Читать книгу No Way to Behave at a Funeral - Noel Braun - Страница 9

In October, 2004 Maris and I were living on Sydney’s northern beaches, in the midst of urban bushland. Leafy Frenchs Forest is a beautiful area.

Kookaburras woke us with their pre-dawn laughter, galahs and cockatoos made their racket daily. Our two story house overlooked national park and was large enough to raise four children. Built on a steep slope, sixty steps from the front door to the street, its garden wound around the rocks and offered peace and solitude from our busy lives. Maris loved her garden and tended it carefully.

She loved our four children. I loved them, too, but I could see she felt something more. They were her purpose. Like many families, ours was scattered, and it was not often that we saw everyone together, but, for the first time in four years, our children and their partners were all in Sydney.

The family was gathering for Stephen’s wedding on November 6th. Stephen, our older son, had been married before. We witnessed the break-up of his marriage, a bad match we thought was doomed from the start. He moved back home, hid from the world in his room and never left his computer. Our son struggled with his anguish, and we were relieved when he finally emerged, began knocking around with his old mates, moved out of home and, after his divorce, courted Anthea, this interesting girl at Macquarie University.

Stephen was a ski enthusiast and told us he planned to propose on top of Mount Kosciusko.

‘You might drop the ring in the snow,’ Maris had said, ever anxious about Stephen.

Our youngest child, Tim, lived in Melbourne. He had arrived at our place early with his partner Melissa to attend Stephen’s bucks’ party and to prepare for his job as best man. Although we had spoken on the phone, Maris and I had never met Melissa.

Maris loved family celebrations and should have looked forward to Stephen’s marriage with joyful anticipation. She had shared in the planning of Angela’s wedding, and had been just as excited about Stephen’s first wedding.

Instead, she was dreading this event.

Black clouds of depression cast a terrible veil over her life. She had taken her first anti-depressants twenty years previously. Initially she would suffer for two or three weeks a year, but with time, her bouts of despondency lengthened and became a cruel and dominant master. A relentless pessimism plagued her. I felt impotent as I witnessed the power of depression swamp a normally rational mind with terror and anxiety.

‘This wedding’s going to be a disaster,’ she repeated.

‘I’m sure Stephen and Anthea have everything organised,’ I replied.

Maris shuddered. ‘The reception? A cocktail party?’ For her wedding receptions were of the banquet variety where everyone sat down in front of name tags.

‘This way the guests can wander about,’ I said but she remained unconvinced.

I witnessed her daily struggle. Early morning was the worst. I’d wake, look across and see her eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, mustering the courage to start the day. I was doing my utmost to accompany her, to support her on her terrible journey.

Maris visited her GP regularly. She was also seeing a psychiatrist and a psychologist, although she was dissatisfied with her psychiatrist and wanted to change. He had increased her medication drastically, but she was getting worse. We talked. She seemed to need me around. We discussed her options.

‘A new psychiatrist might change your treatment,’ I said.

‘He might put me in hospital while I’m being weaned off my old medication and waiting for the new to take effect.’

In mid-October after some careful research and discussion, she chose the names of two psychiatrists. Her first choice was not available until the following year, and the other could not see her until mid November. She was bitterly disappointed.

‘I might be dead by then.’

‘How do you mean?’ I asked.

‘I’ve never been suicidal before, but I am now.’

I’ll never forget the knot in my stomach. It would be fair to say I didn’t have a clue what to do. ‘Think about your appointment with the new psychiatrist. He might put you in hospital.’

She seemed to relax, but I knew that she would require continuing care.

‘I’ll stay with you all the time,’ I offered.

‘No, you’ve got to continue with your normal interests and not feel restricted. What sort of life is that?’

I had enrolled for a training course for the weekend, a Gestalt therapy course with Lifeline.

‘I’ll cancel the course on the weekend and stay with you instead.’

‘No, I want you to go, Noel.’

We tried to lead a normal life. On Tuesday she dined with friends from our church. Maris let on to very few the extent of her suffering, but one of her close friends asked Maris how she was. Maris replied with typical understatement. ‘I’m not travelling well.’

Wednesday night we went to the Opera House to see The Mikado. She did not want to go but I encouraged her, thinking the outing might make her feel better. She dressed carefully as always. I used to joke that she ‘scrubbed up well’.

The weather was perfect, a fine balmy night. We arrived early and admired the view of the harbour and the bridge. We walked arm in arm along the concourse and stopped to listen to the spruikers. We sat in the foyer with a cup of coffee and watched the comings and goings, something Maris always enjoyed. Maris laughed at the antics of the performers and the pretty how-di-do Poo Bah, Nanki Poo and the rest managed to get into. I glanced across at her frequently. She seemed content as we walked back to Circular Quay, admiring the fairy land created by the lighted bridge, surrounding buildings and boats. I was feeling hopeful as we travelled home.

Thursday morning she had a 9 am appointment with her GP. I expected her home early. As the morning advanced towards afternoon, I became agitated and restless. I wandered about the house, frustrated I could not contact her. She had no mobile. Imagine my relief when she appeared out of nowhere in our backyard.

‘You had me scared stiff, Maris. Where’ve you been?’

‘I’ve been looking for a place to jump.’

I can’t begin to describe my alarm. It was not a particularly warm day, but I felt the sweat in my arm pits and the smell of fear.

‘I checked out the cliffs at Dee Why but I’ve found the perfect place — the Westfield Car Park at Chatswood.’

I was speechless.

‘I’m glad I didn’t jump,’ she continued in her matter-offact tone. ‘Besides, I would want to write a note to everyone in the family and by the time I’d done that, I’d have lost the urge.’ Then she laughed.

This relieved me immensely. I felt the stomach knots unravelling. I wanted to believe we were over the worst. I slipped into denial, I guess. I wanted to share my concerns with someone. My daughter Jacinta was living with us with her husband Rick but she was preoccupied with her baby, Brody, sick at the time. Maris insisted I do my Lifeline Telephone Counselling shift arranged for the afternoon.

While I was away, she decided to clear out Stephen’s room in preparation for my sister Maria and husband Joe who would be arriving the following week for the wedding. Stephen was away with Anthea on pre-wedding visits to country relatives. When I returned home Maris, our daughter Jacinta and I carried his goods to a place upstairs we call the gallery which is used for storage. I checked out Maris. She seemed in good spirits, happy that she had tackled a messy job, the morning thoughts forgotten. She reminisced about the many times she had cleaned up after Stephen, the untidiest by far of our children. I felt optimistic but I was still on edge.

* * *

On Friday morning I woke to find Maris staring at the ceiling.

‘Noel, I’m wretched,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I can handle today.’ Our grandson Hugh’s preschool had organised a Grandparents’ Day.

‘Hugh would be disappointed if we didn’t go.’

‘Okay, let’s go.’ She rolled out of bed and got herself ready with a grim determination.

When we got to the preschool Hugh was delighted to see us. We sauntered around and talked to other grandparents about the great times children have these days. Maris sat with Hugh while he drew and played with blocks, and watched him in the playground digging vigorously in the sand.

‘The sandpit is his favourite,’ the teacher said to Maris.

Maris always had her camera, a small Olympus. The battery was held in by tape because the battery compartment cover was lost, but it took good photos. She took several snaps of Hugh in action and asked the teacher to take a photo of the three of us.

On the way home we called on our daughter Angela. Maris did not want to go inside and we spoke to Angela on the kerb, but were persuaded because Angela’s two year old Eliza was dashing out of the house and threatening to cross the road. Eliza cuddled Maris the whole time in unspoken communication. Maris sat with eyes closed while Eliza rested her head on her lap.

We stopped at the Warringah Council Nursery to look at some native grasses and trees for our garden. Maris enjoyed our garden and whenever I saw her weeding or watering, I knew she was feeling better. When she wasn’t, the plants had to fend for themselves. I was no gardener although Maris called on me when there was heavy work to be done. We didn’t buy any plants but decided that wallaby grass and a few more eucalyptus would suit our garden.

As we drove home, I sensed from her silence that black clouds were gathering. I glanced across at her. She was staring straight ahead, fatigue was in her eyes.

I chatted about the coming wedding, of all the kids being in Sydney. ‘We all love you, Maris.’ I reached over to pat her thigh and steered with one hand.

‘I know. I’m lucky to have such a loving family and caring husband.’ She took my hand.

‘I’ve got a counselling appointment at Lifeline this afternoon. I should cancel it and stay with you.’

‘No, Noel, keep your appointment. I’ll take things quietly and have a rest.’

* * *

Friday night was a big night. The family assembled at Angela’s for a pre-wedding party. Everyone was there except for Stephen and Anthea who guaranteed they would arrive from their country visiting later. Jacinta, Rick and Brody left early in their car as Jacinta was keen to settle young Brody.

Maris and I drove later. Just as we arrived in Angela’s street, Maris became very agitated and confused. She seemed terrified, wringing her hands.

‘Noel, we have to go back home. Stephen will come home and find all his belongings moved.’

‘That’s okay.’

‘No. He will feel rejected and unwelcome.’

‘But Stephen’s not going home. He’s arranged to come to Angela’s first. You can tell him what we’ve done and why.’

‘No. We should go home and put all his things back.’

‘What if I ring Stephen’s mobile as soon as we were inside?’

‘Noel, I need to go to hospital.’

I didn’t know what to do. Should I drive straight to Royal North Shore or Northside? I wasn’t even sure how one was admitted to hospital. Did you just turn up? ‘You’ve got your appointment with the new psychiatrist in two weeks time. He might put you in hospital,’ I said.

‘Noel, I need to go to hospital now,’ Maris repeated, still wringing her hands.

Both my heart and mind were racing as we sat in the darkened car, Maris in crisis and filled with fear. What could I do? I wanted to do the best for her welfare. At the same time, for Stephen and Anthea’s sake, I was frantic for a smooth run, if it was at all possible, up to their wedding.

I took a gamble. ‘Perhaps we should go inside. The family’s waiting. We can think about hospital later.’

She seemed to accept the idea and reached for her handbag. That gesture of tucking her bag under her arm was so familiar, a signal she was ready for action.

I thanked God Stephen answered his mobile. ‘Of course, I’m not concerned. Anthea and I are on our way. See you soon.’

We had a very good night. We met Tim’s new partner Melissa, who came up to all our expectations. I could see they were very fond of each other. Stephen and Anthea arrived. The family settled down to the party with lots of music and chatter. We know how to enjoy ourselves, our mob. Maris took out her battered camera. We took many photos and had lots of laughs.

‘You kids are worse than the oldies,’ I said. ‘When you get together, you reminisce about the old days as if you’ve all lived a hundred years.’

I was still uneasy and kept a close eye on Maris. But I was relieved to see her smiling. She seemed to be beaming with maternal pride as they told their stories.

During the evening, she took her boys, Stephen and Tim, aside. I watched them in the corner of the lounge room. She held their hands firmly and looked them firmly in the eyes.

‘I love you.’

‘We love you, too, Mum.’

‘I’m so proud of you both. You’ve chosen such lovely girls as your partners.’

‘Thank you, Mum,’ they both said.

‘I’ve had a good life rearing my children to be the fine young people you are today.’ She gave each of them a prolonged hug.

Later, I noticed Maris was missing.

‘Where’s Mum?’ I kept saying.

‘Are you worried Mum might do something?’ asked Angela.

‘Yes.’ This was the first time I revealed my deep concern. Angela found her with the grandchildren. Maris adored her four grandchildren. She spent time with them reading and patted Eliza to sleep, which Eliza had never allowed before nor has allowed since. Angela told me she found Maris later sitting quietly in the bedroom, gently rocking herself. ‘Your mother’s going psychotic,’ Maris said.

When it was time to leave there was lots of kisses and hugs from Angela, Guy, Tim and Melissa. I’d had plenty to drink, so Jacinta drove. Maris and I sat in the back holding hands like young lovers. I leaned over and kissed her cheek. She did not respond as she usually did with a reciprocal kiss, but stared remotely ahead, immersed in her inner world.

The street lights flickered across my wife’s pale features. Her cheeks looked so soft and fragile. She was my delicate flower that I wanted to hold carefully and protect from all dangers.