Growing Pineapples in the Outback

by Tony Kelly

  Rebecca Lister is an award-winning playwright, arts producer and social worker. She is the co-artistic director of arts company Anvil Productions and the education manager of Eating Disorders Victoria. She was born and raised in Mount Isa but has lived in many places in Australia. In 2018 she was awarded the Australia Day Mount Isa City Council ‘Spirit of Mount Isa’ Award.

  Tony Kelly is a native title lawyer and is currently CEO of First Nations Legal and Research Services in Melbourne. He previously worked as a social worker specialising in at-risk young people and as a park ranger in the Northern Territory. Tony is an occasional contributor to The Big Issue.

  For Diana

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: Homecoming

  Chapter 2: Bushed

  Chapter 3: Humming Along

  Chapter 4: A Tight Little Unit

  Chapter 5: Down in the Dumps

  Chapter 6: Tables Turned

  Chapter 7: A Fresh Start

  Chapter 8: Saluting the Sun

  Chapter 9: Putting Down Pineapples

  Chapter 10: Stumble

  Chapter 11: This is Living

  Chapter 12: Trying to Escape

  Chapter 13: From Far Away

  Chapter 14: The Elephant in the Room

  Chapter 15: The End

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Rebecca and Tony on the front verandah of the Lister family home in Mount Isa

  Prologue

  Rebecca

  I’m woken by the sound of the toilet door squeaking. I roll over and see light coming in under my bedroom door. I hear the door close and the light diminishes to a sliver. I know it’s Mum. My husband, Tony, is away on a work trip, and Mum and I are the only ones home.

  I look at my phone on the bedside table. It’s 3 am but I won’t go back to sleep until I hear Mum go back to bed.

  I have been back in my childhood home in Mount Isa for just under a month. It’s been thirty-five years since I’ve lived under this roof, but my ear tuned in to the familiar sounds immediately. As a kid, I could always tell who was in each room based on the sounds: the distinctive squeak of each brass doorknob, the thunk of the Bakelite switches, the rattle of the louvres in their metal frames, and the whir of vibrating venetian blinds whenever a door was left open.

  In the first few weeks, Mum’s nocturnal sounds and movements caused me to wake up instantly and dive out of bed to check that everything was all right. Sometimes she would get up two or three times a night, which caused havoc with my sleep. It was a bit like living with a baby again. When my two daughters, Georgina and Lucille, were really little I would wake at their first cry and attend to them immediately. As they grew, I learnt that I could wait to see what each cry meant and what it required. I’ve become more used to Mum’s sounds, and can now recognise them without alarm.

  I roll onto my side and listen. The house is silent. Outside I can hear the neighbourhood dogs. They bark incessantly, day and night. I don’t understand why people don’t yell at them. When I was growing up here there was always someone yelling out, ‘Shut those bloody mongrel dogs up!’ But no one seems to take any notice now. Perhaps for other people the barking is muffled by the sounds of twenty-four-hour air conditioners; the low, continuous rumble of the mine that sprawls across the western side of town; or the sound of the road trains changing gears as they tear down the Barkly Highway.

  I look at my phone again: 3.15. Mum is taking a long time this morning. I think about getting up and checking. But I’d have to knock on the toilet door or call out, and that would startle her. Mum has always startled easily, and hates it.

  I also don’t want her to feel she has to hurry. Her kidneys are starting to fail, and she can often last an entire day without going to the toilet but then needs to get up several times during the night. She doesn’t say anything about it but I know it worries her, and it certainly interferes with her sleep.

  I lift the lightweight doona from the end of the bed up to my shoulders. I should get up and turn off the ‘splitty’ – the split-system air conditioner. But I don’t. I snuggle down further and pull the doona up to my chin. I love these last few hours before dawn, when the bedroom is finally cool enough for sleep.

  Perhaps Mum is coming down with something? For the last few days she’s been withdrawn. Not that I expect her to be the life of the party, but by nature she is engaged and upbeat. I know I haven’t been as attentive as I could be: I’ve been flat out trying to sort things out in the house and keep up with the various projects I have on the go back in Melbourne. Mum doesn’t expect me to entertain her, but she has spent too long snoozing in her green vinyl recliner. I’ve tried to get her moving but it has been murderously hot; I can understand her desire to sit inside with the air con going. Tonight I watched her push her dinner around on the plate, barely eating anything. I couldn’t even tempt her with pudding, which is Mum’s comfort food. Just before bed I cut up a pear for her and made her a cup of herbal tea. She ate and drank those somewhat half-heartedly.

  I open my eyes and see light from the toilet coming in under the bedroom door again – the door must be open. That’s strange; Mum never leaves the door open, and always turns off the light when she finishes. I check the time: 4 am. I roll over and get up.

  I stand outside my bedroom door and look at the brightly lit toilet – the room is empty. I walk over to switch off the light, then smell something odd – sweet but sour. I look down and see some smallish brown blobs on the floor. I lean down to look more closely, but bring my head up quickly as the pungent smell makes me gag. It’s poo. I grab some toilet paper, wipe up the mess as best I can and throw the paper in the toilet. I wash my hands in the bathroom.

  I walk back into the hall and look at Mum’s bedroom door. Closed. I turn and see that all four fluorescent lights are on in the lounge room. I think of Dad – The bloody place is lit up like a Christmas tree! As I head up the hall I see more brown blobs.

  The lounge room is empty, but I see blood on the back of Mum’s chair. There’s more on the kitchen floor. I grab a roll of kitchen paper and wipe the floor and chair. I throw the paper into the bin, wash my hands again and go to Mum’s room.

  When I open her bedroom door, Mum sits up and turns on her bedside lamp. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asks.

  ‘The toilet light was on, and there’s blood on your chair.’

  ‘I got up to get a glass of water.’

  ‘Where did the blood come from?’

  Mum says nothing. She looks pale and vacant. She lifts her hand to the back of her head, and then holds it up in front of her face. In the light of the lamp we can both see the bright red blood. She looks bewildered.

  ‘Can I look?’ I ask.

  Mum shakes her head. She pushes back the covers and begins to get out of bed.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I want a glass of water,’ she says. She stands and wobbles.

  I reach out and grab her, saying she ought to stay in bed. She says she needs to sit up – she wants to go to the kitchen.

  Slowly we walk down the hall, which gives me a chance to have a proper look at the back of her head. There is an open gash, bleeding. I think it will need stitches.

  We get to Mum’s chair and she collapses into it. I tell her that I’m going to ring an ambulance. She says she doesn’t need an ambulance – all she needs is some water, and then she’ll go back to bed.

  As I stand at the water cooler, filling up a glass, I notice something stuck to the corner of the kitchen bench diagonally opposite. I look mor
e closely: it’s a small clump of white hair. Mum must have fainted as she was getting her glass of water, and hit her head on the corner of the bench on the way down.

  I hand Mum the water and she takes the smallest sip.

  ‘Can you remember what happened?’ I ask.

  ‘I was very hot,’ she says.

  I nod and wait.

  ‘I came to the kitchen for a glass of water. I stood at the water cooler, and …’

  ‘And?’ I prompt.

  ‘And I woke up on the floor.’

  ‘How did you get back to your chair?’

  ‘I crawled.’

  ‘And bed?’

  ‘I woke up in the chair and had to go to the toilet.’

  I realise this was the sound I’d heard over an hour ago. If I’d realised she wasn’t in bed I would have got up. I feel slightly guilty.

  ‘And from the toilet to bed?’

  Mum has no memory of that.

  ‘Why didn’t you call out or wake me up?’ I ask.

  ‘I didn’t want to disturb you.’

  This is Mum all over: raise no alarm, draw no attention, request no assistance.

  ‘You had an accident on the way to the toilet,’ I say.

  Mum says nothing, but I can see her thinking. Eventually, she says, ‘I think it was the camomile tea and the pear that you made me have.’

  ‘A cup of camomile tea and a bit of pear does not cause someone to faint, split their head open and poo their pants!’

  ‘Don’t be so coarse!’ she says.

  I am relieved to recognise her fighting spirit, and happily correct myself: ‘Apologies – soil their undergarments!’

  Mum smiles, and this too is a good sign.

  I tell the ambulance operator what has happened.

  ‘Don’t give your mother any water, and don’t move her,’ she says. ‘Turn on the front light and make sure that the ambulance has easy access to the house.’

  I take away Mum’s glass of water; she barely notices.

  I remember the poo smears in the hallway. I grab a bottle of bleach and splash it over the carpet. I get the kitchen paper again and rub at the mess. I know this is ridiculous. It’s not as if the ambos are going to come down the hallway and do an inspection of the house. But I’m full of adrenaline and can’t stop myself.

  I grab a wet washer and more paper towel and try to clean Mum’s feet, legs and the back of her neck and arms. I would love to get her into the shower, but of course that isn’t going to happen.

  Soon the paramedic, Jason, is kneeling beside Mum’s chair. ‘Can you tell us what happened, Diana?’ he asks.

  Mum has trouble piecing together what has happened.

  ‘Is she often confused?’ Alex, the other paramedic, asks me.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Never.’

  Alex says, ‘Can we have a look at the back of your head, Diana?’

  Mum nods.

  Alex inspects her head. ‘You’ve given it a good old whack, haven’t you?’ he says.

  Mum nods.

  ‘Did you feel any chest pain?’ asks Jason.

  ‘I don’t remember,’ says Mum.

  ‘We need to check a few things – is that okay with you, Diana?’ Jason asks.

  Mum nods.

  While Jason takes Mum’s blood pressure, Alex attaches the sticky ECG dots to her chest, stomach and legs, and hooks the wires up to the monitor. Jason looks at Mum’s eyes and tongue and does a skin pinch. They are both respectful and efficient, and I can see Mum slowly relaxing.

  Even in the short time I have been with her, I’ve encountered a number of medical professionals who speak to her as though she is deaf and dumb. The ones Mum struggles with the most are those who call her ‘darl’ or ‘love’ – or even, believe it or not, ‘babe’. Who in their right mind thinks it’s okay to call a woman in her nineties ‘babe’?

  ‘Do you keep up the water, Diana?’ Jason asks.

  ‘I drink a lot of tea,’ says Mum.

  ‘What about water?’

  ‘Yes, in tea,’ Mum says.

  I catch Jason giving Alex a quick smile.

  ‘You’re dehydrated,’ Jason says.

  ‘I try to get her to drink,’ I say. I don’t need to say this, but I want the paramedics to know that I take good care of Mum.

  ‘Here’s what I think,’ says Alex. ‘How about we put you in the ambulance and get you up to the hospital? You need a few stitches, and we need to run a few more tests and find out why you fainted.’

  Mum nods.

  ‘Do you think you can walk, or would you like a trolley?’ asks Jason.

  Mum pauses, then says, ‘A trolley.’

  This is significant, as Mum rarely takes up offers of assistance. If she can’t see she might take my arm but that’s about it. People who know her well know that she hates to be treated as though she’s incompetent.

  Jason and Alex get Mum into the back of the ambulance. She looks frightened; I don’t think she’s been in one before. I reach out and touch her leg and tell her she’ll be okay. She gives me a little one-finger wave. As the doors close, I give her a one-finger wave back.

  Jason gets in beside her and Alex closes the doors. ‘Wait half an hour and then come up to the hospital,’ he tells me.

  ‘I haven’t had a chance to clean Mum properly,’ I say. I feel sad that Mum, who is always so groomed and meticulous, has to go to the hospital with poo on her. I hope she doesn’t realise.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘She’ll be looked after when she gets there.’ He hops into the driver’s seat and I watch them drive off.

  I go back inside and head down the hall to Mum’s room. The bleach I used has stripped the colour out of the carpet. I regret using it, and know that it will be an ever-present reminder of this event.

  I pack a small bag of Mum’s things in case she is admitted. I strip all the linen from her bed and shove it into the machine. I know it’s crazy to be doing a load of washing at five in the morning but I’m wired.

  At the hospital I am directed to the emergency department, and find Mum in one of the rooms. She is attached to oxygen and the colour has come back to her face. She smiles.

  Over the next few hours she is examined, scanned, stitched, has blood taken, gives a urine sample and is asked to explain numerous times what has happened. With each new nurse or doctor, we tell the story again. Mum is given sandwiches, a cup of tea and a lot of attention. She is not given a shower or a sponge bath, and I continue to worry about this, but Mum doesn’t seem to care so I let it go.

  Eventually, a doctor tells Mum that she has a urinary tract infection. This is what caused the spike in temperature, the fall and the confusion. Mum is given a course of antibiotics. The doctor makes an appointment for her to see the cardiac specialist when he’s next in town. She thinks there are problems with Mum’s blood pressure, and her medication may need to be altered.

  The doctor talks to her about dehydration and how important it is to drink enough throughout the day. Mum agrees with everything the doctor says and promises to drink more water. I have my doubts about this but say nothing.

  One of the nurses picks up Mum’s chart, reads it and says, ‘Were you really born in 1924?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Mum.

  ‘That makes you …’

  ‘Ninety-one,’ says Mum.

  ‘Yes, ninety-one, wow! You don’t look like you’re ninety-one,’ the nurse exclaims. I watch Mum sit up a fraction straighter in the bed and fluff up her recently permed hair.

  ‘What’s your secret?’ says the nurse.

  ‘Lots of water,’ says Mum, and she smiles at me and I roll my eyes.

  Later, at home, Mum has a shower and I phone Tony and the family to fill them in. I want Mum to lie down and rest, but she doesn’t want to. She wants to tal
k. The antibiotics appear to be working, and for one who has had virtually no sleep Mum is extremely perky.

  She tells me about her conversation with Jason in the ambulance. ‘I apologised for the fact that they had to come to the house at such an early hour of the morning,’ she says. ‘Jason told me I was an excellent patient, and that many of their early-morning calls are for people who are drunk or have been involved in brawls. I was very pleased to inform them that I was both sober and non-violent!’

  I just smile and nod. I am exhausted, and acutely aware that I should get back to work, but Mum is on an oxygenated high and I don’t want to leave her.

  ‘I have been feeling unwell for a few days,’ she says.

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

  ‘I didn’t want to disturb you.’

  I think about how much time I have actually wasted over the last few days, and that perhaps I really needed a genuine disruption.

  I spend the next few hours talking with Mum and doing a crossword. Her ‘outing’ seems to have done her the world of good. I don’t get any work done, but I can work later.

  In the late afternoon, my niece Belinda and her daughters, Madlyn, Ashley and Jorja – Mum’s great-granddaughters – come over. They bring flowers and chocolates. A short time later, Samantha, Mum’s other Mount Isa granddaughter, arrives. She brings more chocolates and flowers. The atmosphere is almost festive, and Mum sits in her chair, surrounded by all of us, and laps it up. She regales us with the story of the fall, the paramedics, the nurses and doctors, and the early-morning activities of the hospital. Though I detect a slight edge of embellishment, her capacity to recall all the details is spot on.

  At this moment I am filled with a sense of absolute clarity. I am in the right place, at the right time, doing the right thing. I still have so much to sort out, and although that worries me, I know that this is exactly what I am here for – this is my purpose. Everything else is insignificant.

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