by Mary Moody
I’ve seen Zoe a couple of times since the show and we phone or text each other just to keep in touch. She has continued doing voiceover work for television and radio commercials, but at the time of writing was still looking for another permanent job. Financially, it’s been quite a struggle for her to keep going. Libbi and I established a strong friendship and went on to work together presenting a summer radio show for the ABC.
In spite of all of this, I wouldn’t have missed The Catch-Up for the world, and after the show was canned I didn’t feel any sense of failure. I was fortunate, I expect, in being the oldest cast member, because I wasn’t as driven to succeed on television as the others. My career has always been primarily as a writer and I saw the show as a bit of a bonus – an opportunity to experience something totally different – and not as a major stepping stone. I also felt homesick for David and the farm during those long, tough weeks living in the city, living and breathing nothing but Channel 9. I wanted to spend more time with my daughter and my sister, both of whom were needing me. I had a cookbook to finish writing, a garden that was crying out for some attention and I was also hoping to get away to France at some stage soon.
Everyone involved in The Catch-Up had worked incredibly hard, and at times we really achieved what the program set out to do. As someone who relishes extreme experiences – and there’s no question that living for nearly six months in the world of daily live television is about as extreme as it gets – I loved every minute. Non, je ne regrette rien.
17
As I grow older I appreciate that good health is more important than beauty or fame or wealth. I have been lucky to have been pretty healthy for most of my life, but when I do fall ill the results tend to be dramatic. There was the bout of viral meningitis I succumbed to when Miriam was just a baby. I was in my early twenties, and working full time, when I woke in the middle of the night with the most devastating headache. I don’t normally get headaches, even after a wild night out. David called the doctor who immediately recognised the symptoms, and I was in intensive care within the hour and then flat on my back for two weeks until I was able to lift my head from the pillow.
Mysteriously, I had two further bouts many decades later. The first was in 2000, only months before I went to France on that first adventure, and there was another the following year. Both episodes were frightening, and the doctors, including a specialist immunologist, were perplexed at how a normal, healthy woman could experience three episodes of the same virus in a lifetime (although I believe there is a syndrome of recurrent viral meningitis which is now quite well documented).
David believes that because I am a high-energy person, always on the go, always having unrealistic expectations of myself, and always ‘overachieving’, I push myself and push myself and then fall in a heap. I am sure there is an element of truth in this theory. There is also the inescapable factor of ageing. From the age of fifty we are more susceptible to conditions such as arthritis, high blood pressure and type 2 diabetes. Exercise and a good diet help to keep problems at bay, but nevertheless more and more of us discover ailments that may have been lurking in the background for some time.
When The Catch-Up was laid to rest, David was in the UK working on projects after his annual trip to the Cannes Film Festival, and I had to fly back to the farm and get on with my life alone. The country around Bathurst was experiencing bitter mid-winter weather, but I didn’t mind. I secretly relished the idea of some total peace and quiet. Indeed the prospect of solitude had never appeared so appealing before. I set myself up in the kitchen at the farm and started writing my family cookbook. It was early June and very cold, so I lit the wood cooker and moved my computer onto the breakfast table so that I could get down to writing in earnest. It was such fun, after the pressure of television, to delve into old photograph albums, lingering over the task of selecting pictures, and searching through my mother’s cookbooks and collection of recipes to find old favourites. It was strange having to write the recipes down, as so many had been learned at my mother’s side, and I had never bothered to measure ingredients or take a note of the cooking time. It had all been done by feel and instinct rather than science.
Writing was a form of therapy, comforting after the whirlwind of the first half of the year. I set myself a deadline of late July to finish the work, and booked myself a return ticket to France, where I planned to have a little downtime in August and September, as well as picking up the threads of a second book I had started writing but put to one side because of the television show.
Before I flew out, I was feeling a bit rundown and lacking in energy. I also noticed that my mouth was always dry, and suspected I was dehydrated.
I increased my water intake, jumped on the plane, and fled to my village house where I was welcomed by my usual contingent of friends, and immediately swung into a busy round of socialising – lunches and dinners and afternoons sitting around quaffing rosé and talking. The weather was hot, and I was walking a lot, so my feeling of dehydration continued. One night I woke in the early hours to discover that the inside of my mouth had adhered to my gums. I literally had no saliva in my mouth and no matter how much water I drank I still felt as though my mouth was, to use that delightful Australian phrase, like the bottom of a cocky’s cage.
Next morning I opened my computer, checked my emails and then typed dry mouth into a search engine. There were hundreds of websites but the ones that leapt out at me were those on Sjögren’s syndrome, an inflammatory disease of the autoimmune system that mostly affects women and usually presents in the forty-five to fifty-five age group. The causes are unknown, but there is evidence to suggest that viruses, including meningitis, can trigger it. Hah, I thought, it was all adding up. I quickly read website after website; the more I read, the more depressed I became.
The two main symptoms of Sjögren’s were reportedly dry mouth and dry eyes. It dawned on me that my eyes had been feeling dry and gritty of late. It seems that the glands that provide moisture to the eyes and mouth become damaged by inflammation and cease working properly. The symptoms are uncomfortable and irritating, but are usually manageable with eye drops and mouth gels. Extra dental care is recommended, because without a constant flow of saliva, the teeth and gums are at greater risk of developing problems.
The medical websites went on to detail some of the rarer and more sinister complications of Sjögren’s. Some patients developed systematic lupus erythematosus (attacking joints, kidneys and skin) and rheumatoid arthritis. Great. One site described it thus:
Sjögren’s is the attack on moisture-producing glands by the body’s own immune system, eventually destroying these glands. Sjögren’s syndrome can also cause problems in other parts of the body, including the joints, lungs, muscles, kidneys, nerves, thyroid gland, liver, pancreas, stomach, and brain. What causes this malfunction is not yet known, however genetic, immunologic, hormonal, infectious factors are all suspected to be involved.
They also reported that a percentage of Sjögren’s sufferers went on to develop lymphoma, cancer of the lymphatic system. I suddenly realised I had another connection with this condition. Years before, when we were living in Leura, we had ‘weekend neighbours’ who became very good friends. Audrey and Barry had transformed their plain fibro cottage in a ramshackle garden into a small timber bungalow in typical Blue Mountain’s style; the garden had also blossomed under Audrey’s tender loving care.
We often chatted over the fence while pulling weeds or shovelling compost on a Saturday or Sunday, and always got together for a drink when our day’s work was done. One afternoon, while I was having tea with Audrey, I noticed she was having trouble talking because her mouth was so dry. She used a spray, and explained to me that she had a syndrome that affected her saliva glands and tear ducts. It was irritating but not really much of a problem, she said. I didn’t think too much of it.
In time, they sold their house and bought another property in the Mountains, and we no longer saw much of them. Out of the blue
I had a call from Barry at their Sydney home. Audrey had just undergone surgery and chemotherapy for lymphatic cancer; she would love to see me if I was coming down. I visited a few weeks later, and found that although her spirit was still strong, she seemed very weak. I was shocked: my friend had always been such an active, energetic woman, slaving for hours non-stop in the garden. Audrey mentioned that the cancer was connected to Sjögren’s syndrome. Sadly, after a period of remission, her cancer overwhelmed her, and she died within two years of the diagnosis. David and I were deeply saddened as we had loved Audrey, and we knew how devoted Barry was to her.
Siting alone in France in front of my computer, I felt anxious and fearful. I needed a medical opinion.
Madame Coppe is the popular local doctor in a nearby small rural town, and although her bedside manner is abrupt she is renowned for her knowledge and diagnostic skills. I went to see her, detailed my symptoms and neatly informed her of my self-diagnosis. She smiled knowingly and made a slightly disparaging remark about patients using the internet for medical advice. But after a brief examination, she confirmed my fears: I did indeed have Sjögren’s. She did not appear overly alarmed, and simply wrote out a list of various medications, gels and eye drops that would help alleviate the symptoms. She also suggested that I consult my GP on return to Australia and have some tests to eliminate the possibility of further complications.
My initial reaction was one of shock, mingled with something like anger. I didn’t want to have any illness, especially one with such uncomfortable symptoms and the possibility, down the track, of much more serious consequences. The idea of developing cancer certainly frightened me: four percent of people with Sjögren’s develop lymphoma, a rate considerably higher than among the general population.
I phoned David and tried to describe what was going on without alarming him, which was difficult because any illness tends to make him very anxious. I also emailed the children to let them know, and told several of my friends in France. I decided that if my immune system was under assault the best thing I could do was to lead the healthiest lifestyle possible, which meant drastically cutting back on my consumption of wine. Needless to say, my drinking cronies were startled and somewhat regretful at this development. I kept returning to the internet for further information. The word ‘incurable’ seemed to leap off the screen, and while I knew my condition was by no means a death sentence, some of the implications were so serious I couldn’t stop thinking about them.
But it’s amazing how quickly we humans adjust to changed circumstances. After a few days I stopped researching Sjögren’s because I recognised that every time I went on the internet it was just causing me worry. After a week I simply ceased dwelling on the diagnosis – except when when my eyes and mouth became extremely dry during the night. Soon I decided that there was no point dropping so many of the things I love about living in France – the food and wine in particular. There were a lot more important and pressing things going on within my family back in Australia, and it helped me to gain a more balanced perspective about my own situation.
Nevertheless, when I returned home in late August I made sure I consulted my local doctor and had a battery of tests to check the status of my immune system and my kidney function. The results were fine. There were no signs of any further progress of the disease – I was pronounced healthy.
The final upshot is that I have to take extra care of my teeth by having regular check-ups and cleaning. My eyes react badly to cold and wind, so I should wear protective goggles when I go out in the garden early in the morning. And I anticipate annual blood tests will help with early diagnosis of any further developments.
Plenty of worse things can happen in mid-life, but being diagnosed with Sjögren’s made me think long and hard about the next few decades. Shall I be a healthy older woman, exercising and working hard in the garden and cooking up family feasts when the tribe descends? Or will I be sickly and frail and beset with medical complications that compromise my active lifestyle? My philosophy is that I should just continue living my life as I have always done – at full throttle. I could ease back, become a health fanatic, meditate, experiment with alternative therapies and join a support group. Yet there’s no proof that it will make much difference in the end. If my disease progresses it will undoubtedly do so regardless of what efforts I make to control it. I prefer to think positively and have as much fun as I can in the knowledge that whatever happens, even if I get run over by a bus tomorrow, I’ve had a fantastic, full and happy life.
18
On the day that the blood from my mother’s aortic artery started leaking into her chest cavity, she was stoic and silent. Our son Ethan, then sixteen, confronted her in the late afternoon and asked if she was feeling all right.
She responded, with some irritation, ‘No I’m not all right. I think I’m dying. But don’t tell your mother. She’ll be upset.’
It’s the story of my life. Well my adult life, anyway. My family protects me by skirting around plain truths that may upset me.
Am I so fragile, so vulnerable, that people close to me avoid telling me their problems? Are they so frightened of bursting my bubble and shattering my illusions that they think it’s better to keep me in the dark?
I am an optimist, but being a positive person can have a downside. Always being cheerful, being up and happy and on top of things, can close the door to the possibility of acknowledging the darker, more difficult aspects of being alive.
I always imagined I was open and down to earth. That I invited conversation and discussion and debate from those around me. I believed, quite vehemently, that I encouraged my children to talk at the dinner table and to be quite frank and honest in expressing their views and their thoughts and their perceptions. I recall priding myself on the fact that our children never complained or demanded. They didn’t whinge for the latest toy; they didn’t come home from school in tears because of a playground squabble; they didn’t moan (well, not very often) about their teachers or the injustice of their school system or the bully on the bus. They just got on with their lives.
Other people’s children were quite different. I knew one couple who made an appointment to mediate with the parents of a child who had a lunchtime spat with their daughter. Both girls would have been nine at the time, and the dust-up had been over some trivial matter but had escalated into a full scale slanging match. On another occasion a mother phoned me to see if Miriam was OK after a heated row with her best friend (the woman’s daughter). The other child was in shreds, inconsolable. Miriam was cheerfully playing in the backyard with her brothers. She hadn’t made mention of the dispute at afternoon tea, and she didn’t look even slightly ruffled. When I questioned her about the fight she just shrugged. ‘It wasn’t anything much,’ she said. I wondered what all the fuss was about.
My children didn’t tell me if they had been in trouble for forgetting their homework. I expect by the time they got home from school they had just forgotten. They didn’t tell me about detentions (unless there was a note I had to sign) or about being kept in at lunchtime or being sent to the headmaster for some act of bad behaviour. I’m sure these things must have happened from time to time, but I never heard about them. By the same token they often forgot to give me school notes or to notify me about forthcoming excursions, and they always, always announced that they needed a special costume for some performance at the school assembly ten minutes before they were due to leave the house and catch the school bus.
It didn’t occur to me that my children were particularly secretive or that they were protecting themselves from getting into trouble by not reporting various aspects of their lives outside the front gate. I just thought they were normal children, so caught up in their own world and so preoccupied and disorganised that these ripples in their daily lives were just that. Ripples.
So much of that period of their lives is vivid to me. Their glowing, healthy skin and thick, tangled hair. Morning hair-brushing was always a struggle. The kids�
�� gangly arms and legs and skinny shoulderblades, poking out pathetically in spite of the fact that they devoured every meal as though it was their last. Their wobbly baby teeth replaced by oversized teeth always in need of a good scrub (another source of my nagging). It was certainly the most carefree period of my life, when the children were young and full of life and energy and very much, I believed, under my control and protection. I saw myself as a mother hen. Not a fierce and protective mother hen on the prowl for predators and ready to attack anyone glancing sideways at my clutch of chicks. More the warm and plump mother hen who spread her wings every night and invited the chicks to snuggle up, safe and warm.
No parent can know everything that happens in the life of their child. It isn’t possible to be with them twenty-four hours a day, watching over and protecting them from possible dangers. But it is possible to be in tune with them. To read the signs and signals that tell you things are not quite right in their world. It is possible to keep an open line of communication, never broken, allowing them to tell you if things are troubling them. Or so I thought.
There was a local parish priest who ran an after-school gym for primary school children, and my children were very keen to join in with their friends. Two hours every Wednesday from 3.30 until 5.30 pm. A great break for the mums and a chance for the children to burn off some of their boundless energy.
Miriam and her three brothers went with a handful of their classmates and at the end I was waiting to pick them up. They tumbled into the car, full of noise and excitement – all except Miriam, who was unusually quiet. Later that evening, after dinner, I asked her how she’d enjoyed Kids’ Club, as it was called.
‘It was OK but I don’t think I want to go again,’ she said.
