncle Frank didn’t have children of their own, giving their love to biological and many chosen nieces and nephews. My much-loved other parents showed how proud they were with Aunty Triss often saying, ‘You should be the Minister for Education.’

I never thought I would be abandoned by Aunty Triss and Uncle Frank, always there with unconditional love and honesty. I went to them sharing achievements, moments of joy and times of despair. Aunty Triss and Uncle Frank wanted me with them during the many good and occasional difficult times. The day they learnt their niece died I had planned to have dinner with them, ‘I can go.’ Uncle Frank saying quietly, ‘Stay with us.’ Eating dinner, not tasting the food a shocking quietness surrounded us. Uncle Frank tried to cut his food with a dessert spoon, struggling, with pain in his eyes and I know his heart. Aunty Triss’ tears slowly rolled down her cheeks. I stayed for as long as they wanted with Uncle Frank gently saying when it was time to leave. Is this why I want my family and friends to surround me? Did I learn this from Aunty Triss and Uncle Frank?

Images of spending time with Aunty Triss when her beloved Frank died return. She was stressed because everything was going wrong, the day-to-day things: a dropped tea towel, a new window needed, her manicured garden with its weeds. I wanted to say these things always happen, but didn’t, I couldn’t dismiss her feelings. I remember this moment as the small things that could annoy me, don’t. I went to Aunty Triss when I was told Gloria, my sister, had early onset dementia and once again we drank tea from a China cup with a matching saucer and sandwich plate.

Aunty Triss told stories of her life, ones I cherish: when her and Frank married, fun times with my parents, travelling and some filled with sadness, her tears falling. My mother described Aunty Triss’ tears as her weakness. I am grateful to my other parents for being vulnerable and accepting my vulnerability. Aunty Triss lives in aged care and has withdrawn into herself, no longer telling stories. My last visit with Aunty Triss she showed fear and confusion as Stan, and I sat with her quietly as I told stories. At one point Aunty Triss with confusion, looking intensely at my face said, ‘I know those eyes. I know that smile,’ her body relaxed. I cannot visit her, my immune system compromised; my emotional life in a state of confusion.

Throughout my life I gravitate to other families feeling heard and seen. These families take me into their lives. Memories: I am eight years old playing amongst the Tee-tree with my best friend as the sun sets on Rosebud foreshore. Teenage years surfing at Tidal River Wilson’s Promontory, independence. As an adult other families invite me into their homes and lives as I invite them into mine. 

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‘Can I read your palm?’ ‘Yes please.’ A party with friends of Stan’s years before. Holding my hand, turning it to the side she smiles, ‘You have three children.’ ‘No, I have never given birth.’  She is confused, uncomfortable, the palm reading ends. I always wanted children of my own but never the right time, the right relationship, I wanted my children to know their father as I knew mine. Stan’s son Lee is at the party. As I look at him and his partner Jacqui, for the first time I think of them as my children, not quite as a mother, a combination of friend and parent. Thoughts, feelings drift to Renee, Stan’s daughter: my three children.

Thoughts wander to the three children I share with my friends Marg and Andrew: Jake, Zoe and Elly. I was first to visit the hospital when each was born and share birthdays and Christmas Eve, always. Ava, psychologist knows, and I know my friend Marg is more like a sister, Andrew her husband a friend for over forty years and their children hold a special place in my heart. To these children I am always their favourite aunt or other mother. My chosen family. 

Elizabeth Lesser, one of the authors travelling on this my journey writes in Broken Open: How difficult times can help us grow …  It was then that I realised families are defined not by blood but love. I am a sister, aunt and cousin in my biological family and a Nana to four granddaughters and aunt to nieces and nephews not related by biology, chosen through love. I delight in the lines being blurred between family and friends. 

Copyright Cathy Beesey, June 2025. All rights reserved; this intellectual property belongs solely to Cathy Beesey.

This is the link to my memoir Contents and published chapters.

Grateful – Contents