The End
Rebecca
Leonard Cohen has died, and Mum has spent the week listening to every program about him on the ABC. She asks me when I first heard his music.
I start to tell her about the Canadian I hung out with in Pokhara, in Nepal, in early 1988, but Mum butts in. ‘Is he the one who helped you out when you were sick in Kathmandu?’
‘Yep,’ I say.
‘Are you still in touch?’
‘Nope.’
‘That’s a shame. I wonder what happened to him.’
I don’t answer. She knows I’m no longer in contact with the Canadian – she’s asked me this before. These are standard questions from Mum. She asks me if I’m still in touch with every person I have ever known or spoken about. I find it infuriating. ‘Do you want to hear my story in Pokhara?’
She nods.
‘It was early evening, and we were walking along a dusty street looking for somewhere to eat. I heard “So Long, Marianne” coming from a cafe—’
Mum interrupts, ‘That’s the song about the Norwegian woman!’
She’s obviously been listening very carefully to all the Leonard Cohen stories in the news. She hums a bit of the tune. I wait until she finishes. ‘Go on,’ she says.
‘I loved the song but didn’t know the singer,’ I say, ‘and my friend said—’
‘It was Leonard Cohen – he’s Canadian!’
‘Yep,’ I say.
‘Was that before or after you became sick?’ she asks.
‘Before,’ I say.
‘You were very sick,’ she says.
‘I was,’ I say, ‘and my Canadian friend looked after me. He lent me some cassettes to listen to – Leonard Cohen and Gordon Lightfoot.’
But Mum’s not interested in Gordon Lightfoot.
She has always had a very retentive memory, and once she takes an interest in a particular subject she quickly becomes an expert of sorts. Many years ago, Mum watched so many wildlife documentaries about sea creatures she said that she could easily be a midwife to a walrus. We all thought this was hilarious, but there was probably some truth in it.
The current special subject is Leonard Cohen. She knows about his time on Hydra with George Johnston and Charmian Clift, his various relationships, the names of his children and grandchildren.
‘Do you know who Rufus Wainwright is?’ she asks.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Did you know that he has a daughter?’
‘I think I read that somewhere.’
‘Her name is Viva, and Leonard Cohen’s daughter, Lorca, is the mother.’
‘Oh yeah,’ I say. ‘I remember reading that.’
‘Rufus,’ says Mum, and the way she says his name makes it sounds like she knows him personally, ‘is married to a man called …’ She falters. ‘Look up Rufus’s husband’s name on the Google,’ she says.
I am forever the obedient daughter, and look up Rufus Wainwright. ‘Jörn Weisbrodt,’ I say.
‘Yes, that’s right, Jörn’, says Mum. ‘How do you spell that?’
‘J, O with an umlaut, R, N,’ I say.
‘Must be German. Is he German?’
I’ve shut my laptop, so I open it again and confirm that Jörn is in fact German, but he lives in Toronto with Rufus. I shut my laptop again.
I am a bit blown away by how much time Mum must have spent over this past week just sitting in her chair, listening to the radio. As usual, I feel slightly guilty about the fact that I haven’t done more with her.
But she seems positively chipper with her new knowledge of Leonard. She tells me that only days ago he released his most recent, and now last, album.
She tells me, with incredulity in her voice, ‘He was eighty-two!’
I can’t work out if she means that eighty-two is too young to die or if she’s amazed that someone of eighty-two was still touring and making work. When I ask her, she says, ‘Both!’
‘Do you know the song “Dance Me to the End of Love”?’ she asks.
‘I love that song,’ I say.
Mum hums a couple of bars. She has it down pat.
‘Impressive!’ I say when she stops.
‘Not really,’ she says. ‘I’ve heard it so much over the past week that there would be something seriously wrong with me if I couldn’t retain the tune.’
She may not be walking properly, she may be having problems with her heart, but there sure is nothing wrong with her memory.
‘It reminds me of Robert Frost’s “Acquainted with the Night”,’ she says.
‘Yes,’ I agree, ‘there is something similar about the notion of the journey’s end.’
Mum nods. We sit for a moment in silence.
‘Have you ever seen Leonard Cohen in concert?’ she eventually asks.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘One of the best concerts I’ve ever been to. He was so charming and elegant. He had these backup singers called the Webb Sisters, who sang beautiful harmonies and did a cartwheel as part of their choreography!’
‘A cartwheel!’ Mum says. ‘Were they wearing trousers?’
‘I can’t remember,’ I say.
‘They must have been,’ she says.
I don’t say anything. It amuses me that Mum finds this particular detail interesting.
‘Can you do a cartwheel?’ Mum asks.
‘Nope.’
‘Michael could do cartwheels,’ she says.
‘I know,’ I say.
‘And walk on his hands, and do headstands and handstands.’
I smile and nod. Mum has been talking quite a bit about Michael of late. She seems to have forgotten all the bad bits and only talks about the good things.
‘Remember the time he and Julie drove the children across the Gunbarrel Highway?’ she asks.
I nod. They were towing a trailer and the axle broke out in the middle of nowhere, and Michael and Julie managed to fix it by themselves. When they were good together, they were excellent. We are momentarily lost in our thoughts.
‘Have you met Leonard?’ Mum asks.
‘No, Mum,’ I laugh. ‘Unfortunately Leonard couldn’t fit in a rendezvous with little Becky Blister when he was last in the country!’
‘That’s a shame,’ she says. ‘He seemed like a nice man.’
I look at her and see no hint of a smile, and I realise she’s being serious. We’ve been having a few conversations like this. They are almost on point, but also slightly off-kilter. To an outsider, they would just seem like quirky conversations, but they worry Tony and me. Mum is alert and engaged, but something else is happening, something I haven’t seen before. I feel I need to ask her a few practical questions and see how she responds.
But when I look over at Mum in her huge vinyl recliner, I notice she’s lying right back with her eyes closed. She’s gently humming ‘Dance Me to the End of Love’, and I realise our conversation is over.
Tony
I’m on the bus back from a meeting in Camooweal, and my old boss from Melbourne rings. ‘Are you submitting an application for the director of policy and development?’ Austin asks. ‘It closes tomorrow.’
I’ve been toying with the idea, as it would be a significant promotion from the job that’s on hold for me until April. But I’m hesitating, as I know that even if my application is successful, I won’t take the job if Diana is still alive. Diana has had some seriously bad days in recent weeks and it feels like she could go at any time, but then a day or two later she’ll be completely fine and it feels like she’ll live for another ten years.
At Austin’s prompting, I do the maths. It’ll take weeks for a selection panel to be assembled, and another week or two to select a shortlist. It seems likely that by the time they start scheduling interviews, it’ll be so close to Christmas that key people will be away and they’ll have no choice but to put the whole thing off until the New Year. I quietly lodge an application.
I feel guilty, as if I’m betraying Beck and Diana, and potentially setting up another unnecessary decision crisis. But I don’t want to take the risk that Diana will die while the recruitment process is afoot. I want it all. Two days later, the HR manager rings me to schedule an interview for the following week. ‘Yeah, sure – that’s great,’ I lie.
I don’t have too much time to think about it, as in ten days I have a large meeting planned, at which the decision on the gas pipeline will be made. The negotiating team, made up of senior representatives of the key families, believes we’ve negotiated a good deal, but there’s an outstanding question as to how the financial compensation will be distributed. Some families feel they are entitled to a greater share than other families, as they believe they are the ones who speak for the country over which the pipeline will be laid. Others want it shared evenly between the families. Others think it should be used for community development. Some want it put into trust for scholarships for kids and medical emergencies. I’ve been harangued on an almost daily basis by some people, who keep giving me their bank account details and requesting their share be paid to them straightaway – this is even before the deal has been agreed to, let alone any money transferred.
Fortunately, the negotiating team agrees with me that we don’t have time to sort out how the money will be distributed before the group has to decide whether to accept the deal or not, and that all we need to do for the time being is agree to put the money into a trust; a proper consultation process will occur in the new year to determine what to do with it. I know this is risky. It might take years to sort out the money.
Rebecca
I’ve barely slept. I quietly open the door to the bedroom where my brother Paul is sleeping, and peek in. He arrived a few days ago from Florida. He hasn’t even bothered to get under the sheets – clearly he just hit the sack and stayed there all night. It’s been stinking hot, he’s got jet lag, and he only has a small fan in his room. Tony and I have the luxury of the splitty, but even with that we’ve not been sleeping very much. I close the door and let him sleep.
The night before, Tony, Paul and I all went to bed wondering if this was it. Would Mum be with us in the morning? She had not had a good twenty-four hours. In fact, this week has been very up and down. She’s been bright enough and her conversation more or less on track, but she’s seemed weak and slightly discombobulated.
Last night the plan was that she and Paul would come with Tony and me to a community Christmas carols event. Tony and I were singing with the community choir, and though I’m ambivalent about carols and feel like a hypocrite when singing them, I do like singing with our funny little choir. Mum loves carols and a community event, so a singalong under the stars seemed liked a good way to spend an evening. But I could sense hesitation from her about going, and there seemed to be an inordinate amount of discussion about logistics for what was really just a small outing.
Eventually, we all decided that Tony and I would go to the carols in Tony’s work car, and Paul would take Mum in the Prius. Paul would bring the wheelie walker and Mum would use it to get into the showgrounds where the carols were being held. Our friends Majella and Shane had offered to get to the event early in order to grab a good spot for us so that Mum could be close to the gate and the stage. After the concert, Tony and I would go to dinner with Majella and Shane, while Paul and Mum would come home. Phew!
It’s so good to have Paul here with us, both for his company and to share in what’s happening with Mum. We’ve been waiting months for this visit. He had planned to come earlier in the year, but unexpectedly discovered he had heart problems and had to have triple bypass surgery. I had to keep this information from Mum for weeks, and it was a relief when the surgery was successful and he was out of the danger zone and I could tell her. Of course, Mum had worked out that something was wrong. She had heard snippets of my phone conversations with Paul and his wife, Belinda, and put two and two together. Now, months later, he is fighting fit and happy to be here.
One evening after dinner I suggested a drive to the lookout.
‘Only if Mum comes too,’ Paul said. Mum hesitated, and Paul added, ‘We can stop at the roadhouse and get ice creams.’
‘Goody!’ said Mum. She was out of the chair almost before Paul had finished speaking.
Paul has brought a new pep and energy to the house. Not that we had been lacking in pep, so to speak, but having a fresh face here has definitely given us all a boost. Paul is generous by nature and interested in all sorts of things; in fact, his disposition is very similar to Mum’s.
‘It’s so good to have you here,’ I told him when we got to the lookout. We’d left Mum at the picnic table happily eating her ice cream. ‘Mum’s so pleased to have you around. You’re like the prodigal son.’
‘You and Tony have done all the hard work,’ he said, ‘and I just waltz in and get all the praise. Doesn’t seem fair, does it?’
I caught his eye and we both laughed. I don’t think about it like that. I’m just happy to have him around. There’s an exercise that I sometimes do with participants when I’m running mental health groups. I ask, ‘If you were in a situation and had to get rid of a body, who would you go to for help? Who would you ask who would be able to just get on with the task without judgement, discrimination or questions?’ The exercise always leads to great discussions and laughter. Most people have one or two key people they could ask.
I would ask Paul. He would hate doing it – he hates anything illegal, hates any form of violence or abuse, and is a non-drinker, non-drug taker and general all-round good citizen – but he’d do it. He’d get on with the task and ask questions later. And the task at hand last night was getting Mum to the carols.
In the afternoon she had a shower and put a few rollers in her hair to prepare for the outing. I discussed with her what she was going to wear and if she needed anything ironed.
‘I don’t think I can go,’ Mum announced just before it was time to leave.
‘Why not?’ I asked.
Mum couldn’t answer, and I felt frustrated. We had spent so much time discussing this outing, and I knew my friends were getting there early to get a good spot for us. I just wanted to get us into the cars and on the road.
‘Are you worried about using the wheelie walker?’ I asked.
‘No, it’s not that. I just don’t feel up for it.’
Paul tried. ‘Don’t you want to hear Rebecca and Tony sing? I’ll help you with the wheelie walker and we’ll park close to the gate.’
‘I think an outing would be good for you,’ I added unhelpfully.
But Mum was adamant: she was not going out. She went into the bedroom and then returned to the lounge in her nightie and brunch coat. She sat down in the recliner and we knew the discussion was over.
‘I’ll stay home,’ Paul said, and Tony and I headed off alone.
The carols event was okay. It was nothing to rave about, but I knew Mum would have enjoyed it. By the time we got home, she’d gone to bed. Paul was worried about her and told us that she’d been unable to eat any dinner, and was unsettled and agitated. He took her pulse and it felt slow, then fast and then slow again. He wanted to take her to the hospital or call an ambulance, but she said she just needed to go to bed. Paul got her into bed but felt very uneasy.
I did what all parents do with a new baby: I stood beside her bed and watched to see her chest rise and fall to ensure she was breathing. I felt her forehead; she didn’t seem hot, so I left her to sleep.
Paul, Tony and I sat outside on the verandah and discussed the fact that this could be it. We all knew that something was not right, so were prepared for the worst. Finally, we all went to bed.
I tossed and turned and found it hard to sleep, but at some stage must have drifted off. I woke this morning to the sound of Mum humming ‘Dance Me to the End of Love’. Tony and I smiled, got up and got on with the day.
Tony
Paul has recruited me as his leading hand and we’re doing some repairs on the house. We replace the wire in the screen doors and repair the dining table and chairs, but we don’t have time to fix the verandah. After careful examination, Paul declares that I’m capable of doing it on my own after he leaves. I’m not at all convinced. I have no problem-solving skills when it comes to anything handy.
‘Of course you do,’ he says kindly.
‘You don’t truly know me,’ I reply.
Not to be deterred, he develops a plan and escorts me to the hardware store to buy all the tools and timber I’ll need. He then supervises me while I crouch, sweating, under the house and measure up the places for the screws and insert the supporting timber. After I fix one plank firmly in place, he announces that I’m good to fly solo. I’m astounded: for the first time in my life, I feel vaguely competent with a drill and saw. Now I have a plan for how I’ll repair the verandah over the coming months.
I start on another section of the verandah while Beck, Paul and Diana get organised to run some errands in town. For some reason, Diana has been reluctant to use her wheelie walker, but Beck has packed it in the boot and is determined that Diana’s going to use it this time.
‘Bring back a pie and custard tart for my lunch, now that I’m a tradie,’ I call out from under the verandah.
An hour later they return, errands completed. Paul helps Diana into the house, and Beck comes out the front to check on my progress. ‘How did it go with the walker?’ I ask.
‘It stayed in the boot. Mum said she didn’t feel like getting out of the car.’
I can tell Beck’s exasperated, and is feeling worried about Diana’s out-of-character belligerence.
‘Did you go to the bakery?’
‘Of course. As if Paul and Mum need any encouragement to do that.’
In the evening we head to the lake for a swim. Diana decides not to come and offers instead to start preparing dinner. Corned beef is on the menu, at Paul’s request. We promise to be back in time to help with the trimmings. It’s beautiful at the lake, and we linger longer than planned. We talk about the future. Paul urges us to do what’s best for us, even if that means returning to Melbourne before Diana dies. ‘I’ve spoken to Mum,’ he says. ‘She’s agreed to go into the nursing home, if necessary.’
This is the first time Diana has ever made such a concession. Beck and I look at each other and I know what she’s thinking.
‘That’s good to know, Paul,’ she says. ‘And thanks for asking, but we’re here until the end.’
I nod in agreement.
Rebecca
Paul encourages me to find a contractor to do the restumping on the house, but I’m overwhelmed by the scale of the job. ‘Can’t you just organise it all?’ I say.
‘I can get you started, but you need to have the information to manage the project once I’m gone,’ he says.
I feel like a sulky youngest child. I’m tired of making decisions. I want my brother to take over.
Paul draws up a map of the stumps under the house and works out how many need to be replaced and how many just need some repair. Together we make a list of companies and contractors that do restumping work. Again, I want Paul to make the phone calls, but he tells me I have to do it. I can’t believe how pathetic I am with this. Paul sits with me while I make the calls.
‘Yep?’ answers the builder.
‘Oh, hi,’ I say. ‘Is this Smith Contractors?’
‘Yep,’ says the builder.
‘Oh, okay … good … right. My name is Rebecca and I’m looking for a builder to do some restumping at my house in Soldiers Hill.’
I wait for the builder to reply but he stays silent.
‘So … yeah,’ I continue, ‘we’re looking for the restumping to happen as soon as possible.’
Again, I wait; again, silence.
‘Are you available?’
‘Nope.’
This time I pause. ‘Right,’ I eventually say. ‘Do you know a builder who might be able to do the work?’
‘Nope.’
‘Okay … well … thanks for your time.’
‘Yep,’ says the builder, and the phone call ends.
This phone call repeats a number of times; we take to calling it the ‘yep, yep, nope, nope, yep’ minimalist tradie convo. We can’t understand why they don’t want the work. A builder eventually tells us that no one will do restumping work in the summer. ‘Too hot under them old houses,’ he tells us.
Eventually, we compile a shortlist of contractors who will come and give us some quotes. Paul prints out the map he’s done, plus all the other information the tradies will need. I am grateful for this and finally feel I have enough information to manage the project.
Mum sits in her chair and listens to some of our conversations, but also spends a fair amount of time nodding off. She’s in good spirits but by night-time she fades again. She is overly hot and listless. I get her into bed and sponge her down and try to make her as comfortable as possible. I ask her to describe what she’s feeling but she can’t. I stay with her until she dozes off.
Paul, Tony and I sit on the verandah and have the same conversation as the previous night, and wonder what the new day will bring.
Tony
A pattern is starting to emerge. Beck is worried. She makes sure that we don’t have dinner too late, and is vigilant about keeping up Mum’s drinks and snacks through the day.
Today, when I get home, Diana has her hair in rollers. ‘She’s putting an effort in tonight,’ Beck says.
‘That’s a good sign, isn’t it?’ Paul replies.
‘She knows there are going to be photos,’ Beck retorts.
Tonight we’re going for dinner at the Barkly Hotel. It’s Paul’s farewell dinner, and all the Mount Isa family will be there.
‘Are we taking the wheelie walker out for another drive?’ I ask.
‘Sure, why not?’ says Beck. ‘You never know, tonight might be our lucky night.’
As we walk into the hotel, we see Aunty Doris King and her daughter Jackie, who I know through work. Then, inside, we run into Beck’s social work student Lynette and her husband, Clayton, who come over to our table for a chat.
We talk about their work Christmas function and the dress-up theme of ‘Come as your favourite star’.
Diana pipes up: ‘I know who Tony could go as!’
We all laugh. Over the years I’ve frequently been mistaken for my brother Paul. As we get older, the resemblance gets stronger. This is the same for all my brothers. Beck and my sister-in-law Linda have a long-running joke that when all the Kelly men retire, we could form a cover band and travel the world singing Paul Kelly songs and doing impersonations.
Diana then blurts out: ‘Elvis! Tony could go as Elvis!’
Everybody laughs even more, and Diana is very pleased with herself. I feel slightly embarrassed. I don’t look at all like Elvis, nor do I have any of his moves. I glance across at Beck, who raises her eyebrows and frowns.
Regardless, it’s a great night. We take photos and Diana glows. Back at home we remove the again unused wheelie walker from the boot. No one says a word. After Diana goes to bed, Paul, Beck and I retire to the verandah.
‘That was a good night,’ Paul says.
‘Yeah, but what about the Elvis comment?’ Beck says. ‘Got any moves for us, Big T?’
We discuss the night and Diana some more. It feels like we’re in some kind of holding pattern: we know something is going on but we don’t know what.
Rebecca
Today is Wednesday and I have to go to work at Headspace. Paul is looking after Mum and taking her to a medical appointment. Mum has been fitted with a monitor in order to measure her heart rate so the doctors can determine what’s happening and adjust her medication if needed. We’re all hopeful, but also pragmatic. For someone who’s ninety-two years of age, how much difference can medication really make? At what point does intervention seem futile?
Tonight I’m going to Jorja’s primary school graduation dinner, and Tony picks me up after work. ‘Diana’s back in hospital,’ he says when I get in the car.
At the appointment there was alarm from one of the staff about her heart rate. It transpired that she needed to be back in hospital. I can’t help but feel a certain relief. We all know that something’s been up, so hospital seems like the logical place for Mum to be right now.
Paul stays at the hospital with Mum, and Tony drives me to the dinner. He’ll then head home and collect Mum’s things and go back to the hospital and wait with Paul. This is hard for me as, to date, I’ve done all the medical appointments and hospital visits, but I know I need to go to the dinner for Jorja.
There are tears at the graduation dinner. The family tradition for the grandchildren and great-grandchildren is to have their photograph taken with Mum underneath the frangipani trees on the day of their graduation. Tonight Jorja has missed out. She is very close to Mum – or GG, as she calls her – and she’s very disappointed. ‘Madlyn and Ashley have grad photos with GG but not me!’ she cries.
‘I know,’ I say, and wrap my arms around her.
‘I knew this would happen,’ she says.
‘She didn’t mean it to happen,’ I say.
‘I know,’ says Jorja, ‘but it just feels unfair.’
I don’t say anything. I just keep my arms around her.
‘Will she be in hospital for long?’ Jorja asks.
‘I hope not!’ I say, keeping my tone upbeat.
Later that night, Paul, Tony and I all meet back at the house. It has taken quite some time for Mum to settle at the hospital but now she’s asleep. We do our regular evening stint on the verandah. Tomorrow Paul has to fly back to the States. He says that if Mum dies over the next few weeks he won’t be able to come back. He’s working on a project in Mexico and needs to get back to work. We understand.
I can’t stay in the room as Paul says goodbye to Mum. I just can’t bear to watch. They both know this is it – the moment when a mother and her child say goodbye forever. I can’t imagine having to do that with my own children. Many of us never get a chance to say goodbye to the ones we love, though. I leave them alone and let them have their final moments together.
I take Paul to the airport and say goodbye. We’ll see him again in a year or two.
I go back to the hospital. Mum is not good. She’s very agitated. She seems to be having trouble breathing, and is very uncomfortable. I tell the doctor.
‘Is everything organised with your mum’s advance health directive?’ she asks.
‘Everything is filled out and signed by Mum and her doctor,’ I say. ‘I just need to get a justice of the peace to sign it.’
‘You should get that organised as soon as possible,’ she tells me.
‘What’s happening?’ I ask. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘It’s procedure,’ the doctor says. ‘Just procedure.’
But I suspect it is something more.
I try a few different numbers to find a JP but don’t have any luck. I ring Florence, the business manager at Headspace. I tell her what’s happening and she says she’ll try to find a JP for me. I am grateful to have someone else on the job.
One of the nurses at the hospital tells me she thinks one of the reception staff might be a JP. I go down and enquire, but they tell me this isn’t the case. Then one of the staff remembers that there is someone in finance who is a JP. She rings that person and I speak to her. She comes up to the ward at lunchtime and signs the papers.
I spend the rest of the afternoon at the hospital. Belinda and her girls join me after school, and we try to get Mum engaged in a crossword but she can’t focus. Tony arrives in the early evening, and together we try to get Mum comfortable. She finally settles, and the nurses tell me it’s best that we leave so Mum can get some sleep.
Tony
Beck and I come home from the hospital late and go straight to bed, but the house feels strangely quiet and empty with Paul gone and Diana in hospital and it takes ages for either of us to go to sleep. The next morning I head into work for a final planning session ahead of next week’s pipeline meeting.
An hour later, Beck rings to tell me Diana has had a massive stroke and is in a coma. I make my excuses from the meeting and go straight to the hospital. By the time I arrive, Diana has been moved from the noisy ICU into a quieter room upstairs. We are told there is no coming back for Diana. A blood clot has lodged in her brain and she’s lost a lot of brain function. Another clot has lodged in her leg, causing thrombosis. Diana waves one arm in the air and groans. Beck gently takes hold of her arm, places it on the bed and strokes it. ‘It’s okay, Mum,’ she tells her. ‘I’m here. Belinda too. Tony’s just arrived from work. I’m sure he’s got a crossword. Everything’s okay.’
I touch the leg with the clot; it is deeply cold. I remember the day after my dad died. I was seven years old, and when I got home from school he was laid out in his coffin in the study. I touched his forehead; it was cold. Diana’s leg feels the same. The cold of death.
Beck looks at me. Grief crosses her face but she is calm. We hold each other’s gaze and nod. Beck smiles a closed-mouth smile. I smile back. We know we’ve got this.
Rebecca
For the next four days, Tony, Belinda and I stay by Mum’s side and gently care for her. We brush her hair, clean her mouth, massage her limbs, paint her nails, read to her, sing to her, do crosswords and laugh and cry.
In the evening we turn down the lights, take sips of whisky from Tony’s hip flask, and play all our and Mum’s favourite songs. We play Death’s Dateless Night, the latest album by Tony’s brother Paul. It is perfect for the occasion.
During the day, friends come to the hospital to pay their respects, and there are lots of phone calls and messages. Belinda calls her siblings and they speak to their grandma. We don’t know if she can hear them, but that’s irrelevant. Samantha is on holidays in Hawaii and is desperate to get back, but it’s not possible to change or rearrange her flights. I can hear the pain in her voice when I speak to her. The only consolation is that she’s in Hawaii, which Mum has always said is her favourite place in the world.
In the midst of all this, I receive a call from my cousin Paddi to tell me that her mother, my aunty Eileen, has just died. Eileen was Dad’s sister, and the last of Dad’s siblings to go. She was ninety-eight, and we all thought she would live on to get her ‘telegram from the Queen’. When Mum first married Dad, they lived with Eileen and her husband, Henry, in their house in Mount Isa until they found a place of their own. For over fifty years they lived one street from each other.
I tell Paddi that I’m in the hospital and waiting for Mum to die. It seems fitting that these two should die within days of each other. They’ve been friends for over seventy years, and up until now still connected with weekly phone conversations.
I ask the nurses how long this is likely to go on for. They all say the same thing: ‘Everyone is different. She’ll go when she’s ready.’ We suspect she’s waiting for something, or someone.
Sunday night is the longest night. Mum wheezes and rattles, and although she’s unconscious she seems uncomfortable. I don’t sleep. I hold her hand and say many times, ‘It’s okay, Mum, you can go.’
At 4 am I leave the room for a short time and go outside. I need some air. I wander up and down in front of the hospital. One of the security staff comes over to me and starts talking. ‘What department do you work in?’ he asks.
‘I don’t work here,’ I say.
‘But I see you here every day,’ he says.
‘I’m with my mum,’ I tell him. ‘We’re waiting for her to die.’
The security man nods and touches my shoulder. I say nothing.
In the morning, Tony goes to the airport to pick up David, who is flying in from Mackay. A little after 9 am, David walks into the hospital room, holds Mum’s hand and says, ‘Mum, it’s me, Dave.’ He sits down beside her and says, ‘I love you, Mum.’
I start gathering my things. The plan is to let David have some time with Mum by himself, and for me to go home and have a shower.
‘Beck,’ says Tony.
I turn around. ‘Yeah?’
‘I think she’s going,’ he says.
Mum breathes in noisily, then out, and then she stops.
We hold her hands and say nothing. We look at each other, and through tears smile gently.
‘She waited for you,’ I say to David eventually.
‘Yeah,’ says David. ‘I thought she would.’
I’ve heard stories like this over the years but have always taken them with a grain of salt. Are people really able to choose when they die? Do people really wait for certain family members to arrive before they let go? Can people in their last breathing moments hear the voices of loved ones and know who is present and who is still missing? Well, today I say yes. Today I have witnessed it.
Tony
David and I head over to Belinda’s for a swim. Beck has gone home, saying she’ll come later. We sit in the pool with drinks in our hands, still somewhat stunned by what we have just witnessed. Seppo and the kids join us, and we swim and move gently around each other, talking quietly. We know over these past few days we have all been part of something beautiful, and we feel touched by grace and goodness.
Rebecca
The phone rings again and I contemplate not answering. It has rung nonstop since I came back from the hospital. The house is finally quiet. But of course I answer.
‘Hello, Rebecca. It’s your aunty Veronica.’
I pause. It takes a few moments for my brain to catch up with my ears. And then it kicks in and I don’t know if I want to laugh, cry or scream. We have waited thirty-seven years for this phone call.
‘Hello, Aunty Veronica.’ Suddenly I am sixteen again.
‘I just wanted to ring you to tell you how much I admired your mum. She was a great mother, wife and sister.’
There’s so much I want to say. Where were you? Where were you when Michael died? Where were you when Dad died? Where were you when Mum needed you the most? But I don’t say any of these things. I take a leaf out of Mum’s book, let bygones be bygones and remain in the present.
‘It’s good to hear your voice,’ I say.
‘It’s good to hear yours too,’ she replies.
We talk a bit more and make plans to speak again after the funeral.
I hang up, and think about how I’d love to be able to tell Mum about that conversation.
Tony
‘I’ve been in contact with the funeral home and the church and we’re set for Friday,’ Beck announces.
We’re all here – the nieces and nephews, partners and children, David, Beck and me – gathered in the lounge room for the first of what I expect to be a number of meetings throughout the week.
‘We’ll need to organise an order of service, music, the wake,’ she continues. ‘Can anyone think of anything else?’
‘Pallbearers,’ adds David.
‘Yes – who wants to be a pallbearer?’ Becks asks.
‘Not just the boys,’ Madlyn chips in.
‘When can we view Grandma?’ Sam asks.
She and the rest of the Mount Isa family were very close to Diana, and their grief is profound. Beck has to tread carefully. I fear there may be a struggle for ownership of the grief. This is fed by a lingering worry that the others have felt usurped by Beck and me. Worry that we (actually, mainly me) might be seen as coming in and replacing the nieces and nephews in their relationship with their grandmother. Blow-ins from down south, just here for a couple of years, while they’ve been here always, a constant source of company and support. I know this isn’t likely, but right now, with a funeral to organise, and grief coursing through each of us, everyone is under pressure. If things are not managed carefully, fissures could open over the next couple of days.
‘I think we should play Dolly Parton’s “Islands in the Stream” as the coffin leaves the church,’ Brian announces.
Belinda agrees enthusiastically.
I look across at Beck, and from her face I can see that she doesn’t agree. I feel anxious.
‘That’s a song for your funeral, not Mum’s,’ Beck teases Brian, who is a huge Dolly Parton fan. Everyone laughs and the tension breaks. Also, by saying Mum, not Grandma or Diana, Beck has subtly but clearly asserted her status. It is her mother we are burying, and ultimately she and David will call the shots.
We settle on Johnny Cash’s ‘Will the Circle Be Unbroken’.
The following day I have a phone interview for the job. The house in Madang Street is bulging at the seams, with family coming and going. The only private place I can find is our bedroom. I sit on the bed with the air conditioner on high and the venetians rattling.
The first question I’m asked is direct: ‘Will you take the job if offered, given the need to look after your mother-in-law?’
‘She died yesterday,’ I tell the panel. They’re shocked and offer to reschedule. ‘No, I’m right to proceed,’ I say.
At that point Beck and her seventeen-year-old nephew, James, commence a loud conversation outside the bedroom door.
‘Do you wax your eyebrows?’ Beck asks James.
‘No, I get them threaded,’ James replies in a low rumble.
‘Do you?’ Beck is clearly surprised.
‘Yeah. Threading. It’s really good.’
‘I get mine waxed,’ Beck babbles on.
‘Excuse me,’ I say to the panel, and get off the bed and open the door. ‘I’m in the middle of an interview!’
Beck and James scamper down the hallway.
By the end of the day the job is mine.
Swimming later that evening with Beck and Georgina (who has just arrived in town for the funeral), we discuss whether I should take the job. ‘I like it here,’ I admit.
‘You can’t like it too much,’ Beck retorts, ‘given you’ve got yourself another job before we’ve even buried Mum!’
Georgina is aghast that I would even consider not taking the job. She makes no effort to hide her distaste for Mount Isa. ‘You’re coming back. That’s the end of it.’
I duck under the water, push myself off the wall and glide over to the other side. ‘You’re right,’ I tell her when I resurface.
David has a bit too much to drink and becomes argumentative on the way home from Belinda’s. Later that night, Beck tells me how she’s feeling. ‘I’m pissed off with David,’ she says. ‘I need him sober and by my side.’
‘Tell him exactly that,’ I encourage her.
She does so the next morning. ‘David, you’re funny and charming,’ she begins.
‘When I’m not drinking, you mean?’ he interrupts. He’s in the kitchen cooking breakfast for everyone.
‘Yes, when you’re sober. The aunties and uncles have always liked you the most. It gives me the shits, actually. Anyway, we’ve got a big few days ahead and we need to do this together.’
David nods. ‘Fair enough.’
‘Can you be the driver for tonight’s barbecue?’ Beck asks. ‘Pick people up from the airport, and ferry ’em to the lake and back to the hotel?’
‘Sure, of course,’ he says.
‘That’d be great, thanks.’
Our friend Ruth and my brother Martin arrive, along with Diana’s sister Mary and her daughter, Caroline. David shuttles everyone back and forth, charming them along the way. I see Beck start to relax.
At the end of the night, Michael calls out to David as he’s bundling Aunty Mary into the car: ‘Next time we have a barbie, Uncle Dave, you should join us.’
David just laughs.
Rebecca
The rain has made the church cool, and the funeral goes off without a hitch. Mum was always clear with me about what she wanted: flowers, colourful outfits and good music. If we insisted, we could show photos. ‘But go easy on the wailing,’ she’d say. The funeral is colourful and joyful and full of music, but not without some tears.
I’m touched that many of my work colleagues and friends from Headspace come to the funeral. Most of Mum’s friends are long gone, but even so the church is full. Ash and Tara play her favourite hymns, and I swear I can hear her humming. The music is uplifting and true to Mum.
There are a lot of speeches and readings – me, Belinda, Samantha, Brian, Tony, Georgina, Madlyn, Ashley and Jorja. Initially I thought that might be too much, but it’s perfect. We all need to speak, and our words are a combination of poignant, funny and deeply loving. The minister acknowledges Mum’s long and devoted relationship with Christianity and with this church. I had worried that the service might seem a bit cloying, but my fears are unnecessary. The minister graciously takes the lead from us and pitches his words at the same level. It is fitting that Mum should be remembered with such admiration and dignity.
The burial also goes smoothly. The night before, Georgina and Ruth drove around town picking frangipani flowers from neighbourhood trees. We put them into plastic bags and popped them in the freezer. This morning we transferred them to an esky and then to baskets, and they’ve stayed perfectly in shape. Everyone takes a handful and throws the flowers into the grave. David speaks at the gravesite, and his words are gentle and moving.
After the funeral we go to the wake and drink ‘pine ale’, Mum’s favourite mocktail, made from a combination of pineapple juice and ginger ale. We eat small sandwiches and little pastries. A few people have a beer or a wine but it’s all very laid-back.
Throughout it all, I keep thinking: Mum would have loved this!
Tony
The day after the funeral, I attend the pipeline authorisation meeting. Over a hundred people are there. Many have come from the coast or from the across the border in the Northern Territory. The pipeline company executives make their pitch and leave. I advise on the deal we have negotiated. Representatives from the key families give their opinions, and the deal is debated back and forth. It doesn’t seem that many people have any problems with the deal, but the agreement nearly comes unstuck when we turn to how the financial component will be distributed. Finally, everyone consents to place the funds in trust and allow for a full consultation process in the new year. The anxious pipeline execs are invited back in and the agreement is signed.
I’m buoyed by the success of the meeting, and by the emotion of the past week. Aunty Doris, one of the senior elders, comes up to thank me. She remembers Diana from the Barkly Hotel the week before. She takes my arm and tells me what a lovely woman my mother-in-law was.
‘Rebecca’s your wife?’ she continues. I nod yes. ‘What beautiful blue eyes she has.’
I agree.
‘Give her my condolences.’
‘I will.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Home with the family.’
‘That’s where you need to be.’ Doris dismisses me with a wave of her hand.
Rebecca
By Saturday lunchtime, most people have headed back out of town. My nephew James decides to stay on in Mount Isa for a few days with us. I am really pleased.
In the late afternoon all the nieces and nephews come over and we have drinks and snacks under the frangipani trees. I still can’t quite believe that Mum isn’t with us, and keep popping my head into her bedroom to check if she’s there or not.
I feel as though I have barely slept for over a week, and that – combined with a tad too much wine – results in me toppling off my chair and into the garden bed below the trees. I scream as I go down.
‘Oh my god!’ screams Belinda, but hers is not a scream of fright but of hilarity. ‘Aunty,’ she says, ‘what are you doing down there?’
‘Help me up!’ I cry.
‘Your dress!’ says Samantha. ‘Your dress!’
I look down and can see that my dress has come right up and is showing my underpants.
The nieces and nephews are in hysterics.
‘Aunty’s lost it!’ says Michael.
‘Taxi!’ calls Brian.
Eventually, two of them pull me up out of the garden bed and plonk me back on my chair. It is the comical moment we’ve all been looking for. The new family matriarch has had her debut moment in the garden bed!
Tony comes home from his meeting and joins us in the yard until eventually the others leave.
We sit on the verandah and have a much-needed cup of tea. We are both so tired, but everything feels calm.
Tony and I decide that he will take the new job back in Melbourne. I’ll stay in Mount Isa and manage the restumping of the house and finish my other jobs. I’ll also sort through the contents of the house, and then we’ll put it on the market. We suspect all this might take four to six months. Also, I’ve recently accepted a new contract at the Mount Isa campus of James Cook University, and I still have work at Headspace. It all feels very doable.
Tony goes inside and puts on some music. When he comes back out, we raise our cups to Mum and the past two years. We have done it. We have given to Mum what she had spent her entire lifetime giving to others.
The next song comes on. It is Leonard Cohen, ‘Dance Me to the End of Love’. Tony and I hold hands, go inside and dance.