Sweet Sorrows
The prospect of heading overseas is always exciting. But there are also times when we can't help but reflect as we depart on just what, and who, we are leaving behind.
Each edition of Lighting the Path deals with a new aspect of our 2016 or 2023 journeys; sometimes both. So please make sure to carefully note the dates of each post as you browse in order to better understand how it relates to the others.
14 June 2023
Tomorrow my wife of 30 years (and 72 days), Linda, and I are scheduled to depart Australia for the UK. It is to be our first journey across the Equator in seven years. Indeed it will be the first time we have departed Australia for anywhere else at all in more than six years.
Though COVID is still undoubtedly a part of the global consciousness, it is thankfully no longer the pandemic that monopolises our daily thoughts, and the media in all its forms, in the manner it did for such a significant period of our lives. The WHO declared COVID a public health emergency of international concern, the likes of which my generation has never previously encountered, on 30 January 2020. But last month, after three years three months and five days, that same World Health Organisation revoked its declaration. Happy days.
So we should be excited right? After all we’re going to be jumping on a big white gravity-defying mechanical bird with hundreds of other equally intrepid souls tomorrow to do something really exciting that we haven’t done for years. So why aren’t we? Well, the fact is we’re both too consumed with pressing concerns for any sort of frivolous excitement to kick in right at this moment.
In Linda’s case that’s because she’s in hospital; undergoing a gastroscopy that, we hope, will explain why she’s been experiencing an uncomfortable sensation in her throat in recent weeks. As if there’s something stuck there that doesn’t want to be dislodged. (The procedure goes as smoothly and painlessly as could be hoped. The surgeon finds no obvious obstruction, or indeed any explanation for Linda’s ongoing discomfort. But of course if subsequent investigation reveals a more sinister cause for the problems she is experiencing we are not going to be in Australia when the news comes through).
For me, it’s my last visit to see my mother before we depart the country. Only this visit is a little bit different than normal. Because it incorporates an assessment of Mum’s health and living conditions by a palliative care specialist. Mum celebrated a birthday a fortnight ago; although celebrated is probably a strong word when you’re turning 93. For the past three years and three months she’s been living in a nursing home. (And if that period of time sounds familiar, it’s because her admission coincided almost exactly with the first COVID lockdown in March 2020). Going into a home is something neither Mum, nor my three siblings and I, would have imagined three and a half years ago that she would willingly have agreed to. But the stroke she suffered on 10 December 2019, three years to the day since my father passed away in 2016, changed all that.
The assessment goes well enough. Lynne, the palliative care nurse conducting it, is friendly and engaging. She notes Mum’s weight loss over the past few months is of concern, as is the persistent infection on her right lower leg. But she seems optimistic enough about Mum’s short-term prospects. Of course Lynne will write a full report over the next few days, and provide a copy to the family, but nothing she says or does gives me any reason to believe Mum won’t still be around when I return in six weeks’ time.
After Lynne departs I spend an extra hour or two at the nursing home, mainly re-visiting things Mum and I have discussed earlier during my stay. Most especially Mum wants to know, again, when my sister, Diedre, will be getting back from her current overseas trip. (“A fortnight today Mum”). Between now and Dee’s return I remind Mum that, in all likelihood, two of her grandchildren, Joshua and Aja - son and daughter of my elder sister, Julie, who now resides in Bali - as well as a long-time family friend, Louise B, will be popping in to visit. Mum seems reassured by this.
When it’s time to say goodbye I kiss Mum on the cheek, as firmly, and for as long as her fragile state allows. I tell her I love her, and that I will miss her while I’m away. She responds in kind; not in rote fashion, but in the genuine and grateful way that has characterised her behaviour over these past three years. When I leave she seems happy, and thankful for my visit. As it turns out, these are the last moments we will ever share together.
16 May 2016
The last time Linda and I headed to the northern hemisphere, just over seven years ago, I remember a similar sense of apprehension prior to our departure. On that occasion it was primarily my father’s health, and in particular the very obvious onset of dementia - an insidious condition that had threatened to undermine my parents’ wonderful relationship, forged over nearly 64 years of marriage ‑ that had been at the forefront of my mind.
The day we flew out I sent an email to my siblings – Diedre, Julie, and the oldest of the four, my brother Ian – confirming as much:
A short note to wish you all much love and good health as Linda and I head away today.
I will miss you all, but I can’t wait to see and feel everything that we are going to experience over the next couple of months; and also very much looking forward to sharing those experiences with the love of my life, and of course with our two incredible boys when they join us in six weeks’ time.
I go with a little trepidation given Mum and Dad’s precarious circumstances, but comforted by the knowledge that you three will do everything you can to ensure they will be as happy and comfortable as possible during that period, notwithstanding the challenges they are facing every day.
I really do feel fortunate to have you as my siblings. I love you all very very much, and I look forward to seeing you when we return.
To be continued - next week