by Thea Hayes
There were only a handful of Aboriginal people at Waterloo Station employed around the homestead or in the stock camp. Ralph was loved by this group of nomadic people, none of whom had their own children. Most likely they had never seen a white baby before.
Mary had Aboriginal help with the cooking, housework and the gardening, and she employed a young Aboriginal woman, about the same age as herself, to look after baby Ralph. Her name was Murrawah.
When Mary was leaving for Wyndham to have Lynn, her second child, she asked Murrawah to look after Ralph. Little Ralph fretted for his mother. He became very distressed and quite ill. Murrawah took the tiny child to her breast. She loved this child as if he was her own. Although she wasn’t pregnant and had never been with child, she produced milk and suckled Ralph with all the love that she could give him and he survived, thanks to Murrawah.
16
Home alone
After Ralph’s funeral, Betty Atkinson, a great friend from Territory days, came with me to Straddie for a week. On returning home to Murrawah, I suddenly realised that I was a widow, after thirty-four years of marriage. Ralph and I were destined to be together from the moment we met on the smoko veranda; we had instantly been attracted to one another. We had a great marriage full of achievements at Gordon Downs Station in Western Australia and back at Wave Hill in the Northern Territory. There had been ups and downs since moving down south, but life was starting to bloom again and this dreadful disease had taken him too young. I missed my mate so much and hated the thought of living life alone. My limit for isolation was twenty-four hours. Thank goodness I had my nursing, my family and friends. I was always on the phone, and I had to keep busy.
Every ten years on 13 April there was a Royal Prince Alfred Hospital reunion for our group, celebrating the day we started our nursing careers. Having missed out for twenty years while in the Outback I now tried to attend each one. They were eventually changed to every five years, and now to every year, because we are aging so quickly.
Anthony and Jason were both now married and living in Toowoomba. David had bought Jason’s house in Toowoomba, so he had moved too. When Penny started at USQ in Toowoomba, Ralph was still alive. Penny wanted to live in town, so I bought a dear little house with three bedrooms, ideal for Penny and a couple of friends. After one year at USQ Penny was accepted at the University of Queensland in Brisbane, so I sold the house.
I thought of moving into Toowoomba. I kept looking for the right house as I drove around in my St Vincent de Paul Nursing Services car but could never find the right one.
‘When are you moving into a nursing home?’ Anthony enquired.
‘That won’t be happening until I’m over eighty,’ I retorted.
I wasn’t even sixty at that stage.
I loved my house. It was only a small acreage, eighteen kilometres from Toowoomba, so I stayed on. I had sold the 100 acres some years before, in exchange (plus cash) for the five acres that Jason and Trina now live on. When my neighbour first made an offer on the 100-acre block, I said, ‘No, sorry. I’m going to cut it up into ten-acre blocks and make a fortune.’
He made several more offers, one being to swap his five acres in Toowoomba with a thirty-foot by sixty-foot shed, together with horse stables which had been converted into living quarters, plus cash, for my 100 acres. Jason came with me to have a look at the property. When he saw the stables with a south-easterly aspect and the lovely view, he asked me to take the offer and he and Trina bought the block off me.
Every spare moment for years, Jason built his house. Along with having three babies, the stables were converted and added to, until finally Jason had a beautiful home with rendered brick walls and a timber cathedral ceiling, Scandinavian style.
One day my brother Tim rang from Los Angeles to tell me about his daughter’s upcoming wedding.
‘You must come over,’ he said.
‘I can’t come, Tim. I have no money to spare.’
‘You must come.’
I really wanted to go. I still had farming equipment—a tractor and a hay feeder which I would never use again, so I sold them and flew to Los Angeles for Andrea and Doug McFarling’s wedding. It was a wonderful wedding at a Santa Barbara monastery beside the ocean.
After the wedding Tim, Faye and I flew to Las Vegas, stayed at Caesars Palace, lost money on the poker machines, but loved the spectacular shows at the different hotels. I found Americans so friendly—even complete strangers in the street couldn’t do enough for you.
Arriving back home in Toowoomba, it was back to work Monday to Friday at St Vincent de Paul Nursing Services. I still loved home nursing, especially driving out to the country areas on the outskirts of Toowoomba. We would have the same area for three months and then change. Being on call one night a week meant I usually stayed in town with one of the family. On the weekends, I would visit friends or family. I spent a lot of weekends with Norm and Gaylene, who I had originally met in the first week at Toogoolawah, who were now running Gemini Resort at Caloundra.
I rented out the cottage on my property to Sue and John Spinks. Sue and John had moved from Dalby and wanted accommodation near Biddeston while they built their new house. Sue would wave an empty wine glass at the window as I drove in from work.
‘Right, I’ll be there.’
They were great company, and Sue a magnificent cook.
One day my daughter-in-law, Liz, tried to talk me into nursing at St Vincent’s Hospital, instead of home nursing.
‘Shift work means better wages, and fewer days,’ she said.
I would think about it while I was away in Darwin.
Every four years I went up to Darwin to visit David and Sharon, and also travelled to Katherine for the Brahman Dinner, an event that was very popular when we lived at Wave Hill. That year, the year after Ralph died, all the Underwood girls were there, daughters of Pat and Peg Underwood from Inverway Station which was next door to Wave Hill Station. We girls danced in a group having a wonderful time.
Mick Maloney, the Southern Cross Windmill representative who came up to Wave Hill every year from Brisbane was also there. Sadly, there is no Brahman Dinner these days, so Mick told me later. He had gone to forty-nine Brahman dinners, having only missed one. The organisers had rung him up to see where he was. When he said he had the flu, they said, ‘But you should be here.’ They had organised a ‘This is your life’ event for him at the dinner.
On the first day of work after my return from Darwin, I suddenly decided I would take Liz’s advice and apply to work in a medical ward at St Vincent’s Hospital, Toowoomba. No one was more surprised than me when I was accepted to work there.
I was a little nervous, as it was over thirty years since I had worked in a hospital, except for Esk. But the ward I was sent to was St Luke’s, a medical ward with the friendliest and greatest mob of nurses. Kirsty and Louisa, two of the younger members of the staff, took me under their wings, and we socialised on our days off. Going to work was fun; everyone including the doctors had a great sense of humour.
I had a lot to catch up on, for example setting up intravenous drips and doing blood transfusions. I knew all about syringe drivers, had done every type of dressing, knew how to catheterise and give injections and so on. We had courses on manual handling—not like the old days when we used to lift patients by putting our shoulders under their backs, causing all sorts of back problems. There were pressure mattresses, incontinence pads and slide sheets for lifting, invented by two nurses from Brisbane. Treating pressure areas with methylated spirits and powder was long gone. Powder was a no-no. The patients had their own medication cupboard, no longer a medication trolley—all sorts of changes from when I had started nursing in hospitals.
The most important tool in nursing is getting to know your patient and their relatives. Observing your patient’s colour, attitude and body language. Getting to know the families and including them when discussing the patient’s care and needs.
I remember some of my lovely patie
nts. The lady with cancer of the bowel, who didn’t want to have surgery. The young married women with cancer of the bladder, a nephrostomy tube in place to take the urine from her kidney. One young married girl was diagnosed with cancer of the cervix and when her husband was told, he left her. And Meredith, a country girl, married to a great country guy. Her mother had died of breast cancer and Meredith had just been diagnosed with the same. Life can be so cruel. Meredith told me that she loved her husband so much she was terrified of leaving him alone.
A few years after I joined St Vincent’s, the hospital decided to give redundancy packages to some of their older staff. I certainly didn’t want to retire. Liz said to me, ‘You’d better do another nursing course.’
I started a Certificate Course in Palliative Care at the Australian Catholic University in Brisbane, driving down every week. Palliative care is specialised medical and nursing care for people with cancer or life-limiting illnesses. It provides holistic care to patients, relieving pain and symptoms of the disease, as well as the physical and mental stress from their terminal diagnosis. It aims to improve quality of life for both patient and family. We worked as a team: the doctors, the registered nurses and the assistant nurses. I loved the course. I wanted to be a university student forever. The first unit was on ‘Grief and Bereavement’. We had to do a presentation to the class on a film, play or book with grief and bereavement as the theme. I chose The English Patient. I had read the book by Michael Ondaatje and seen the movie. It was a beautiful story of love, grief and bereavement and the role of the nurse who cared for him. This film showed what palliative care was all about. I was touched greatly by this story and my presentation earned me honours.
17
Making the most of a disaster
Our old faithful blue Toyota LandCruiser, which had served Ralph and me so well in Toogoolawah, started showing its age, requiring mother to have to ring up one of her sons for help.
‘I’ve broken down. Please can you come and pick me up?’
The vehicle had done nearly 300,000 kilometres and after having major problems twice in a matter of weeks my children rebelled and made me trade it in. I didn’t know what I was going to buy until I saw a beautiful replacement, a bright red Toyota Rav4.
Red cars are somehow faster than others, which I found out on my weekly trips to Brisbane to attend my palliative care course. Consequently, I lost points for speeding, enough to—shock horror—lose my licence.
‘Please don’t take any more points off me,’ I pleaded with the police constable, who pulled me over after chasing me with the siren blaring one night on the Warrego Highway at 8 p.m. ‘I’m a palliative care nurse. I look after the dying. I won’t be able to get to work if you take my licence away as I live eighteen kilometres from Toowoomba.’
‘You’ll be the one who’s going to die, if you keep up those speeds,’ he said, showing no pity at all.
So that was that. I lost my licence for three months. Luckily, I had a young fellow coming to Murrawah weekly to prune and attend to my garden. He offered to water the garden several times a week.
But how was I going to get to work? I came up with an idea of house-sitting while people went on holidays; this was years before ‘Aussie House Sitters’. I put a notice up at the hospital, and some old friends, Betsy, who also worked on St Luke’s and Doug Wiles, her husband, offered to put me up when I had no house-sitting positions.
Several staff at St Vincent’s Hospital asked me to look after their houses, and in between I stayed at Betsy’s. I would walk to work and to the shops. On the occasional social evenings, kind friends would give me a lift. In fact, I really enjoyed the whole situation, so much so that at Toastmasters, where I was attending a course in the art of public speaking, I decided I would write about it. My adjudicator was Police Constable Jenkins, a longstanding member of Toastmasters. It just happened to be his turn to judge the speeches.
The following is my speech:
Making the most of a disaster
‘Heaven forbid is that the time, six o’clock, I start work at 6.30 a.m.’
I quickly grab my handbag, jump in the car, away we go. I’m running late but thank goodness I’ve got a fast car. Turn the radio on, great music, oh, here’s the news, but what’s that noise, oh no, it’s a police siren—flashing lights. I’ve done it again, I’m a ‘goner’ this time.
What would you do if you lost your licence; you lived alone, and you had a job eighteen kilometres away from home?
I decided to go for broke; lose my licence for three months and move into town, rather than get a provisional licence for six months.
I’m boarding at a friend’s house in between house sitting for people going on holidays.
This is a new experience for me, as I’ve lived in the country most of my life and I must say I’m quite enjoying it; coming home from work, having a cuppa and a chat with friends before going to bed.
There are many advantages to not driving a car: walking to work; walking to town; smelling the roses; everyone says good morning to you; the more you walk the more you want to walk. It is so healthy. I’m even knocking back offers of lifts, because I would prefer to walk. I’m in no hurry to get my licence back and become driving dependent.
How often do you go to Brisbane, or any longish journey, by bus? Do you realise how delightful it is to sit back, look at the scenery, read a book, or have a little snooze, while being driven in a luxury coach?
The environment is better off too, without the fumes from one extra car.
Think of the money I’m saving on petrol.
I’m going to put it to you—why don’t you pretend you have lost your licence and walk to work or get a lift with a neighbour; you could even take it in turns to drive. You can enjoy the wonderful experience of walking and meeting your neighbours on the way. You won’t run the risk of drink driving when socialising and an occasional taxi is within the means of most people.
Losing my licence has been the best thing that has happened to me in years. I know you are all envious.
Many months later, at 10.30 p.m. on New Year’s Eve 2000 on the Warrego Highway, driving home after a late shift at St Vincent’s Hospital, I was pulled over to be breathalysed. As I put the window down, a police constable said, ‘I’d like to see your licence please.’
I suddenly realised my licence was in my other handbag at home.
‘I’m really sorry officer; I changed handbags this morning and left my licence in my other one.’
He saw my name tag and started. ‘Thea, it’s you. The last time I saw you was at Toastmasters. What are you doing here?’
‘I’m just coming home from work at St Vincent’s. My shift finished at 10 p.m.’
‘My God,’ he said. ‘You got your licence back, didn’t you?’
As I drove off, I had to laugh, as he really didn’t know whether to believe me or not.
18
Walkabout to England
In 1999, while on night duty at St Luke’s, I noticed a booklet on the nurses’ desk advertising nursing positions in Great Britain for Australian nurses.
I could do that, I thought. I’m free, single, why not? I could work in a hospice in England and travel on my days off. Wow!
I was sixty-five.
Having completed three units of my course in palliative care, I applied to one of the British nursing agencies for a job in a hospice as a palliative care nurse. Next, I started looking for a cheap flight to England. The cheapest of course was in the winter. I found a Qantas flight, Sydney to Bangkok, Italy and London, leaving Brisbane in late February, which I booked six months before I was due to leave. Knowing that Rome would be a little warmer than England, I decided to stop off at Rome on the way and do an Italian tour. It is so much fun planning a trip, nearly as exciting as doing it.
Months later I still hadn’t found a job. Apparently, the retiring age in England in 1999 was sixty years of age. The agency kept making excuses about not finding me a job. I had been warned abou
t arriving in England carrying a résumé, having no job to go to and not having a work permit. I was told that I would be sent straight back to Australia.
But my problem was soon to be resolved by Sister Tarcissius, one of those darling Sisters of Charity at St Vincent’s Hospital.
‘Thea, write to the Sisters of Charity Hospices in England and Ireland,’ Sister Tarcissius said, giving me the addresses.
Which I did, and not long after I received two replies, one from St Joseph’s Hospice, in Hackney, London, and the other from Our Lady’s Hospice in Dublin, Ireland. Torn between the two, I weighed it up; I hadn’t been to Ireland but I wanted to see London again, and it’s closer to the Continent than Ireland. I chose St Joseph’s. I sent off my résumé and to my amazement I received an email back not long after, telling me that Sister Theresa, the sister in charge, would interview me on the phone at 9 p.m. the following Tuesday night. Amazing!
Tuesday night arrived. I was feeling quite nervous, sitting there waiting in my dining room, surrounded by books and papers with information that I might require. Right on 9 p.m. the phone rang.
‘Hello, Thea, this is Sister Theresa from St Joseph’s Hospice in Hackney. So, you would like to come and work with us?’
‘Yes, Sister, I would love to.’
‘When do you want to start?’
And that was my interview. I nearly fell off my chair squealing for joy.
I can’t believe it; I was expecting an interrogation.
After hearing my plans to travel to England, Sister Theresa said she would send my work permit to Italy, where I was first landing, and asked if I was interested in going to a palliative care conference in Dublin the following June. I thought why not and said yes. When details of my position as a palliative care nurse arrived, it included information about the conference to be held at Trinity College, Dublin, a research university College founded by Queen Elizabeth I in 1592. I saw that there was a palliative care poster competition, so I thought, ‘I’ll give it a go.’ The St Vincent’s Educator, Alan Mallett, helped me set up my poster which compared people dying of cancer with the swagman in Waltzing Matilda, who chose to jump into the billabong rather than go to gaol. Bas Solais Palliative Care Conference was held at Dublin Castle. Mary McAleese, the Prime Minister of Ireland at the time, opened the conference, and Dame Cicely Saunders, who founded St Christopher’s Hospice in London and was known as ‘the mother of palliative care’, gave a wonderful talk on ‘Death with Illumination’. If anyone was qualified to talk about lessons in living from the dying, I thought, then she was.
