Growing Pineapples in the Outback

by Tony Kelly

  ‘Why not?’ I asked.

  Mum couldn’t answer, and I felt frustrated. We had spent so much time discussing this outing, and I knew my friends were getting there early to get a good spot for us. I just wanted to get us into the cars and on the road.

  ‘Are you worried about using the wheelie walker?’ I asked.

  ‘No, it’s not that. I just don’t feel up for it.’

  Paul tried. ‘Don’t you want to hear Rebecca and Tony sing? I’ll help you with the wheelie walker and we’ll park close to the gate.’

  ‘I think an outing would be good for you,’ I added unhelpfully.

  But Mum was adamant: she was not going out. She went into the bedroom and then returned to the lounge in her nightie and brunch coat. She sat down in the recliner and we knew the discussion was over.

  ‘I’ll stay home,’ Paul said, and Tony and I headed off alone.

  The carols event was okay. It was nothing to rave about, but I knew Mum would have enjoyed it. By the time we got home, she’d gone to bed. Paul was worried about her and told us that she’d been unable to eat any dinner, and was unsettled and agitated. He took her pulse and it felt slow, then fast and then slow again. He wanted to take her to the hospital or call an ambulance, but she said she just needed to go to bed. Paul got her into bed but felt very uneasy.

  I did what all parents do with a new baby: I stood beside her bed and watched to see her chest rise and fall to ensure she was breathing. I felt her forehead; she didn’t seem hot, so I left her to sleep.

  Paul, Tony and I sat outside on the verandah and discussed the fact that this could be it. We all knew that something was not right, so were prepared for the worst. Finally, we all went to bed.

  I tossed and turned and found it hard to sleep, but at some stage must have drifted off. I woke this morning to the sound of Mum humming ‘Dance Me to the End of Love’. Tony and I smiled, got up and got on with the day.

  Tony

  Paul has recruited me as his leading hand and we’re doing some repairs on the house. We replace the wire in the screen doors and repair the dining table and chairs, but we don’t have time to fix the verandah. After careful examination, Paul declares that I’m capable of doing it on my own after he leaves. I’m not at all convinced. I have no problem-solving skills when it comes to anything handy.

  ‘Of course you do,’ he says kindly.

  ‘You don’t truly know me,’ I reply.

  Not to be deterred, he develops a plan and escorts me to the hardware store to buy all the tools and timber I’ll need. He then supervises me while I crouch, sweating, under the house and measure up the places for the screws and insert the supporting timber. After I fix one plank firmly in place, he announces that I’m good to fly solo. I’m astounded: for the first time in my life, I feel vaguely competent with a drill and saw. Now I have a plan for how I’ll repair the verandah over the coming months.

  I start on another section of the verandah while Beck, Paul and Diana get organised to run some errands in town. For some reason, Diana has been reluctant to use her wheelie walker, but Beck has packed it in the boot and is determined that Diana’s going to use it this time.

  ‘Bring back a pie and custard tart for my lunch, now that I’m a tradie,’ I call out from under the verandah.

  An hour later they return, errands completed. Paul helps Diana into the house, and Beck comes out the front to check on my progress. ‘How did it go with the walker?’ I ask.

  ‘It stayed in the boot. Mum said she didn’t feel like getting out of the car.’

  I can tell Beck’s exasperated, and is feeling worried about Diana’s out-of-character belligerence.

  ‘Did you go to the bakery?’

  ‘Of course. As if Paul and Mum need any encouragement to do that.’

  In the evening we head to the lake for a swim. Diana decides not to come and offers instead to start preparing dinner. Corned beef is on the menu, at Paul’s request. We promise to be back in time to help with the trimmings. It’s beautiful at the lake, and we linger longer than planned. We talk about the future. Paul urges us to do what’s best for us, even if that means returning to Melbourne before Diana dies. ‘I’ve spoken to Mum,’ he says. ‘She’s agreed to go into the nursing home, if necessary.’

  This is the first time Diana has ever made such a concession. Beck and I look at each other and I know what she’s thinking.

  ‘That’s good to know, Paul,’ she says. ‘And thanks for asking, but we’re here until the end.’

  I nod in agreement.

  Rebecca

  Paul encourages me to find a contractor to do the restumping on the house, but I’m overwhelmed by the scale of the job. ‘Can’t you just organise it all?’ I say.

  ‘I can get you started, but you need to have the information to manage the project once I’m gone,’ he says.

  I feel like a sulky youngest child. I’m tired of making decisions. I want my brother to take over.

  Paul draws up a map of the stumps under the house and works out how many need to be replaced and how many just need some repair. Together we make a list of companies and contractors that do restumping work. Again, I want Paul to make the phone calls, but he tells me I have to do it. I can’t believe how pathetic I am with this. Paul sits with me while I make the calls.

  ‘Yep?’ answers the builder.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ I say. ‘Is this Smith Contractors?’

  ‘Yep,’ says the builder.

  ‘Oh, okay … good … right. My name is Rebecca and I’m looking for a builder to do some restumping at my house in Soldiers Hill.’

  I wait for the builder to reply but he stays silent.

  ‘So … yeah,’ I continue, ‘we’re looking for the restumping to happen as soon as possible.’

  Again, I wait; again, silence.

  ‘Are you available?’

  ‘Nope.’

  This time I pause. ‘Right,’ I eventually say. ‘Do you know a builder who might be able to do the work?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Okay … well … thanks for your time.’

  ‘Yep,’ says the builder, and the phone call ends.

  This phone call repeats a number of times; we take to calling it the ‘yep, yep, nope, nope, yep’ minimalist tradie convo. We can’t understand why they don’t want the work. A builder eventually tells us that no one will do restumping work in the summer. ‘Too hot under them old houses,’ he tells us.

  Eventually, we compile a shortlist of contractors who will come and give us some quotes. Paul prints out the map he’s done, plus all the other information the tradies will need. I am grateful for this and finally feel I have enough information to manage the project.

  Mum sits in her chair and listens to some of our conversations, but also spends a fair amount of time nodding off. She’s in good spirits but by night-time she fades again. She is overly hot and listless. I get her into bed and sponge her down and try to make her as comfortable as possible. I ask her to describe what she’s feeling but she can’t. I stay with her until she dozes off.

  Paul, Tony and I sit on the verandah and have the same conversation as the previous night, and wonder what the new day will bring.

  Tony

  A pattern is starting to emerge. Beck is worried. She makes sure that we don’t have dinner too late, and is vigilant about keeping up Mum’s drinks and snacks through the day.

  Today, when I get home, Diana has her hair in rollers. ‘She’s putting an effort in tonight,’ Beck says.

  ‘That’s a good sign, isn’t it?’ Paul replies.

  ‘She knows there are going to be photos,’ Beck retorts.

  Tonight we’re going for dinner at the Barkly Hotel. It’s Paul’s farewell dinner, and all the Mount Isa family will be there.

  ‘Are we taking the wheelie walker out for another drive?�
�� I ask.

  ‘Sure, why not?’ says Beck. ‘You never know, tonight might be our lucky night.’

  As we walk into the hotel, we see Aunty Doris King and her daughter Jackie, who I know through work. Then, inside, we run into Beck’s social work student Lynette and her husband, Clayton, who come over to our table for a chat.

  We talk about their work Christmas function and the dress-up theme of ‘Come as your favourite star’.

  Diana pipes up: ‘I know who Tony could go as!’

  We all laugh. Over the years I’ve frequently been mistaken for my brother Paul. As we get older, the resemblance gets stronger. This is the same for all my brothers. Beck and my sister-in-law Linda have a long-running joke that when all the Kelly men retire, we could form a cover band and travel the world singing Paul Kelly songs and doing impersonations.

  Diana then blurts out: ‘Elvis! Tony could go as Elvis!’

  Everybody laughs even more, and Diana is very pleased with herself. I feel slightly embarrassed. I don’t look at all like Elvis, nor do I have any of his moves. I glance across at Beck, who raises her eyebrows and frowns.

  Regardless, it’s a great night. We take photos and Diana glows. Back at home we remove the again unused wheelie walker from the boot. No one says a word. After Diana goes to bed, Paul, Beck and I retire to the verandah.

  ‘That was a good night,’ Paul says.

  ‘Yeah, but what about the Elvis comment?’ Beck says. ‘Got any moves for us, Big T?’

  We discuss the night and Diana some more. It feels like we’re in some kind of holding pattern: we know something is going on but we don’t know what.

  Rebecca

  Today is Wednesday and I have to go to work at Headspace. Paul is looking after Mum and taking her to a medical appointment. Mum has been fitted with a monitor in order to measure her heart rate so the doctors can determine what’s happening and adjust her medication if needed. We’re all hopeful, but also pragmatic. For someone who’s ninety-two years of age, how much difference can medication really make? At what point does intervention seem futile?

  Tonight I’m going to Jorja’s primary school graduation dinner, and Tony picks me up after work. ‘Diana’s back in hospital,’ he says when I get in the car.

  At the appointment there was alarm from one of the staff about her heart rate. It transpired that she needed to be back in hospital. I can’t help but feel a certain relief. We all know that something’s been up, so hospital seems like the logical place for Mum to be right now.

  Paul stays at the hospital with Mum, and Tony drives me to the dinner. He’ll then head home and collect Mum’s things and go back to the hospital and wait with Paul. This is hard for me as, to date, I’ve done all the medical appointments and hospital visits, but I know I need to go to the dinner for Jorja.

  There are tears at the graduation dinner. The family tradition for the grandchildren and great-grandchildren is to have their photograph taken with Mum underneath the frangipani trees on the day of their graduation. Tonight Jorja has missed out. She is very close to Mum – or GG, as she calls her – and she’s very disappointed. ‘Madlyn and Ashley have grad photos with GG but not me!’ she cries.

  ‘I know,’ I say, and wrap my arms around her.

  ‘I knew this would happen,’ she says.

  ‘She didn’t mean it to happen,’ I say.

  ‘I know,’ says Jorja, ‘but it just feels unfair.’

  I don’t say anything. I just keep my arms around her.

  ‘Will she be in hospital for long?’ Jorja asks.

  ‘I hope not!’ I say, keeping my tone upbeat.

  Later that night, Paul, Tony and I all meet back at the house. It has taken quite some time for Mum to settle at the hospital but now she’s asleep. We do our regular evening stint on the verandah. Tomorrow Paul has to fly back to the States. He says that if Mum dies over the next few weeks he won’t be able to come back. He’s working on a project in Mexico and needs to get back to work. We understand.

  I can’t stay in the room as Paul says goodbye to Mum. I just can’t bear to watch. They both know this is it – the moment when a mother and her child say goodbye forever. I can’t imagine having to do that with my own children. Many of us never get a chance to say goodbye to the ones we love, though. I leave them alone and let them have their final moments together.

  I take Paul to the airport and say goodbye. We’ll see him again in a year or two.

  I go back to the hospital. Mum is not good. She’s very agitated. She seems to be having trouble breathing, and is very uncomfortable. I tell the doctor.

  ‘Is everything organised with your mum’s advance health directive?’ she asks.

  ‘Everything is filled out and signed by Mum and her doctor,’ I say. ‘I just need to get a justice of the peace to sign it.’

  ‘You should get that organised as soon as possible,’ she tells me.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I ask. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘It’s procedure,’ the doctor says. ‘Just procedure.’

  But I suspect it is something more.

  I try a few different numbers to find a JP but don’t have any luck. I ring Florence, the business manager at Headspace. I tell her what’s happening and she says she’ll try to find a JP for me. I am grateful to have someone else on the job.

  One of the nurses at the hospital tells me she thinks one of the reception staff might be a JP. I go down and enquire, but they tell me this isn’t the case. Then one of the staff remembers that there is someone in finance who is a JP. She rings that person and I speak to her. She comes up to the ward at lunchtime and signs the papers.

  I spend the rest of the afternoon at the hospital. Belinda and her girls join me after school, and we try to get Mum engaged in a crossword but she can’t focus. Tony arrives in the early evening, and together we try to get Mum comfortable. She finally settles, and the nurses tell me it’s best that we leave so Mum can get some sleep.

  Tony

  Beck and I come home from the hospital late and go straight to bed, but the house feels strangely quiet and empty with Paul gone and Diana in hospital and it takes ages for either of us to go to sleep. The next morning I head into work for a final planning session ahead of next week’s pipeline meeting.

  An hour later, Beck rings to tell me Diana has had a massive stroke and is in a coma. I make my excuses from the meeting and go straight to the hospital. By the time I arrive, Diana has been moved from the noisy ICU into a quieter room upstairs. We are told there is no coming back for Diana. A blood clot has lodged in her brain and she’s lost a lot of brain function. Another clot has lodged in her leg, causing thrombosis. Diana waves one arm in the air and groans. Beck gently takes hold of her arm, places it on the bed and strokes it. ‘It’s okay, Mum,’ she tells her. ‘I’m here. Belinda too. Tony’s just arrived from work. I’m sure he’s got a crossword. Everything’s okay.’

  I touch the leg with the clot; it is deeply cold. I remember the day after my dad died. I was seven years old, and when I got home from school he was laid out in his coffin in the study. I touched his forehead; it was cold. Diana’s leg feels the same. The cold of death.

  Beck looks at me. Grief crosses her face but she is calm. We hold each other’s gaze and nod. Beck smiles a closed-mouth smile. I smile back. We know we’ve got this.

  Rebecca

  For the next four days, Tony, Belinda and I stay by Mum’s side and gently care for her. We brush her hair, clean her mouth, massage her limbs, paint her nails, read to her, sing to her, do crosswords and laugh and cry.

  In the evening we turn down the lights, take sips of whisky from Tony’s hip flask, and play all our and Mum’s favourite songs. We play Death’s Dateless Night, the latest album by Tony’s brother Paul. It is perfect for the occasion.

  During the day, friends come to the hospital to pay t
heir respects, and there are lots of phone calls and messages. Belinda calls her siblings and they speak to their grandma. We don’t know if she can hear them, but that’s irrelevant. Samantha is on holidays in Hawaii and is desperate to get back, but it’s not possible to change or rearrange her flights. I can hear the pain in her voice when I speak to her. The only consolation is that she’s in Hawaii, which Mum has always said is her favourite place in the world.

  In the midst of all this, I receive a call from my cousin Paddi to tell me that her mother, my aunty Eileen, has just died. Eileen was Dad’s sister, and the last of Dad’s siblings to go. She was ninety-eight, and we all thought she would live on to get her ‘telegram from the Queen’. When Mum first married Dad, they lived with Eileen and her husband, Henry, in their house in Mount Isa until they found a place of their own. For over fifty years they lived one street from each other.

  I tell Paddi that I’m in the hospital and waiting for Mum to die. It seems fitting that these two should die within days of each other. They’ve been friends for over seventy years, and up until now still connected with weekly phone conversations.

  I ask the nurses how long this is likely to go on for. They all say the same thing: ‘Everyone is different. She’ll go when she’s ready.’ We suspect she’s waiting for something, or someone.

  Sunday night is the longest night. Mum wheezes and rattles, and although she’s unconscious she seems uncomfortable. I don’t sleep. I hold her hand and say many times, ‘It’s okay, Mum, you can go.’

  At 4 am I leave the room for a short time and go outside. I need some air. I wander up and down in front of the hospital. One of the security staff comes over to me and starts talking. ‘What department do you work in?’ he asks.

  ‘I don’t work here,’ I say.

  ‘But I see you here every day,’ he says.

  ‘I’m with my mum,’ I tell him. ‘We’re waiting for her to die.’

  The security man nods and touches my shoulder. I say nothing.

  In the morning, Tony goes to the airport to pick up David, who is flying in from Mackay. A little after 9 am, David walks into the hospital room, holds Mum’s hand and says, ‘Mum, it’s me, Dave.’ He sits down beside her and says, ‘I love you, Mum.’