A howling wind rattled the window beside my bed, and an unearthly shrieking noise rose above the wind. Inside, I was bound up tight and on the verge of suffocating. No matter how I struggled, I could not break my binds. Trapped, sweating profusely, unable to free my arms or legs. My breathing constricted by a thin fabric covering my head. Finally, I was able to break free and sat bolt upright.
I blinked several times to clear my head then surveyed my surroundings. Across the room, Neil Young, also sweating and with his inseparable black Gibson slung low, stared back. Rather, a framed poster of Neil Young hanging from the wall of my bedroom. A souvenir from a show he’d played at Rod Laver Arena a few years back. The ticket stub from the show, signed, “To Craig, Happy B’Day, Mum” wedged between glass and frame.
Pillows lay scattered near and far – collateral damage – the sheets a tangled mess at my feet. The detritus from another rough night affording little in the way of rest. Warning signs of a harried mind.
I rose from the bed, stretched, then shuffled to the window and peered out through the Venetian blinds. The wind was blowing a gale and the dilapidated clothes hoist in the backyard was spinning around as if either preparing for take-off or bent on qualifying for one of the field events at the Rio Olympics. The shrieking sound it emitted was enough to wake the dead, well, at least me.
The one-bedroom, brick veneer, unit in Alphington I’d leased backed onto the Darebin Parklands. Two other units adjoined mine. One lay empty. In the other, a nocturnal neighbour I’d yet to meet. A copse of blue gums sprouted skyward behind the back fence. On a calm day, it was a most idyllic setting. Today, the scraggly gums swayed precariously. The screeching flock of cockatoos calling the parklands home having fled to safer climes. It was just after seven in the morning and my bedroom window was already warm to the touch. Predicting the weather in Melbourne could be a hit or miss affair, but last night’s forecast on the evening news nailed it. A high of 40 degrees Celsius with winds hitting 50 kph. The gale force winds had already arrived, and the high of 40 wouldn’t be too far behind.
I grabbed my iPod and earbuds from the end-table beside my bed, threw on a pair of running shorts, T-shirt and a pair of socks I dragged from the bottom of my closet, and made my way to the kitchen. Inside the fridge, two bottles of Powerade, a carton of milk, a half-eaten block of cheddar cheese and a bowl of grapes stared back at me. An old cartoon sprung to mind, “when milk goes bad”, and I smiled at the prospect of the milk carton holding a gun trained on an obviously nervous block of cheese, the grapes cowering behind. Mine hadn’t reached that stage, but the warning signs were there. The sparseness of the shelves also reminded me I needed to buy groceries. I grabbed a Powerade and closed the door, leaving the milk to its own devices.
My running shoes sat by the back door, like a faithful dog, waiting patiently to be exercised. On the back step, I sat and slipped them on. I took a long pull from the Powerade bottle, stretched, drank some more, stretched a little further and before the desire to head back to bed became too compelling, headed towards the Parklands Trail.
This part was always the hardest, taking those first few paces. Your legs are raring to go, but your head is full of questions. We’re going to do what? Are you crazy? What in the bloody hell are you thinking? Ignoring the voices, I screwed the earbuds into my ears, set my iPod to shuffle and pressed play. The voice of Bernard Fanning filled my senses singing about a private man, and I fell into a comfortable rhythm with the song’s bass line.
I headed north, into the wind, hoping to make the second half of the run back home easier. Five kilometres along the trail would take me up to and past John Cain Park where I’d turn and head back. Within 500 metres I was a bounding ball of sweat and concluding it’ll be closer to eight kilometres – if I’m lucky – rather than ten today.
After settling into a nice controlled pace, I relaxed and began to enjoy my surroundings. This section of the trail follows the winding banks of the Darebin Creek which flows southward for another four kilometres before emptying into the Yarra River. Willow trees line the banks, and the occasional wattle provides colour. The scent of eucalyptus is strong and thankfully keeps my sweat infused body odour at bay. A small gecko scurries across my path and away to the safety of the thick scrub. It’s barely mid-summer, yet the creek has already been reduced to a mere trickle a few metres wide. But it only takes a day’s heavy rain for it to become a raging torrent threatening its banks. Living so close, I wonder if my flat is in danger of flooding. It never occurred to me to ask the landlord when I moved in at the start of the month. I signed a 12-month lease but, for now, that was far beyond the outer limits of my life plans. I make a mental note to call him later. It slides in behind the dozens of other more important notes stored away in the far recesses of my mind. Wrapped up tight, out of sight, out of mind, where they cause the least amount of pain.
Discarded takeaway cups and wrappers blow past, scurrying by as if in full retreat from an oncoming threat. The blustery wind overnight has littered the trail with broken limbs and long strips of bark, thin like parchment, from the eucalypts. I slow my pace, carefully picking my way through the debris. Twenty minutes into the run, roughly four kilometres from home, the trail crosses Murray Road. The wind has slowed my progress, but I’m long past the days where I care about my pace. No longer in training, a has-been at 23. A hypnotic beat and the smooth falsetto of Dan Kelly courses through my earbuds as I turn for home.
My 23rd birthday passed in December, last month. I celebrated by graduating from La Trobe University with a degree in finance, selling our family home, moving into the unit on Separation Street and placing my mother in a hospice for the terminally ill. Quite the month.
Where do I begin?
***
At eighteen, I’d just passed my final year at Bundoora Secondary College and had the world in front of me, full of piss and vinegar – like most eighteen-year-olds – and believing the entire world lay at my feet. A finance course at La Trobe University awaited, yet the lure of the professional tennis circuit was far greater for a head-strong young lad with delusions of grandeur. I’d had a fair degree of success in the junior ranks and a modicum of success in a few Open tournaments on the country circuit. My coach was gung-ho for me to take the plunge. We both agreed, the sky was the limit.
My mother, begrudgingly, supported my endeavour. She was working at the time in a clerical position for the Catholic Archdiocese of Melbourne. And while she provided the moral support, it was up to me to provide the financial. For the next two years, between tournaments, I worked odd jobs here and there and coached a little to save enough money to travel.
The plan for that first year, laid out by my coach, was to play as many of the futures tournaments around Australia I could squeeze into a tight budget. The hope being to accumulate as many ranking points as possible. Then, with luck, and if I’d managed to save – or win – enough money, mix in an overseas trip or two.
In the world of professional tennis, points equate to ranking. And at the futures level – the lowest of the three stages in men’s tennis – the vision of ranking points on offer is like an oasis in the desert. For most, it remains a mirage. And even if successful, the prize money is lamentable. I laugh when I hear the top players in the world talk of stress. When you already have $40 million in the bank, how stressful can life be? Stress is needing to win a double’s match late on a Saturday so you can cover your week’s hotel bill. Trust me; I’ve been there.
Over the next 12 months, I traversed Australia. From Mildura, north to Bundaberg, Alice Springs, up to Darwin, then a month in Western Australia, finally finishing the year back in Victoria. I learnt a great many things with the experience. But above all, deep down, I’d begun to doubt if I had the elusive “it” to be a success.
Mental strength is a perplexing skill; to forge ahead with confidence in the face of mounting adversity. The ability to shut out the negative and focus on the positive is one I never fully mastered. It takes a special type of person to make it on the circuit, especially when 800 players in the world have virtually identical games. So, what trick of fate determines who breaks free of the pack? I’ve heard insanity described as doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. That perfectly sums up most of the journeymen on tour. Plugging away for years thinking their big break is just the next tournament away, for the vast majority it is a dream forever unfulfilled.
At my coach’s urging, I embarked once again on the January through March stretch of tournaments in Australia, but inwardly
I’d begun questioning if my heart was really in it. By April, I was at the crossroads in my career, when, out of the blue, I received a scholarship offer from an American University. My coach, sensing which way the wind was blowing, put out some feelers as an option to keep the dream alive. I wasn’t sure how to approach Mum with the news. I wasn’t even sure if I was ready to make the commitment. Leaving Mum all alone would be a tough call to make.
After my dad’s death, it had been just the two of us for the past 16 years. A travelling salesman for a local window manufacturer, he hawked the latest in casement windows to the housewives of Castlemaine, double-hung frames in Dimboola and whatever took their fancy in Wedderburn. Dad’s travels kept him on the road at least five days of every week. So, for me, growing up, he was more an acquaintance than a parent. Someone who woke late on a Saturday. Sat beside me on the couch watching the football or cricket in the afternoon. Went to church with us on Sunday morning, before melting away to his office for the rest of the day. He was gone again by the next morning, usually before I’d made it to the breakfast table.
Driving home late one night from a business trip to Ballarat his company car left the M8, just west of Bacchus Marsh, and collided head-on with a ghost gum. He died instantly. Police investigators, looking for the cause of the accident, found minimal skid marks where the car left the road and blood on the front bumper. No roadkill littered the scene, a wallaby or perhaps a wombat may have been lucky enough to survive and share the tale with their offspring. Not so my old man.
Mum took it all in stride, her faith in God and His ultimate “plan” for each of his children enough of an explanation. I wasn’t too sure about the “plan” and how it related to me, but at seven years of age formulating a counter argument was a little beyond my grasp.
I sat down for breakfast that morning still debating how to broach the scholarship offer. As it turned out, Mum had some news of her own.
In a calm and concise voice, she told me she’d been experiencing some episodes of memory loss.
The first few times I just put it down to getting older or something like that. I’d misplace my car keys. Forget where I parked when I went to the shop. The girls and I at work just laughed it off. But it has kept getting worse. A few weeks ago, the electric company called to say I’d paid them twice that month. Then the water company called. And the credit card people. So, I decided I’d go see Doctor Parks, just for a check-up.
And what did he say?
Well, he wasn’t too sure, so he sent me to see a specialist. Nice young man, think he was Indian. Or was he from Sri Lanka?
Mum, what did he say?
I’m getting to that love. Hold your horses. The visit was about a month ago.
A month? And you’re just now telling me?
Well, I wanted to wait until all the tests came back. I didn’t want anyone worrying unnecessarily.
And?
I saw the lovely Indian or Sri Lankan doctor again yesterday. It seems I have a disease, something called early onset dementia.
The name of the disease meant nothing to me.
Okay. So, what is that, and how long will it be until you’re better?
See that’s just it, love. It’s incurable. He says I have two, maybe three, years to live.
Mum turned and put the kettle on the stove, lit the gas beneath and waited for it to boil. I couldn’t believe she was taking this all so calmly. I was speechless. Just like that, a bolt from the blue. What do you say? Granted, we weren’t the closest family in Australia. Mum had her faith, I had my tennis, and we told stories of our day back and forth over meals which neither one of us cared much to hear.
Losing one parent, albeit one I barely knew, and as I grew older one I could barely recall, wasn’t ideal. But having Mother there by my side, a rock in the tough times, someone I could always rely upon, somehow made the loss manageable.
Not having her in my world was, up until that moment, the furthest thing from my mind. I just assumed, foolishly, like a small child yet to learn the harsh realities of life, she would always be there. Knowing, over the years, how much I’d taken her for granted left a knot in my stomach I wasn’t sure how to erase, or if I even deserved to be free of the dull ache within.
That was Mum, message delivered, cool as a mountain stream and back to the business at hand. A pot of tea doesn’t make itself. Mum turned from the stove with the tea kettle in hand. One large tear crested her eyelid and tumbled slowly down her cheek. Perhaps not as detached from reality as I’d assumed.
Mustering a wan smile, she wiped the side of her mouth with the back of her hand. I stood, took the kettle from her hands and placed it back on the burner. We hugged for the longest time I could ever recall. Her tears left two small wet circles on my T-shirt over my heart.
She lifted her face for just a second as we separated and managed a smile which seemed to say, I’m sorry I’m such a bother.
Taking a step backwards, she smoothed non-existent wrinkles from her apron to gather her composure, and without looking up asked.
When her eyes met mine the answer to my decision became abundantly clear.
Making my way from the kitchen, I balled up the letter from the university in my left hand and tossed it in the small rubbish bin beside the fridge; not giving the stillborn dream of spending the next four years in America another moment of thought.
Outside, a small fluffy white cloud passed before the sun leaving our street for the briefest of moments in shadow. Two young children kicked a football back and forth on the road. And across the street our neighbour worked on his car’s engine, it’s rough idling the only sound reaching into my room.
Sitting on my bed, I typed early onset dementia into the search bar of my laptop. Scouring the internet, I knew, would help in finding out more about the disease and its effects on the body. Was there no hope? And, going forward, what was in store for the two us? As the search results populated on the screen and I poured over article after article, the lifeline for which I grasped grew ever more distant.
Within an hour I’d discovered enough to know just how quickly and drastically our world would change.
***
Five hundred metres from home, my legs were leaden and my breathing ragged. The lead singer of Bonjah, Glenn Mossop, growled through my earbuds that, ‘the girl had one bullet in the barrel and the other was in her man.’ And I was wishing she’d use the spare shell to put me out of my misery.
I managed the last few metres at a half stumble, came to a faltering stop, and leant against my back gate. Sweat instantly teemed from every pore in my body, as if I’d been doused with a pitcher of seawater. And as if guided by radar, made a beeline for my eyes to induce a stinging blindness. Peering through eyes which no amount of coaxing could fully open, I felt my way slowly through the back door while randomly discarding clothes at varying intervals along the way.
A near freezing shower revived me somewhat. My body temperature slowly dropping back to normal levels. I dried off, dressed, then noticed the time. Almost 9:30, time to be on my way. I grabbed the last of the grapes from the fridge along with a half-full Powerade, slamming the door shut before the milk could make a move. I decided to give the Beast the day off and headed south for the short walk to the Alphington train station.
The “Beast” was my mother’s 2000 Holden Commodore station wagon. The registration form stated the original colour as mint julep, the Beast – poor thing – pined for those long-forgotten days. Dayne, my best friend since primary school, once described its tint as “baby shit” green. His remark earned him a week-long ban. Poor Beast.
Striding along Yarana Street, barely 100 metres from home, I was again sweating profusely. Two small children gleefully ran back and forth under a sprinkler set up on their front lawn. I seriously considered joining them. Their mother sat in the shade of the front veranda reading a paperback and waved as I passed, but ready to defend the sprinkler, I was sure, if I’d made a charge.
I crossed the pedestrian footbridge passing over the tracks of the Hurstbridge line train and made my way up the ramp to the platform. And without a moment to spare. A citybound train pulled into the station just as I made a mad dash through the gates. I jumped aboard and found an open row of seats. At my back, the doors closed with a resounding whoosh.
The station at Jolimont was a further nine stops down the line. I reclined on a bench seat, basked in the refreshing air blowing from the vents above and hoped the driver wasn’t in a rush.
For most Melburnians, the Australian Open tennis tournament began the following week with Monday’s first-round matches. For the hard-core fan, and those players on the cusp of relevance, the tournament started today with the first round of qualifying. It was close to four years since I’d last played a professional match, but as I headed downhill through the towering eucalypts of Yarra Park and skirted the western stands of the monolithic Melbourne Cricket Ground my senses began to come alive. Ascending the footbridge to cross the multitude of train lines feeding Flinders Street station, the bright blue awnings and court backdrops of the National Tennis Centre blossomed into view. And with it a tingling sensation in the pit of my stomach.
At the main gates, Rod Laver Arena loomed overhead, and to the side, the corner of Margaret Court Arena peeked out demurely from the stadium court’s shadow. The tingling sensation continued to inch its way north, like the soft buzz of a thousand bees spreading throughout my chest and tickling my throat. I zig-zagged along the pathway snaking between the numerous outside courts to Court 13. And as much as I tried to tell myself I didn’t miss the game; that I’d made my decision, that I’d moved on, I was powerless to stop every nerve-ending in my body from firing at once.
The crowds wouldn’t arrive en masse until Monday, so today, open seats on the outside courts were plentiful. For a moment, I imagined my name being called from the player’s lounge to report to my assigned court. Just for a moment, then the image passed.
Court 13 is one of the farthest outside courts to the west of the main stadium. I chose a seat on the west side, five rows up, slightly to the left of the chair umpire. My view took in a smattering of outside courts and the winding pathways leading back to Rod Laver Arena. Looming up from behind the centre’s crown jewel was the 100,000 seat Melbourne Cricket Ground; deathly quiet on this Wednesday morning.
The players for the morning’s first match had yet to make their appearance, so I spent the time trying to make myself as comfortable as possible on the hot metal bench under the searing sun. The first to make his way courtside, to the left of the chair umpire’s stand, was the latest American Phenom, just 18 years of age, close to breaking into the top one hundred in the world rankings, and knocking loudly on the door of future stardom. His first-round opponent, Blake Cuypers, a 23-year-old local kid from Greensborough, ranked 275 in the world and my former doubles partner.
Blake strode purposefully across the court and peered skyward, looking left and right, as if adjusting his eyes to the sunlight. In reality, I knew he was fighting hard to keep his emotions under control. This was Blake’s first appearance at the Australian Open. Six weeks earlier he scored his biggest success as a professional, winning a Futures tournament in a small seaside town 100 kilometres south of Sydney. The 27 points he earned for the win vaulted him into the world’s top 300. The prize money – less than $3,000 – barely made a dent in his credit card’s outstanding balance. However, by far, the bigger payoff was the jump in ranking which earned him entry into the Australian Open qualifying. A win today was extremely unlikely, but the $6,000 payday for losing would heal those wounds very quickly.
As the players warmed up and made adjustments to compensate for the horrendously windy conditions, I perused the stands in search of familiar faces. Of the 20 or so people in attendance, half belonged to the travelling party of the young American. I knew Blake’s parents wouldn’t be attending; they’d always been too nervous to watch in person. A routine unchanged since we’d played junior tournaments together. Blake’s coach, dressed as if he too had a match later in the day – though his massive beer gut stretching his Adidas shirt to its full potential begged to differ – sat close by the sidelines on the opposite side of the court.
I sat back taking in the scene and couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret for what might have been. Until I recalled the hours upon hours of mind-numbing practice, the hours spent in the weight room, running up and down sand dunes until legs turned to noodles then urged ‘to run just one more’, the travel, the cheap hotels, cheaper meals, mounting bills. And the crushing feeling deep down inside of wondering if it would ever lead to something. I sat back against the blazing hot bench seat as the American toed the baseline preparing to serve, almost convinced I’d made the correct decision.
Blake, despite being made to do all the heavy lifting, gamely hung tough for the majority of the first set. His game revolved around his consistency, wearing his opponents down, grinding them into dust. But he was struggling to come to terms with the weather conditions, his timing and placement not quite on song, which allowed his opponent to dictate play. The American’s groundstrokes being just a little crisper, with pinpoint accuracy, and his serve exploded off his racquet as if shot from a howitzer. At four-five, two careless forehand errors on serve by Blake handed the break and the first set to the American.
The dam burst, and you could see the onset of impending doom mirrored in Blake’s body language. With the first set gone, the second set also quickly began to slip away. As the errors continued to mount, Blake’s shoulders slumped further, and the wind and heat became more of a distraction. Finally, the last vestiges of the mental fortitude needed to fight through a tough match deserted him. His mind, against his best efforts, shifted gears and began daydreaming of a shady tree to lie under.
The final score 6-4 6-1. At courtside, the American chatted with his travelling party, presumably, already discussing potential next opponents. Later today, his coach would further debrief his young charge on what worked well and what they’ll work on the next day during practice, set his practice court time and where they’ll eat dinner. Every aspect of his preparation controlled, like an automaton undergoing a minor system upgrade. Meanwhile, Blake trudged off the court, the weight of his immense racquet bag and the world sitting squarely upon his shoulders.
I decided to leave him alone for the rest of the day; I knew how he felt. A crushing defeat was the mind’s devil’s playground. The doubts you’ve ever harboured about your ability simmering back to the surface. Some players had an innate ability to quickly conquer those mind games, for others, it ended careers. Blake always had an uncanny ability to bounce back, certainly better than I ever could. I’d text him later in the evening and see if he was up for a beer. By then he’d make for better company. The reality of his big payday sinking in, the painful loss banished and already looking ahead to his next tournament. Of course, the location wouldn’t be anywhere near as grand as the National Tennis Centre. It very rarely was.
***
With equal amounts of sunburn and regret, I retraced my steps from the morning and trudged back past the MCG and up the hill through the park. The boughs of the trees swayed in the gale force winds and offered a meagre amount of respite from the relentless heat. I bypassed Jolimont station, crossing instead to Bridge Road and caught the #48 tram. The #48 trundled east for a few kilometres away from the city centre before veering left at Church Street and making a beeline for Kew Junction. At the Junction, I transferred for the short jaunt west along Studley Park Road. My destination only two stops further along, but in the searing heat of the late afternoon, the ten-minute walk was more than I cared to contemplate.
The Sisters of Mercy Hospice nestled into a quiet, leafy, cul-de-sac off Studley Park Road and backed onto the Yarra River Parklands. Built in the early 1950s, the one-story brick veneer building was owned and operated by the Catholic Archdiocese of Melbourne. Its 14 rooms catered to terminally ill patients with little or no means of support. The Archdiocese, in its grace, forgave all charges in the event of a shortfall from the State’s health insurance coverage, as well as taking care of all burial arrangements.
And all patients admitted to the hospice were without any surviving relatives, except one. I knew all of this because my mother had been a patient for the past month, she – as an employee of the Archdiocese – had been granted a special waiver.
The double glass doors opened with a pneumatic hiss and a blast of frigid air escaped to greet me. Inside, the low-ceilinged lobby was dark and the temperature refreshing. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom.
I smiled and waved to Mavis, the attendant manning the front desk, and wished her a good afternoon. She and Mother had been close friends for years and was one of the helpers to offer assistance at home before the burden of care became too great.
My mother’s room was at the far end of the corridor branching off to the left. Seven rooms made up this wing. The other seven rooms were in the corridor directly behind the front desk of the L-shaped building.
The low ceiling and walls were painted a dull yellow. Once brighter but now faded with time, much like the lives of the patients. Lingering in the air was the scent of antiseptic and human waste. I made my way down the hallway to Room 12, the rubberised padding under the linoleum absorbing the sound of my steps. Drifting from the rooms along the way were the soft beep-beeps of various machines, their muted tones providing a sombre soundtrack to the slow passing of life.
Each time I visited, I tried to repress the nagging lyrics of an old Eagles song – you can check in, but you can never leave.
Mum, for the moment, had the room to herself. A replacement for Mrs Gonsalves, who lost her battle to liver cancer ten days prior, had yet to check-in. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be long before someone filled the void.
This wing, thankfully, was relatively quiet and serene, as the alternate wing housed the majority of the dementia cases. Mother’s anxiety level and blood pressure both became dangerously elevated when first placed there. She was quickly moved and been much happier ever since. Happier, being a relative term.
I entered the room to find one of the aides attending to Mum.
The young nurse’s aide, Judy, talked to my mother as if expecting a coherent answer. I appreciated her spirit, but Mum’s lucid days were now few and far between.
At first, Mum’s symptoms progressed very slowly after the diagnosis, so slowly in fact that I dreamed remission possible. The instances of forgetfulness seemed to fade and, for almost a year, she showed no visible signs of the hell lurking over the horizon. By the second year, events abruptly sped up like an orbiting moon unable to repel the gravitational pull of the sun. I could no longer leave her alone for any great length of time. Hiding the car keys became necessary, thereby reducing her wanderlust to stolen jaunts around the neighbourhood on foot. Locking the doors only made her escape attempts more inventive. Mum’s friends from church began to pitch in so I could continue my studies, and again I was lulled into a false sense of security.
By the third year, we were both drowning. A nurse’s aide visited three days a week and offered some respite, but her efforts only delayed the inevitable. Mum’s mind was slipping away, and we were powerless to stop it. Taking her prescribed pills left her catatonic, and when they wore off, she alternated between a childlike state – reliving the days of her youth – to wandering through the house in total silence. She’d pick up items and stare at them as if trying to recall a memory hidden just beyond her reach. It was gut-wrenching to see the look of total loss in her eyes. Between the cost of the aide and the numerous prescriptions insurance failed to cover, Mum’s meagre savings slowly disappeared. My grades were barely keeping me in school, and the darkness engulfing my mother extinguished any semblance of her former self. Two weeks before Christmas we surrendered to the inevitable.
Mother’s room was just large enough for two hospital beds with a curtain dividing the room. To the side of each bed, stood a small end-table with three drawers. The meagre items I’d brought from home lay in the top draw. And her dresses hung in the built-in closet. Mother’s bed was the one closer to the window which looked out across the courtyard. The television mounted high on the opposite wall provided a tangible link to the outside world. On the opposite side of the bed from the nightstand stood various machines that, for now, lay silent. Not yet in use, but a portent of things to come.
Mother was awake but in one her non-communicative moods. She stared listlessly in the direction of the television. It stared back, dark and silent. I could only wonder what she was feeling, thinking.
Judy turned from my mother’s bedside and saw me standing in the doorway.
Oh… Hello, Craig. I didn’t know you were standing there.
I just arrived. How is she today?
Well, come over and see. I’ve combed her hair and was showing her with the mirror her how delightful she looks. I think she’s pleased with it.
Mum just stared up at me, eyes slow to adjust, struggling to focus. The medication she took helped most patients with their lucidity. With Mother, it produced the opposite effect. The pills slowed her movements, limited her speech, like a controlled drug-induced stupor. Her hair had become brittle, all body and lustre gone, and once sparkling blue eyes faded to a dull grey; as if her brain was sucking the life from her body, like a parasite, to enable it to survive.
You’re too kind.
Oh, it’s no trouble at all, your mother is so sweet.
Judy was close to my age and of average height; coming up to my 190-centimetre frame’s chest. Her petite body was well-toned, not an athlete’s physique, more one used to toiling for long hours. Thick, dark brown hair, pulled back in a ponytail, extended slightly beyond her shoulders; her soulful eyes were of the same colour. When she walked her ponytail bounced with abandon belying her chaste appearance. She wore little to no make-up; her mouth slightly asymmetrical, turning up slightly on the left side. It gave her the appearance of knowing a sly secret but not willing to share.
A loose strand of hair had broken free from beneath her matronly cap, she tucked it behind her ear and smiled as she left the room. Under the harsh fluorescent lighting, flecks of emerald green sparkled in her eyes.
I’ll let you catch up with your mother. Let me know if you need anything.
Thanks, Judy.
I pulled a chair to Mother’s bedside, sat so that I was in her field of vision and recounted my day. For an hour and a half; I spoke of the weather, my morning run, the tennis, Blake’s match, other matches I watched, the train ride in, the tram ride to see her. Anything. Everything. All the while her eyes swam in and out of focus. I hoped she was absorbing my words but knew deep down it to be a lost cause.
I’d spoken to my mother more in the past month than in the previous 20 years. Sharing mundane life events I’d always taken for granted, but now I so desperately needed her to hear. I talked to fill her of my life, of life outside her four walls. Outside the prison of her mind. I rambled on to keep her engaged, awake. And for myself, just hoping to grasp an elusive hint of recognition in her eyes.
For when she dozed off each night and her eyes closed, I was never sure if they would ever open again. And if they did, who I would find behind them.
Money which would be quickly consumed by bills. Our savings – I’d not yet kowtowed to saying my savings – were all but gone, but a steady stream of income would help plug the leak.
Mum, fighting sleep for the past 20 minutes, finally succumbed. I’d save the story of my friend, Dayne, for another time. I rose from the chair, kissed her on the forehead, and made my way from the room.
Through the window by the side exit leading out to the courtyard, I noticed Judy sitting on one of the wrought-iron benches. Four such benches were strategically placed around the courtyard to face a towering golden elm. She noticed my passing and waved for me to join her. The wind had changed direction and dark clouds were gathering off to the west.
She scooted over to make room.
Your mum sleeping?
Yeah, my scintillating conversation does it every time. I gather you’re on a break?
I’m just taking a quick breather. I needed it after cleaning up old Mrs Baxter again.
Mrs Baxter was one of the dementia patients on the wing opposite to Mother’s. Although tiny and frail, she was infamous for her vulgar language and for flinging faeces at anyone who came within striking distance.
We both laughed at the horrible visual she’d stirred up.
I don’t know how you do it. I mean, put up with all of this day after day.
If not me, who? Anyone can get a job and just make money, but how many make a difference? How many people can say they preserve a little dignity for the dying?
Judy paused and lifted her eyes to the branches of the elm. I followed her gaze and noticed two willie wagtails gazing down. A birdbath stood under the elm a few steps away from where we sat. They looked on nervously weighing the extent of their thirst against the dangers we posed.
Just as the last drop of blood drained from my face and my throat dried up, Judy turned in my direction.
The willie wagtails were frolicking happily in the bird bath, so there went my only hope of water for my constricted throat.
I wasn’t sure which one of us wanted to slide off the seat and hide underneath the most.
I smiled. Perhaps the situation could be retrieved.
Hey. Don’t worry about it. I never pictured myself as a banker either.
I’m sure you’ll make a fine banker. Perhaps you can be an advocate for the little people. Redefine what people think of the profession.
Think I can get that printed on my business card?
Her laugh was infectious and soon also had me in fits. An exaggerated cough from behind turned our heads.
Sister Kathleen stood, arms folded under her ample bosom, breathing deeply, and with her mouth pursed like she’d just eaten something disagreeable.
Yes, Sister Kathleen, I’ll be right there. Sorry, Craig. I’ve gotta go. Another time maybe?
Of course, sorry for keeping you so long. I hope I didn’t get you into trouble.
Judy was at the side of the Sister and back inside before I was able to finish the sentence. Another time? I found myself hoping so.
The temperature had dropped appreciably in the past 15 minutes, and the familiar smell of ozone in the air spoke of a cool change and a welcome summer storm.
Heavy drops of rain began to fall and dot the concrete path before quickly evaporating. They tumbled down sparsely at first, a brief warning, the deluge followed seconds later leaving me half drenched by the time I made it inside. I wondered, shamefully, how many of the patients with windows facing the courtyard even noticed.
***
The tall young man waved goodbye to Mavis as he left for the evening. She then turned her attention back to the portly gentleman in front of her.
Mavis Morris had manned the front desk at the Sisters of Mercy Hospice for the past ten years and known Mrs Walters long before she’d become a patient. They’d met at St Ann’s Church in Bundoora and, together, worked with the Church in one capacity or another for close to 20 years.
She whispered silently.
Thinking about how quickly her long-time friend’s health declined saddened her; but glad hospice administration made an exception to its admittance policy. Mavis clucked her tongue and shook her head in despair.
Garth O’Neal – Solicitor at law with the prestigious firm of Williams & Teacher – turned from the retreating figure of the young man and looked down upon Mavis as if eyeing a newfound stain on his trousers, wondering how it got there and how difficult it would be to remove. With all the energy and etiquette he could muster, he reined in his natural tendency towards condescension before replying.
If it’s not too much trouble, could you check to see if the good Father has the paperwork ready for the new patients I was hoping to have received yesterday?
Absolutely Mr O’Neal. Father Kelly has left for the evening, but he did leave me this envelope with your name on it. Would that be what you were after?
Of course it is, you stupid old git. Is what he wanted to say. But with a weak smile managed instead.
With a flourish, he whipped it from her grasp and strode towards the front doors before Mavis could say another word.
Mavis stared at the back of the short, overweight, smarmy solicitor.
Mavis looked around in shock praying nobody overheard. Not that anyone would have cared, but Mavis felt she had a reputation to uphold. She quickly made the sign of the cross and returned to her crossword.
***
Garth O’Neal sat in the front seat of his Range Rover attempting to bring his breathing under control. The 20-metre sprint through the rain from the front door of the hospice to his car was about 10 metres beyond his comfort zone. He thought, who I am kidding? No amount of exercise was within his comfort zone.
Holding two fingers to the side of his soft neck, where a sizeable fold of loose skin overflowed the collar of his white Armani dress shirt, he measured the out of control thumping of his heart. Not to get a count, just to ensure it was still there. With his other hand, he loosened his tie, undid the collar’s top button and immediately felt the release of pent up pressure.
His doctor recommended he lose some weight – a lot actually – to get some exercise and reduce the stress in his life. All in good time, he mused. The final stages to his personal marathon was in sight. A race ending with retirement and his remaining days spent relaxing in the shade on a secluded tropical beach, with a plentiful supply of alcohol and girls at the ready. The cost no consideration, for either.
Two years previous, Garth lost his wife of 35 years to cancer. On that day, he lost both the love of his life and his moral compass. As they lowered her coffin into the grave carved from the unforgiving black soil, Garth lamented that all her years of temperance and holy living had, in the long run, all been for nought. Garth decided then and there he wasn’t going to make the same mistake. He just hoped not to be overtaken before his imaginary finish line by the coronary hot on his heels.
A highly respected and handsomely paid solicitor with the law firm of Williams & Teacher; he had, over the past 25 years, represented a smattering of Melbourne’s best-known politicians, bankers and socialites. His specialities; wills and probate matters, title conveyance and tax law. Or more specifically, how to avoid paying as little tax, if any, on all of the above. Over the years, his expertise saved his clients millions, yet still found himself no closer to the partner position he so coveted.
On the rare occasion a partner opening became available, there was always some bright new star on the rise. Maybe next year, Garth. Hang in there, mate. You are truly appreciated, it just wasn’t the right time. These were the shallow platitudes he endured year after year. Hollow words rammed down his throat like a dirty rag to silence his voice. The metaphoric dagger left to twist in his back grinding its way just a little deeper each time. Now, at the age of 60, he was well past his prime and on a slippery slope sliding ever closer to redundancy.
Once he felt his heart rate dip under 120, he ripped open the envelope sitting on the passenger seat to find copies of the admittance forms for two new patients.
He perused the highlights:
Bill Redstone – age 87. 15 Pattinson Road. Waverly. Wife – deceased. No children. No known relatives. Dementia. Transfer from St Vincent’s Hospital – January 15.
Nancy Groves – age 85. 164 Fraser Terrace. Burnley. No known relatives. Pancreatic cancer – terminal. Transfer from St Vincent’s Hospital – January 16.
With the engine running, the cold air flowing from the vents chilled his still damp face and hands. He gazed out through the Rover’s windscreen to the brick façade of the hospice, the guttering either side of the front doors shot water out into the parking lot in torrents. Garth knew, just his being here, in this parking lot outside of the Sisters of Mercy Hospice, was yet another flashing neon sign that he, Garth O’Neal, was merely an afterthought to the partners. He’d been told: ‘Pro bono work, Garth. Great PR for the firm.’ He burned with indignation, thinking, how fucking degrading. The work was a goodwill gesture by his firm to curry favour with the political elite, but not something for the partners to sully their hands with. He knew what they were saying behind his back. ‘Let Garth handle it.’ ‘He’s good with that kind of thing.’ ‘Gives him something to do.’
Just thinking about his situation left him seething.
Garth adjusted the air-conditioning vents away from his face. The colour in his cheeks dimmed from fire-engine red to a dull fuchsia. From the centre console, he withdrew a small prescription bottle and unscrewed the top. He popped one of the blood pressure pills into his mouth and washed it down with a swig from the water bottle sitting in the cup holder. He stared at his reflection projected by the windscreen, the image distorted by the rivulets of water cascading down.