Family
I’m in the car, early in the morning. …Early for me, anyway. I am driving to Toowoomba, something I wouldn’t normally do, even if you paid me. Driving for more than an hour tends to send me to sleep, and it is stressful trying to concentrate for that long. However, this is different. I am on a rescue mission to pick up my mum and her travelling companions.
For months we have been anticipating my mum relocating near us. Her health has been getting worse and we weren’t able to visit due to the geographical void between our homes. So finally we had to make the decision; get them to move down here: a big trip of almost 3 500 km from the top of the Northern Territory to our place on the New South Wales / Queensland border. We searched for the right rental house near us so we could keep an eye on Mum and her husband Ron. Lots of planning, packing and organising was involved.
Months shrank to weeks and we rounded up cheap furniture and made the place liveable. Soon it was a matter of days; we heard news that Mum, Ron and my brother-in-law were on the bus heading south. We tidied and arranged things. Bruce cut the heavy grass, raked, then went back over with a mower. We bought groceries and loaded them in the fridge and pantry.
Thursday night, we went to bed knowing that Mum was on the last leg of a tiring journey. We expected them to arrive in Brisbane around 9am, then my brother-in-law and sister would drive everyone down to us - another three hour trip. Friday morning, the phone rang at 7am and I heard the concerned voice of my sister on the line. My mum, who has dementia, has spent the whole night walking up and down the crowded bus, trying to go to the shop, or some other unrealistic destination. Ron and my brother-in-law have reached the point of exhaustion, keeping an eye on her. Mum, meanwhile, not being able to get to the shop, has gotten more and more agitated. At 6:30 in the morning my sister got a text message indicating that perhaps they all needed to bail out in a bid for sanity.
So that’s how I find myself with a hurried bowl of VitaBrits in my belly, driving past the paddocks and singing along to Kasey Chambers at the top of my voice. I echo her little girl - tough girl - country wail as I pour out my frustrations to her lyrics. I think of my mum’s mental disorientation at the ripe old age of 64, and how my mother-in-law of similar vintage, is still working on and managing their cattle property. The differences are huge.
As I drive through Warwick and towards the north, I see fields of sunflowers in rows of spent growth. The masses of old plants with shrivelled petals and brown heads remind me of the tragedy of this life, the mortality we are all facing and struggling with. Then I realise it is Good Friday, and the bowed heads become Jesus on the cross, calling out “It is finished!”
I can’t figure out why people call it Good Friday, as surely the disciples and followers of Jesus would have called that a dark day in history; a bad day, not good. They must have been devastated over the loss of Jesus by a plan that seemed to go horribly wrong. And until the resurrection on Sunday morning, they would have felt abandoned and fearful.
And I think of my own fears… my mother’s life gone horribly wrong. I belt out the words to Kasey and Paul Kelly’s duet: I still cry for baby Jesus; I still pray when I’m alone, and when I’m lost, he’ll come to find me – ‘Cos he die-d to save my soul. Amidst my worries and fretting about Mum I also wonder: how come I sound so good in the car and yet can’t duplicate that vocal genius up front at church?
And so now I am in the car again, on my way back home, with Mum in the front seat, and Ron in the back. My sister is heading to Toowoomba from the coast, going to pick up her husband. I have left him on the footpath of Margaret Street, to breathe a sigh of relief and clear his head following two weeks of stress in the heat of the Territory.
Mum seems like her old self, chatty and giggly. She laughs when she is happy, when she is embarrassed or nervous, or as a default when she doesn’t know what else to do. You’d think all those endorphins could have helped her health somehow. But she is still not the same. She is worse; her conversation snippets of unrelated events and chronology.
She fidgets and pries. She opens the glove-box and rearranges the contents. She gets a music cassette and removes it from the case. She then takes the inlay card from the plastic case. With all pieces now separated, she turns her attention back to the cassette. She holds it and pulls at the plastic, trying to pull this apart as well. I encourage her to put it all back, directing with one hand while keeping an eye on the road.
Mum takes her seatbelt off, thinking it is time to get out. I ask her to leave it on and she looks confused. I tell her, “Leave your seat-belt on while we’re driving.” She nods and takes that as good advice. She pulls at the vents in the dash and asks me what they are for. I tell her. She presses the button for my hazard lights, and I turn them off quickly as another car overtakes. I wonder what they are thinking. I wonder what Mum is thinking. She seems to have the curiosity of a two-year old exploring the world, but perhaps with a weaker memory. I am reassured, knowing that I have a two-year old at home who has providentially provided me with the experience to patiently deal with this. I think: I probably won’t be able to use smacking as an option for disobedience in this case.
A couple of times Mum fiddles with the door handle and both Ron and I firmly say “No!” The thought of the door flying open as we drive at 100km an hour alarms me. I had no idea Mum was this disoriented. I seem to be in a bad episode of Mother and Son, but without the funny bits. Ron tells me that they are going to try a regime of Brahmi tablets for Mum’s memory. Mum joins in on the conversation and tells me about the ‘Barmy’. It seems so apt: Mum taking barmy tablets.
As we spend more time in the car, Mum grows increasingly restless and the last time I tell her not to open the door, she gets annoyed. She purses her lips and frowns in a ‘Mum expression’ I know so well. I feel for her, knowing I should be honouring my mother, and here I am, talking to her like a naughty child. But better that, than a ghastly accident involving speed and gravity… or should that be inertia?
Soon, we are a measurable distance from home and we are counting down the minutes. I pull into the driveway and I see my family waiting at the house. We pile out, stretch legs and bring luggage inside. At last, we are here – the end of Mum’s journey.
It is only the start of mine.
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“I have seen something else under the sun: The race is not to the swift or the battle to the strong, nor does food come to the wise or wealth to the brilliant or favour to the learned; but time and chance happen to them all.” (Ecclesiastes 9:11, NIV)
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What an experience! I am praying for you (I'm assuming this is a true story). You told this with such an authentic voice.
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