When the volcano on New Zealand’s White Island erupted in December 2019, tourist Stephanie Browitt, now 29, suffered terrible injuries. Her mother, Marie, 60, was waiting anxiously nearby on their cruise ship. Warning: this story contains sensitive content.
MARIE: I’d been told my chances of having children were low, so it was a blessing when Stephanie and then Krystal came along. But it also instilled a fear that something terrible would happen. They were always telling me I was overprotective.
The cruise was to celebrate Steph’s graduation and Krystal’s 21st. I stayed on the ship that day because we knew there’d be steps and I have multiple sclerosis. I said to my husband, Paul, “If the girls go, you go.” No one told us it could be dangerous.
But then they didn’t come back; I was going out of my mind. There was no news for hours and when there was, no one could tell me whether they were dead or alive. (The tour group was heading away from the volcano when it suddenly erupted. Krystal, who’d stopped to take photos, was trailing behind Stephanie and Paul.)
When I first saw Stephanie in hospital, I was so scared for her. She was unrecognisable, with third-degree burns to more than 70 per cent of her body. The doctors didn’t know if she’d survive. She and Paul, whose burns were also very severe, had been airlifted to Melbourne’s Alfred Hospital. (Krystal had died in the rescue helicopter.)
I didn’t tell Stephanie for a long time about Krystal or how bad her dad was; I kept it all from her until I felt she could cope. She wasn’t well enough to see Paul until just before he died one month later. I’d put on a brave face for her, then go home alone every night to a dark house and scream. Part of me had died too, but I needed to stay strong, reassure Stephanie she had a future. Her puppy, Arlo, was my only source of comfort at home.
Her pain and suffering have been dreadful; she has worked so hard on her recovery. She had to wear full compression garments and a mask to reduce scarring and stiffness for more than two years. One warm day, when she was able to wear normal clothes again, she wanted to go out in shorts and I begged her not to. I’d read a few cruel comments online and once, a car had stopped and the guy said, “Where did you get that mask? The $2 shop?” I wouldn’t have been able to cope with watching her go downhill again. I was so proud of her when she got home that day.
I don’t think either of us could survive without seeing the other at least once a day. We’ve recently moved into separate apartments in the same building. I struggle with us living apart, but it warms my heart to see her setting up her own home. My strength comes from making sure she’s thriving. I tell her, “You are my everything.” Now my biggest fear is something happening to me before she’s ready.
Stephanie was always the reserved one, but she’s found a new strength without losing her sweetness. She reminds me that she’s older now and I’m not always right.
In hospital, they wanted to amputate her hands but, in the end, they were able to save her thumbs. Now she vacuums, washes dishes, walks Arlo, does public speaking, manages her online site [about recovery and resilience] and never gives up. She’s blossoming. Every day, my Stephanie gives me a reason to go on.
STEPHANIE: Mum didn’t go with us on the White Island day trip because of her MS, but I knew she’d be counting down the hours. She’s always needed to have her family around her. Whenever we were out, she’d message us all the time: “How’s everything going?”; “How much longer will you be?”
We’d been getting ready to leave the island when we looked back and saw this great cloud of black smoke coming out of the volcano. Then someone shouted, “Run!”
The noise was deafening. We were being flung around; rocks and burning ash were raining down on us. Then darkness. I remember trying to call out for Dad and Krystal, but I couldn’t.
When I came out of the induced coma, in hospital back in Australia, I was being hit with horrific news, including the fact that eight of my fingers would have to be amputated. The pain from the burns was so severe, there were times I didn’t want to go on. Mum was always by my side, though, reminding me that giving up wasn’t an option, telling me I’d make it and could still achieve my dreams.
I kept asking about Krystal but didn’t know for weeks that she’d died. Mum didn’t want to tell me too soon, so she had to hide her grief from me and Dad. And then she lost him, too. At my lowest ebb, I remember thinking, “I can’t die: Mum needs me.” Without any of us, I knew she wouldn’t want to be here.
During the long recovery at home, she never stopped wanting the best for me. Later, when I wanted to wear shorts in public with my scars, Mum struggled with my decision and we argued. At the time, I didn’t fully understand she was just trying to protect me from other people. One day, I just thought, “Stuff it” and wore them out. Deep down, I know she was proud of me.
Mum’s always been very protective. Now, because the worst thing that could happen has happened, her fear is off the scale. I tell her, “Mum, I can do this; it’ll be OK,” and she’s like, “No. You can’t tell me you’ll be OK.” And I can’t.
Neither of us will ever get over what happened, but Mum has been allowing her kind, bubbly side to come through again. It’s only now, six years on, that we’ve been able to write about our story and show people how you can come back from terrible grief and loss. (Their book, Out of the Ashes, is out now.)
I’ve always loved Mum’s ability to befriend anyone: I swear to god, we can be walking anywhere and she’ll make a friend. The most annoying thing about her is she can’t sit still. It’s like, “Mum, can we just sit?” and she’s like, “No, I have to do this thing”. I try to help her – with the housework and walking Arlo.
We recently moved into separate apartments, one above the other, close to the city [of Melbourne]. She said, “Can I get one on the floor next to you?” and I’m like, “Hmm, Maybe below or above? Just a little bit of space?”
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