Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer
My Dad had a soft gravely voice and he also had a Ned Kelly beard, so
you could imagine that his words often got lost, or at best muffled.
My mum on the other hand, had a voice that sounded like a cockatoo, it
screeched across the entire house. This story is about the day my Dad
lost his words. Funny that the quietest man became silent, for a while
and then when he spoke the story was all different.
On this cloudy day in November I had a meeting in the city, an hour
and half down the highway. It wasn’t due to start until 10:30, lucky
then that I could miss peak hour. Mum was crook, she had the flu and
wasn’t happy about it. Mum and Dad hardly had a day sick in their
lives, was it something about being born in the depression, it made
them tough, tough as old boots? They didn’t believe in complaining
either. I’m pretty sure they both retired with years of sick leave. I
had cooked them and me a quiche to have for tea, that night.
I pulled up outside their place, and sat just for a moment in the
drivers seat, I paused and looked up at the magnificent gum tree, that
had stood in the corner of the neighbour’s yard. The neighbours knew
never to touch that tree, because Mum would never finished abusing
them. It stood there like the sentinel, never flinching. It was there
when they bought their place 45 years before.
I gave Mum the quiche and she was grateful, I stared at her frail
frame, and wondered when it was, she got old. She squawked something
about that idiot John Howard and his latest escapades. Dad was
upstairs in this study, punching at his keyboard with zeal. He was
working on a draft of his early childhood.
He looked over his glasses, “Are you going to stay for a cuppa?”
“No, I will call in later, I had better get on the highway to this meeting”
“Is the meeting of any significance?” He asked.
“Not sure, but you know they are a bunch of wankers” I said.
He laughed “Seeyou later on then”
It’s amazing, how you just don’t know, that sometimes the most
ordinary conversations are pivotal. That was the last conversation I
had with my Dad.
I went to the meeting in Melbourne, and the Chief Information Officer
spoke gobblydook for over an hour, as his shiny pony tail swung this
way, and that. Then he walked around the room, and gave us all an
envelope, with our names printed with a nice strong font.
“I want you to know I value the work that you do, but we have decided,
that there is a smarter way to do our business. We will move all jobs
from the regional research organizations to two central locations in
Melbourne. For those of you, who don’t wish to come to Melbourne, we
have an attractive redundancy package on offer…”
“We shall reconvene after lunch, and I will be ready to take your
questions, of no doubt you have many…”
Many of did not ask the questions we wanted to ask. We were weary and
none of us were very fond of this bean counter.
I drove down the highway thinking about the prospect of no job. I
looked over at the You Yangs, their blue smudgy outline somehow
offering a sense of security. Well I was looking forward to this cup
of tea with Mum and Dad, there were times I loved to listen to their
stories, of how they coped when life threw in the odd curve ball.
Today was one of those days.
I pulled up outside their place, and then behind me I saw my brother
roll up in his old car. I didn’t wait for him; he’d been annoying me
lately. When I walked down the overgrown path, I felt something was
out of whack. I looked over towards the garage, and that’s when I saw
Dad sitting on the roof holding onto his ladder.
“Dad, what are you doing up there?”
He just stared at me, stared right through me.
“Dad can you hear me?”
My brother came down the path.
“What’s going on? What’s Dad doing up there?”
“I don’t know. But he’s not responding. I am going inside to call an ambulance”
I left my brother outside; he was climbing up the ladder.
When I got inside, Mum said, “It’s all my fault”
I am not sure what Mum is talking about, but all I could think of,is
that time is critical.
I dialed 000, and they tell me, not to move him, and that since he is
stuck on the roof they will send the fire brigade too. I ring my
sister, and she asks me what I want her to do. I don’t know the
answer, “Just come”
Mum goes out in the garden, and the fire brigade arrives. They start
to cut back the overgrown bushes, so they can access Dad. Mum begins
to carry on, “Don’t cut my trees.”
“Mum, they need to trim the trees back, so they can get Dad down from
there! How about you wait inside”
My sister arrives at the same time as the ambulance, and then her and
my brother argues about who should go in the ambulance. The ambos try
talking to Dad, and he doesn’t speak at all. His eyes are open, and he
looks scarred shitless.
The fire engine leaves, the ambulance packs Dad onto a stretcher,
flashing lights drive away to the hospital and my brother follows
behind.
I go inside and Mum is still talking about it being her fault.
“What do you mean it’s your fault? It’s nobody’s fault.”
“Yes, it’s mine, he was up there for hours like that. I just thought
he was ignoring me, so I left him out there.”
I groan inside, I put the kettle on, what’s the point of laying blame.
It’s several hours later that the hospital rings to confirm that Dad
has had a massive stroke, he has had a huge bleed. They can’t tell us,
what will be the long-term effects. The next day they transfer him to
the Alfred. This is the best place to monitor him, should things get
worse.
A few days later they send him back to Geelong Hospital and random
words begin to stagger out of his mouth. Most of them are just random,
they make no sense. One day he says a whole sentence. None of
remembers how to breathe, we are so stressed. How can the patriarch of
the family have come to this? The days move into weeks, and he begins
to walk. The man, looks a lot like our father, but he isn’t. The brain
bleed has wiped his memory, he actually thinks he is a young boy, and
whenever we visit he just stares at us. Once he said to me,
“I don’t know who you are, but
I think you could be important”
Such a sad sentence.
Mostly I am sadder for my mother. He looks at her, and listens to her
cough, and I see concern on his face. But he has no recognition. 55
years of marriage wiped out. One night we go to the hospital and we
turn on the election count, something that had always been a great
tradition in our household. Dad’s greatest desire was to see the Libs
bundled out of office. Mum and I are on the edge of our uncomfortable
hospital chairs; John Howard looks set to lose his seat. I look over
to Dad; he has no expression on his face.
“Dad, do you understand the significance of this night?
“No, I don’t understand”
Mum’s heart is utterly broken.
My Dad lived in this new world. We fought to get him rehab. He learnt
to cook toast. But he was never our Dad again, and Mum lost her
husband the day he decided to clean the gutters, on the garage roof.
He talked a lot about going home, and we took him home, but he ran
away, because our home was not the home he was looking for. He died
four months later, battered and bruised from all running away, from
where ever we took him. We couldn’t take him home, because home was in
the 1940’s out in the scrub, some where in Western Australia.
Fiona died unexpectedly less than a year after publishing this piece
Hi Catherine
I wanted to touch base with you to let you know of the passing of a friend. I came along to your Gunnas masterclass as a result of my fiend Fiona Baranowski’s experience – she raved about it and I knew that it had made a difference to her – she was so happy and proud when you published one of her pieces on your website. Fiona passed away very suddenly and unexpectedly last Saturday – she died doing what she loved, going on a Saturday morning run. She suffered a heart attack – 49 years old, 3 gorgeous teenage kids and with much of her music still inside. I know you’ll remember Fiona for her crazy hair and larger than life personality – we are all shattered and will miss her terribly.
Take care Catherine – life is way too short and sometimes its just too fucked up to make sense of.
Go Back
Choosing to be at Catherine Deveny’s The Gunnas Writing Masterclass was the first step. My year of responding to invitations and ideas by saying ‘why not’ with Gilly made for so many amazing moments and opportunities grasped, awesome tunes, mind blowing experiences, dodgy and flash hotels and memory making that it was time to pull my finger out and revisit that mantra of ‘why not’.
