by Kay Maree
The second was my father’s gradually declining energy levels. At first, I didn’t even notice, not much of anything caught my radar in those early months, and when I did, I put it down to the long hot summer we were working through. When the cooler weather started providing some respite and he didn’t seem to improve, something in the selfish mindset I was in failed to acknowledge the possibility of his exhaustion being anything serious. I mean, how could it be? This was my dad and he was invincible, after all?
Winter was cold and dry, and on the back of our progress with getting highway speed reduced I had more time to spend at the farm. That meant that Dad was able to resume his semi-retirement at the house he and Mum had bought in town just after Liz and I had married. I’d always known that I’d take over the farm one day, I just hadn’t expected to do more than work by his side for many years to come. While his timing had been somewhat of a surprise initially, it had given me the opportunity to dive into the role with him on hand every day.
Before Caleb was born, I’m sure he and Liz crossed paths at the front gate most days. She’d no sooner driven off on her way to work at the bank in town, than he’d pull up by the back door looking for a cup of tea. After Caleb’s arrival, he’d gradually scaled back to weekly visits with Mum in tow. They were as besotted with our little redhaired miracle as we were, and jumped at every chance they could to babysit, even taking him overnight once a month for the date nights Liz insisted we needed. We’d continued his month sleepovers after Liz’s death to keep his routine going, but it had also been just as important for us grown-ups. Even though Mum was at the farm each day so I could get a few hours of work done outside, she still insisted on Caleb’s sleepovers.
As the seasons changed again, the days getting longer and warmer, and even after taking it easy for a few months, Dad didn’t seem to come right. Being a tough Aussie farmer, he never complained, but I knew something was off with him. After sitting back and watching him for a few more weeks, I decided to talk to Mum about it. I knew better than to raise the subject directly with him. She was actually relieved to know that I’d noticed the same things she had been seeing for some time and we decided the best course of action was to make an appointment with their doctor and convince him we were worried about him.
Apparently, he’d been hiding much more than what Mum and I had seen, because Dr. Roberts had him booked in for a litany of tests before he left his offices, seemingly unconvinced that Dad would follow through with them on his own. He’d obviously seen that behaviour enough times with men in the past and didn’t want to chance it.
Once he’d had the blood work and scans done, it was only a day before Dr. Roberts was calling for him to come back in to his office, and for him to bring Mum and I with him. That request had us all on tenterhooks before we arrived, but when Sharon, the receptionist, offered to mind Caleb while we went in, I knew something was very wrong.
When Dr. Roberts walked into his consulting room, we braced ourselves, Mum and I on either side of Dad, but nothing could have prepared us for the news we received. What we had been secretly hoping was a simple vitamin deficiency turned out to be stage four, inoperable, prostate cancer. Dad must have been ignoring all the little niggling symptoms for a couple of years, and now all the advanced treatments that had been developed wouldn’t be able to help him. In a cruel twist of fate, we were now faced with the impossible task of supporting Dad as he waited for the cancer to completely take over his body and ultimately claim him as another morbid statistic of men’s health. We could have weeks, months, or years, but I’d be damned if I was going to let my Dad go without a fight.
CHAPTER THREE
And, by God, did we fight.
Every day, for the next three years we fought. We fought the doctors for a second and third opinion, hoping for a different diagnosis. We fought the oncologist for alternate treatment options, expecting to discover some obscure miracle. We fought government departments over drought subsidies and the banks over our loan commitments, praying each day that our fight with Mother Nature and her drought would come to an end. We fought with the Council and Main Roads Department, pushing to make the roads around our town safer for locals and travellers passing through. But most distressing was the fact that we fought with each other.
Somehow, every time we should have been pulling together, we managed to pull ourselves apart. I couldn’t understand how or why this kept happening, we’d always been so close. I could barely remember having a disagreement with my parents in my life, but now it was an almost daily occurrence and could be triggered by the smallest thing. Always, in the back of my mind, I knew this was because of the enormous stress we were all under, and even thought I made a decision to try to avoid them, I still stepped into every possible disagreement, ready for a full-blown argument. Somehow, every little niggle became some kind of personal attack, and even when we were trying to discuss things about the day to day running of the farm, we found ways of hurting each other. Our nerves were raw and exposed, and we were always on the defensive. It was exhausting and painful, and seemed to be driving a wedge between us when we’d always been so close.
After about two years of this, things came to a head in one of Dad’s doctor’s appointments. When Dr. Roberts asked how his symptoms had been over the last month, and Dad told him that he’s been feeling really nauseous lately, Mum and I both flew for him.
“Shaun!” Mum jumped in first. “Why didn’t you say anything? How can I help you if you don’t tell me you’re sick?”
“How can you help me, Carol? Seriously? I’m dying, for God’s sake, an upset stomach or a headache are the least of my worries.” His words were like a slap across her face and her shocked gasp told us all that they’d stung.
“Dad! What the hell?” I shouted. “That was bloody cruel and you know it. Mum doesn’t deserve to be spoken to like that.” Without turning my head, I could tell that my mother would have tears streaming down her face.
“It’s okay, son. Don’t worry about it now,” Mum almost begged in a small, strained voice. “Let it be.”
“No, Mum. We’ve been letting everything be for yeas now and all that’s done for us is twist us into knots and make us scared to talk about the things that are the most important.”
“Sam,” Dad cut in. “Not now, boy.”
“When, Dad?” I shot back at him. “When are we going to talk about this stuff. You shut us down every time we ask how you are and if you need help with anything.”
“That’s because nothing you do is going to make any difference…” His words trailed off.
“What’s that supposed to mean, Shaun?” Mum sounded scared
“Carol, love,” Dad’s tone softened as he turned to face her. “I’m not going to fool myself, or you, and believe that anything any of us do is going to make any difference to the outcome here. At the end of the day, I’m no going to get better and things are going to get much worse than they are now. How can I complain about little inconveniences now when I know what’s coming?” I could hear pain in his voice.
“Shaun,” Dr. Roberts joined the conversation. “We’re all aware of the severity of what’s ahead, but there’s no reason for you to be in pain or discomfort at this stage.” He paused for a moment. “Just as there is no need to hide what you’re going through from Carol and Sam, or from me. We all need to be open and honest with each other so we’re all on the same page with where you’re at.”
My father squared his shoulders and sat a little straighter before he replied. “I’m not ready to give in yet, Dave.”
“Shaun,” my mother gasped.
“Dad.” I couldn’t believe he was thinking like this.
“And none of us are suggesting you should,” Dr Roberts spoke calmly. “But, by the same token, accepting some help with your nausea and pain now will help maintain your strength for later. You don’t have anything to prove to anyone in this fight, my friend… There’s no prize for being a martyr. Being a
ble to enjoy a reasonable quality of life for every possible moment you can is our priority now. What’s important now is that you live every minute of every day living. Spend your days doing all the things that make you happy. Go on the holidays you and Carol have always wanted to go on. Teach Sam everything he needs to know about being a successful man on the land. And most importantly, build a memory bank of moments with little Caleb. Build that tree house you were talking about a couple months ago. Do things he can call upon for the rest of his life to remember his Grandpa Cullinan.”
Dad wiped his hands over his face and I knew he was disguising the same tears that were threatening to spill from my eyes and were flowing freely from Mum’s.
Dr. Roberts leaned over from his seat and laid a hand on Dad’s knee. “Shaun, we’re all in this with you. You don’t have to go through any of it alone and you don’t have to protect us from what you’re experiencing or feeling. Don’t hurt the people who love you by shutting them out. They need to go through this with you. Trust me, you’re going to want them fully in your corner when the time comes.”
Dad thought for a moment before answering. “I can see that, but I was trying to not be a burden on them too soon.”
“Shaun Cullinan,” Mum jumped in within a heartbeat. “You’re my husband, the man I’ve loved my whole life, how could you ever be a burden?”
Despite the painful emotions we’d dragged out of each other that morning, it was a conversation that had been long overdue. We could have saved ourselves months of misunderstandings and unnecessary pain if we’d all been honest from the beginning of this struggle. We left Dr. Roberts’ office that day with a fresh referral for the counsellor in town to see us together so we could work through the things we’d been holding back until now. With her help, we were able to be open with each other and deal with all the unanswered questions we had, all the arrangements Dad wanted put in place for when his time got short, so we didn’t have to worry then. We were also able to make plans for him and Mum to go on the cruise to New Zealand they’d always dreamed of.
When Caleb and I waved them off in Brisbane, it was like watching a young couple leaving on their honeymoon. They were so excited to be finally going, that I hoped they’d have a short respite from the desperate situation they were in the middle of. They deserved to have those two weeks way from doctors and scans and tests, and from all the daily reminders that their time together was coming to an end.
Although he’d been relatively well before they left, when I saw him walk toward me on their return, I could immediately see the toll the trip had taken on him. He looked tired and gaunt, and suddenly brittle, and I knew the next stage of our battle had begun when he looked me in the eye and nodded. We didn’t need to say the words out loud for our hearts to hear them. It was time for the end game, time for us to hunker down and dig deep. It was time to face what was coming with the strength and dignity that my father had exemplified throughout his life. It was also time to use our experience to encourage other strong men to give their health a higher priority, to not ignore the little signs, and to see their doctors sooner rather than later. Like the advertisements say, early detection means early treatment, and early treatment gives you a better chance of survival.
I was determined not to witness another family I knew go through what we did over the next couple months. Watching my father, the strongest man I’d ever know, literally waste away in agony before my eyes, knowing that the best we could hope for was effective pain relief and a quick end to his suffering, was excruciating. But watching my mother suffer along side him broke my heart. There were times when the pain I felt threatened to make me bitter and angry, but I was determined to fight against that urge. Even when he entered the hospice for his final weeks, I didn’t allow him to see that side of my grief setting in. Instead, I focused my efforts on being by his side whenever he needed me. Mum and I took turns at sitting with him, making sure that in the final days he was never alone. I brought Caleb in to see him when I could, but I was lucky that Ben and Sarah from next door had basically let him move in with them during this time, making sure he went to school and had everything he needed day to day. It helped that their boy, Jake, was in the same class and that his tach was really understanding. As much as he wanted to be with us, a seven-year-old didn’t belong in a place like a hospice and he didn’t need to have sad memories erode all the good ones he’d built up with Dad.
When the end did come, Mum and I were with him. Over the course of his last few days, we’d made a practice of telling him we loved him each time he drifted in and out of sleep. There had been no way of telling which time would be our last opportunity to tell him, so we didn’t want to miss that one last chance. We made sure that when he left us for the last time, he knew that we were with him and that he was loved beyond words. The doctors and nurses had ensured that his pain was no longer an issue and he was physically comfortable. Their experience and sensitivity made our most difficult time bearable and there was no way a simple thank you could adequately express our gratitude.
As Mum and I stepped out into the early morning sunshine, just hours after Dad had passed away, we felt a lightness return to us. It was as though the weight of Dad’s struggle had been lifted from our shoulders and he was allowing the new day which was dawning around us to kiss our souls with the promise that he was now at peace and we could carry on with his thanks and blessings. It would take some time, but I knew we would.
CHAPTER FOUR
As the months ticked over, I immersed myself even more deeply into the many directions my life was being pulled, each one just as important and needing my attention as the next.
My road safety group had continued its work over the now five years since Liz was killed. We’d received advice from engineers and town planning experts, and made a really well researched and prepared submission which had been given the green light. Work would be beginning soon to install traffic lights and roundabouts, as well as improving visibility at all the identified intersections around our town. Our work had been recognised as having the potential to save many lives and our recommendations were being considered for many other highway-adjacent towns in the state. Although I would probably never recover from the way I lost Liz, at least now I had won the fight to protect other families from the same devastating effects of the unsafe roads we had previously.
The work that Dad and I had done during his fight with prostate cancer had started to gain traction in our community and in other rural areas around the state. After we’d done some local media appearances, they’d been picked up by other regional newspapers and television stations, and the feedback I’d received showed a significant increase in the number of men presenting for screening tests. This was the exact result I’d hoped for when I first agreed to be interviewed by our own newspaper. Dr. Roberts had suggested they talk to Dad and I after he’d been interviewed as part of a story on Movember. Even though being involved had meant being brutally honest about what we were experiencing, Dad and I had embraced it as an opportunity to educate other rural men about the battle they could be faced with if they ignored the early warning signs with regard to their health.
The success of these two crusades, if you will, brought me an enormous amount of comfort from knowing that by sharing the most painful experiences of my life with others, I could somehow prevent them from needing to experience that same pain. It made the public exposure and scrutiny worth it and eased my grief as a result.
I’d been helping other farmers in our area with accessing the government’s drought subsidy monies since Liz’s accident. What began as an excuse for talking to others, had soon become another outlet for me to fight the system. Many of the older farmers in our region had never asked for help before and viewed applying for these subsidies as an admission of failure or weakness, when it couldn’t be further from the truth. They’d been fighting to produce the highest quality crops and livestock for generations, fighting against ever increasing costs a
nd declining market values, and they’d never given a thought to complaining or utilising the government’s schemes to their advantage. Now that we were locked in a battle for survival with the drought that was gripping the entire country, they were faced with the reality of humbling themselves, swallowing their pride, and asking for assistance. Once we convinced them this wasn’t a charity handout, but rather an investment from the government to keep them on the land so that when the drought broke, they’d be ready to resume their vital role in feeding our nation, we’d won part of the battle. While these subsidy payments did nothing to improve the grey, parched paddocks or the dry dams and creek beds, they did afford these proud families the chance to at least preserve their herds and explore some alternate crops and growing techniques, not to mention putting food on their tables. I considered my efforts in aiding their fight worthwhile if it meant that they were able to remain on their land and not succumb to the crippling mortgage payments they would have otherwise fallen victim to.
I was thankful for the practical and pragmatic approach to things my parents had instilled in me from an early age. It definitely helped with my ability to cope with each new fight that put itself in my path. After the initial shock of each potentially devastating loss or crushing situation, I was able to accept it for what I was, refocus on what was important, and get on with what needed to be done. While some of my battles were out in public, for all to see, there were some which were reserved for the privacy of my own heart and head. Yes, in many respects, I had the same concerns as other farmers – the drought, the government, the banks – and I made no secret about how I was dealing with those, my private battles remained just that… private.
Most days, I was coping well with the passing of my father. While I’d always pictured him growing old and still pottering around the farm, I had accepted the had he was deal as I helped him play his final cards. He had left an incredible legacy and I was proud to carry on as the custodian of the property his family had been building up over three generations before him. He had also left me what he prized most in this world – the responsibility of caring for my mother. The way he cherished her, putting her needs and comfort above his own, had been a valuable life lesson for me as a young man. Watching how he, the strongest man I knew, softened in her presence, allowing her the chance to shine in a way that was evident to everyone around them, was a vivid example of true love and devotion. Giving her those moments, in his place, became my responsibility when he passed.
