Although 30 years ago I was working as a journalist, the impact of the Erebus disaster was lost on me.
It seems selfish, but I was consumed with organising my wedding, which was only two weeks away.
Would my $50-in-a-sale wedding dress look ridiculous? Was I fatter than when I bought it? Although it was long, it wasn't long enough.
Would guests notice my feet oozing out of the cheap, flat one-size-too-small sandals I had bought to go with it?
Would I be crippled by the end of the day?
Was it silly to have left my sister to get her own frock? What if the style clashed with mine?
Would there be problems between the Catholics and Protestants? Was I being unfair asking Roman Catholic Uncle Dave to give me away in a Methodist Church?
Hopefully, everyone would be sensible, remembering the nonsense of my parents' wedding, where the bride's parents chose not to show up.
What would Mum and Dad have made of the occasion? Would they have also fallen in love with my late husband?
How much food would I need to cook for the after-wedding bash at our place?
How much grape juice should we supply for those supposedly teetotal guests? (We were left with cases of the stuff, as most of them opted for the booze on offer.)
Would I have enough bedding for the people I had invited to stay at our house? How many people had I blithely offered beds to?
Would having the wedding on a Thursday allow people to get home without inconvenience?
Would anyone need us to stockpile petrol? (It was the time of carless days and weekend petrol sale restrictions.)
My memories of the Erebus disaster seem distant by comparison.
It was only when I looked at the Otago Daily Times files I was reminded that the newspaper had put out a four-page special edition on the tragedy - on November 29.
I have no recollection of contributing to any local articles on the matter, although on the night of the long wait for news of the plane's whereabouts I remember my subeditor fiance and I on our way home in the early hours of the morning hearing the news of the discovery of the wreckage.
He stopped at a phone box (how very 1970s) to phone in the news to his boss in case he wasn't up with the play.
Last week, the emotion of the tragedy finally hit home for me as I listened to Maria Collins, widow of Captain Jim Collins, recall the event in a radio interview with Lynn Freeman.
In her dignified, matter-of-fact way she told of the extraordinary ordinariness of the preamble to the tragedy, including her last words to her husband - "Don't forget the fish".
He was to buy fresh blue cod (not available in Auckland then) from a shop near Christchurch Airport on his way home.
She spoke of the generosity of New Zealanders, saying she had never received a negative phone call about her husband, even though the first report into the incident by chief inspector of aircraft accidents Ron Chippendale cited pilot error (a finding not upheld by the later controversial Commission of Inquiry by Justice Peter Mahon).
She referred to her need, after the tragedy, to concentrate on the couple's four daughters, the youngest of whom was only 6 at the time, describing them as "the only part of Jim I had left".
While they were scarred, they were not damaged, she said.
Maria Collins gently poured scorn on that ridiculous word "closure" which, for some reason, many reporters meaninglessly trot out at some point after any tragedy.
In the case of the Erebus crash, there seems to be an absurd notion that all 257 families involved will get closure if they visit the site, attend a memorial service or get an apology from Air New Zealand.
What does that mean?
That they could suddenly shut that part of their lives forever?
Closure applies to doors, windows, gates, roads, shops and surgeons sewing up wounds.
It should also apply to reporters' mouths when they feel the word springing to their lips as part of a spurious question in relation to any sad incident involving maiming or death.
As Maria Collins eloquently explained, you never get over the loss of a person.
Rather, you learn to live around it.
You might be more at peace with the situation, but the loss is still there.
Reflecting on Maria's words a few hours later, I found myself sobbing, much to the consternation of my cat.
Attempting to reassure our pet, I realised I could not explain my tears to a human let alone a cat, but whatever they meant I was pretty sure they had nothing to do with closure.
