Before I Sleep (28 page)

I doubt if there will be any obituary or other public notice describing Peter's courageous lifestyle for the four years he coped with an advanced form of cancer, or the great contribution he made in Australia by helping fellow sufferers face the trauma of a cancer diagnosis. As far as I know, he battled on without a great deal of personal support. He and I shared our problems and hopes but we met all too infrequently.

I pursued my research for four years. The life span for most men with stage 4 cancer — when the disease has spread beyond the prostate and is attacking other organs — is two years and three months, give or take a few weeks. This remains true regardless of the form of treatment they undergo, be it surgery, chemotherapy or nothing at all. But between ten and twelve per cent of men in stage 4 last for ten or twenty years. I became intrigued by the question of why this group was so spectacularly different from the vast majority of sufferers. My research seemed to indicate that the vital factor was not diet, genes, lifestyle or drugs, but long-term marital support. There was something about the relationship that the long term survivours had with their wives that was arresting the progression of the disease. But this was a very tentative finding, which I'm afraid I must leave it to others to follow up. For, alas, my time and resources are strictly limited — I am down to about one hour each day and this is insufficient to maintain a research program and I never know when I will be needed by Mavis.

Ayton Avenue is an even quieter street than Murrays Lane and our house is different in every other respect. It faces a wide road surface that is well-maintained and kept clean, not by patient council horses and drays, but by mechanical sweepers that come by in the early hours of the morning. Ours is a long street of individually architectured houses — those near us are imposing and double-storeyed. They are not owned by recent migrants but by earlier ones, for our suburb was once market-gardens. On one side we have a retired Greek couple, caring and kindly, but not intrusive, and opposite there lives their married daughter who has two school-age daughters and who frequently brings across a hot dish on weekends when Meals on Wheels does not operate. We have ample food, but I miss the hot roast lamb at midday on Saturday and the apple sponge that accompanied it. We don't share confidences over the side fence, and I don't sit out on the door step to watch the passing parade.

Unlike 1 Murrays Lane, we do have occasional visits from politicians such as Chris Sumner and his wife, from priests such as our Baptist minister, Graham Pitt and his wife, and from my old detective office team-mate, former Assistant Commissioner Ted Calder. A young mate of mine, David Air, a recent graduate of Adelaide, sometimes cooks us a splendid meal and we drink some wonderful wines — but not of course Mavis, who stays with fruit juice. We assess the world situation and consider the remedies for its shortcomings. Another difference is that the local council is our most frequent caller and provider of assistance. Each morning and evening a helper arrives to aid my wife to shower, get dressed, get breakfast and wash up. The same happens in the evening. As well, a shopper comes weekly, and a housecleaner twice weekly. A chiropodist calls every twelve weeks — all for the sum of twenty-six dollars per week for each of us. A district nurse is on tap for emergencies and our GP visits on call. The oil fire burns in the lounge all the winter, and we have ample lighting.

On Sundays, instead of hearing the Salvos play outside the Angel Inn in Gouger Street, I watch
Songs of Praise
on the ABC with Mavis and then in the afternoon I send by e-mail my Situation Report to the children in Brisbane, Canberra, the Cook Islands and Kiev, and check for their replies. This is a great time and cost saver, yet I miss the physical touch of a loving hand. Mavis reads and rereads the news from the children, and we once again share a common bond. But, despite all of this support, I have to confess that on rare occasions I find myself in tears — although not for long. The Bluedog, who is now middle-aged, senses my mood, looks up at me and comes slowly across wagging his tail. I pat his head and both of us return to normal. I only hope I can last out here until Blue has moved on to the place where all dogs and humans go.

Unfortunately Mavis, at ninety-one years of age, has two progressive illnesses and I am myself handicapped in a couple of ways. Mavis spends much of her time in our sunroom looking out over the lovely back garden she has largely created. Although she is exceedingly frail, she cannot resist the temptation, on a fine day, to do what she has spent a long lifetime doing — some garden maintenance. She still maintains her family birthdays procedure. As I went to bed last night, I said to her: “I am sorry that I growled at you today. I was worried that you might fall over and if one of us got sick people might use the opportunity to move us into a nursing home, and I want us to stay here.” She replied firmly: “We will stay” But she doesn't realise that we are no longer in complete control of our destiny — if ever we were. With my horizons closing in fast and hers probably faster, it becomes hard at times to practise that scout law which says “A Scout smiles and whistles under all difficulties”. So I think it possible that by the time you are reading this final paragraph I may have moved on from obsolescence to decadence. If you feel like writing to me, our new address may be The Bleak House Nursing Home. I suggest that you affix a return of undelivered mail address, just in case we have completed the cycle.

When one is very old and not very well, when sleep is fitful, empathetic visitors rare and one's lifelong partner is also not well, one's mind starts to play tricks — at least mine does. For some unknown reason, my mind keeps turning to Birdsville — neither to my mother's schooling, nor to the kindly police sergeant, but to the lonely, isolated Chinese gardener struggling to survive on the bank of the billabong. I keep wondering how he came to be there near the centre of arid Australia in the 1890s — perhaps he was a disappointed goldseeker, but why Birdsville? Cut off from any possible contact with another Cantonese speaker, visited only by white customers seeking to buy his vegetables, what did he do in the evenings? Dream perhaps of his family back home, wonder how he could arrange for his bones to be shipped back to rest with his ancestors. Maybe he found peace in an opium pipe. I now understand better why the Chinese in Australia patronised opium dens, but these were in the big cities, not outback Queensland. How could he have got opium? Did he grow his own poppies? My mother never mentioned flowers but she would not have understood the significance of poppies when she visited the garden. Did he experience or understand that every four years the Diamantina would flood and carry away his shelter and his seeds? Did he die and is his grave in the small Birdsville cemetery? I didn't bother to look when I had the opportunity to do so. Perhaps in the not too distant future I will be able to ask him these questions myself when we meet in Heaven.

12
The new millennium:
Obsolescence approaches

A
S it is, I wouldn't mind if we didn't see out the full distance, for we have moved since I last wrote. Moved from our much loved home of twenty years in the Fulham neighborhood, and are now residents of “Bleak House” at Norwood. This is also known in some quarters as “Melancholy Manor”. Despite the nickname, it is a cheery, friendly home for the aged, run with love and care by a dedicated staff. However, since everyone here has been assessed as having one or more serious medical conditions which cannot be treated at home, there is an underlying stratum of sadness.

Our move signalled the end of three years of independent careing for Mavis. For all of this time we had been under constant pressure from the family and our GP to transfer to a nursing home. Mavis was assessed as qualifying for high care when she was diagnosed with dementia and Parkinson's disease. My own bone surgeon believed my hip problems qualified me for low care assistance. We were forced to seek institutional care when Mavis first developed blindness in one eye after the removal of a tumour, and then also lost sight in the other eye. When the malignant tumour was removed from behind her left eye, and subsequently an artificial eye inserted, the right eyelid also refused to open. For years Mavis had insisted on her independence, but because of her blindness had suffered several nasty falls. When she fell, I was unable to help her get up from the floor. But she had discovered that, by lying on her back and dragging herself along the floor on her elbows, she could — with considerable difficulty — reach our bedroom. There she was able to pull herself upright with a little help from me and support from the bed. A district nurse called frequently at our house to bandage the skin-tears on Mavis's arms. Each of these took time to heal because of her fragility but she never complained. Every time it was a big struggle for her, aged ninety and more, and I was quickly exhausted from my small input. The falls became more frequent, yet she was determined to get to the toilet when this became necessary.

At Bleak House we are accommodated separately. Mavis shares a bedroom with another woman in the Nursing Home while I have a comfortable larger room with all facilities in the hostel area. Mavis cannot understand why we have this nightly separation and why we cannot sleep in a double bed as always. The home was designed and built many years before common sense recognised this need and overcame prudish prejudice. That commonsense opinion is now buttressed by numerous scientific investigations, which conclude that conjugal support is the most important form of social support for the elderly and is a major factor in preventing institutionalisation of the aged. The overall importance of this support towards achieving life satisfaction for both spouses is sufficient to justify any additional administrative inconvenience associated with providing double beds. The research suggests that any measures taken towards assisting couples to maintain their intimate relationship is worth serious consideration.

Otherwise, the accommodation is excellent. There are no odours and the meals are adequate and tasty. The staff are competent and caring. Surprisingly, there is an abundance of fresh flowers whose perfume and colours would gladden my horticulturist wife if only she could smell or see them. Mavis is spoon-fed, showered, dressed, and each morning put on a barouche with a soft sheepskin rug. She is then moved to a large lounge where most of the other residents of the nursing home spend their daytime hours watching television. There is a program for the sighted. Bingo is a popular pastime and there are “quizzes” on general knowledge for which small prizes are given. She is the only blind patient and is unable to participate in such group activities. There is a religious service on Sunday for those who wish to attend but this is optional. A minority of residents attend these services, but no pressure is exerted on those who don't. Fish is invariably served on Fridays to ensure no one is offended.

Because of her short-term memory loss, Mavis had difficulty remembering the new daily procedures, and her most frequent question to me is “What should I do?” Some carers never present her with choices so that she is becoming automatically submissive — a state of dependence that she would never have accepted in her normal existence. Our granddaughter, Becky, wrote to her not so long ago saying that Mavis had been a model for her in regard to women's rights and responsibilities. There are one or two of the staff who have not kept pace with the changing relationship between resident and carer, and who obviously regard seeking an opinion or consent from those in their care a waste of time. This attitude is understandable because some of the residents are almost robots, but not all of them are. These staff are easy to identify because they do not bother to discriminate. But we are lucky to be here. It is rightly regarded as one of the better places.

Early each evening, Mavis is returned to her bed. She is unable to use her watch and does not know whether it is day or night. When she wakes she is unsure whether she should try to go to sleep again or whether she will soon be dressed by a nurse. She has not been encouraged to continue walking with a frame and has deteriorated further as a result. Maybe this would have occurred even if we had remained at home. She frequently reminds me that she has no easy way of getting in touch with me. She cannot now read, write or use the telephone and has difficulty locating the staff call button. Her situation is both helpless and hopeless, but she is kept warm and her other physical needs are well looked after. She is no longer able to turn on her side, and so lies flat on her back. She has no bed sores, an indication of good nursing, for she sometimes developed one when at home under my care.

Towards late afternoon her rational moments, when we can have a shared conversation, become less frequent. At this time of day, she becomes concerned about preparing an evening meal for the family as she has done for over sixty years. This makes her agitated and confused, and I find these periods stressful. Because I need to be there when she is rational, I stay with her for an hour or so each morning and three hours each afternoon. Sometimes I am unable to continue.

Today, for example, she said to me: “Ian will be coming soon to take us home.” Later on she said: “I know Ian will not be long now.” Then: “He should be here by now.” I try to explain that we are both in wheelchairs, and cannot go home until we are better. I do not have the courage to tell her that our house is up for sale, that Ian has already disposed of some of our furniture and fittings at a garage sale and that we no longer have a home. When it becomes obvious that Ian will not be coming she asks me to help her get to her feet. It seems that she wants to go looking for him because, she says “I know he would come.” When I explain that I cannot lift her, she calls out in a loud voice: “Please someone come and help us.” I tell her that she cannot walk now. She says: “I can try.” She makes futile efforts to lift herself. From a prone position in a barouche, this is difficult. I go to Sister Heather's office for help. She sends a nurse to look after Mavis, gauges my condition and spontaneously gives me a hug. One evening before I had been allocated a hostel room, this nurse noticed me on the footpath waiting for a taxi. I was upset at our predicament and she came out to give me some comfort.

On the other hand, in my nearly seventy years of close association with Mavis, she has never uttered a negative word about another person or about a situation. She always says that she is all right, but I have suspected that for her things are not “all right” for her here at Bleak House. Today I got an indication. Dave Hunt, former South Australian Police Commissioner, paid us a short visit. When he asked her how she was, Mavis replied: “I'm having a rough time.”

I do not know what she does in her bed to occupy her mind between tea at 4.30 p.m. and the time when she goes to sleep. All external doors to the nursing home section are locked at 5.30 p.m. Because of this, I have a feeling that I would inconvenience the evening staff if I were to pay her a visit. Yet there must be something that I can do to relieve the mental torment she must endure in these lonely, sightless hours. Chris, our helpful activities officer, suggests that a radio with a programmed on and off switch may fill the gap. I will discuss this with the family. I am concerned because I am the one, the only one, who six decades ago promised that I would love and cherish Mavis … until we were parted by death. She promised the same for me. Nobody, but nobody else, has the same responsibility. Our three children and their spouses take a fair share of the load whenever they can, and we talk on the phone and by e-mail, but they have their own families to be concerned about. The middle-aged clean linen lady at the home who passes Mavis and me several times daily has obviously noticed that I am always holding Mavis's hand. On two occasions, she has loudly commented (and I think admiringly, judging by her smile): “Such devotion.” The first time I replied by just saying, “She's my wife.” Now I only smile back, but I suspect that she notices the watering of my eyes.

The great mystics of the past, such as St. John of the Cross and St. Teresa of Avila, speak of a “Black Night of the Soul”. Carl Jung writes of people feeling hopeless and lost, often because they find no meaning in either human or divine relationships. He believes that in depressions like this there is an “abscess of the soul” that leaves an aching, consuming void. He develops this belief further by stating that the trouble can begin with physical suffering or frequently the death of a loved one. My physical suffering may not be all that great, but every day for months I have faced my wife who has “died” a little more each time I see her. I now know what these mystics are referring to because that is where I am.

I have had two bad periods earlier in my life — the first was when I was carrying my swag as a teenager and hopelessly in love with a schoolteacher. The second was when I returned to our home after four years' absence. I had completed two tours of operational flying, was stressed out, bad tempered and disillusioned. In each of these cases, Mavis had been the one to lift me out of my depression, but not now. I no longer have the companionship of a knowledgeable, loving wife; the family is scattered over three states; I am no longer the owner of a family home; I miss my faithful Bluedog; I am surrounded by strange faces and unfamiliar routines; I am confined to a wheelchair and experiencing chronic pain. With diminishing faculties, I am unable to write up my research. My soul is indeed experiencing a Black Night.

I get help from a ninety-six-year-old Baptist minister who lives in the hostel section. He also has a wife in the nursing home. He detects my depressed mood and sometimes just rests his hand on my shoulder for a few moments, and says: “It's a heavy burden you are carrying.” I know that he understands. I know he is sincere. But I squirm and feel guilty for there comes immediately to mind that famous drawing of the urchin teenager struggling up a hill. He is carrying a younger boy in his arms and stoutly declaring to the world: “He is not heavy. He is my brother.” I empathise with that lad. Mavis is my wife, and I shouldn't feel her weight, but I do. Heaven must know this if it is awake. Perhaps one has to first bang a loud gong, as in a Japanese temple, to attract the attention of the sleeping gods. When I am more composed I will talk to this minister about a God who doesn't appear to intervene even when people are at breaking point. And perhaps there are reasons why God should not intervene. But then, why do we sing hymns that claim God “to be a shelter from the stormy blasts”. I want to talk to the minister about a God who has somehow botched our style of departure. I would like his explanation of the unfairness of a system that permits a completely selfless, gentle person like Mavis to undergo so much agony.

Perhaps God did hear my plea for support, for I have received quite unexpectedly a letter posted in Rarotonga from Ron Crocombe. I met Ron when I went to Port Moresby as the commissioner of the Royal Papuan and New Guinea constabulary. He was then a member of the Australian National University Research Unit in Port Moresby. I went to him for information about local problems and grew to respect his opinions. We became friends. He left Papua New Guinea about the same time as I did, but he went on to the Cook Islands and married a Cook Islander. We have not been in touch since then, which is some thirty years ago now. In his letter he wrote: “Your contribution to PNG was superb.” Not knowing that I was preparing these memoirs, he recommended that I write a book about my experiences.

I should have been prepared for the possibility of Mavis having to endure a very troubled terminal stage. I was aware of that Principle of Life that proclaims that good deeds do not guarantee a good ending. Two of my early heroes were Baden Powell and Winston Churchill. The first of these enthused the youth of the world to achieve higher moral standards; the other mobilised the English-speaking peoples of the world to defend those standards. Both suffered similar fates. Yes, there are many aspects of faith I would like to discuss with the minister, for he remains untroubled despite ten years' joint residency with his wife at Bleak House. Meanwhile, I assess my own faith as fifty-one per cent. Perhaps he would agree with my thought that each of us at birth should be given a “use-by” date, say seventy years (in Biblical terms three score years and ten). After that date, we should ourselves choose to five or die.

Somehow a few sunbeams have penetrated through this Stygian darkness, and I have made overmuch of them as a result John Murray, a police friend from way back, made a point of visiting me a few days ago. He has just been appointed the new chief federal police officer of the ACT. I told him that I was delighted with his new appointment, for John and I are on similar wavelengths in many respects. He told me that he had been on a three-month consultancy with the Hong Kong police. While there, he had noticed that my 1976 Sir John Barry Memorial Lecture at Melbourne University was still required reading for promotional examinations. He went on to say that I was still the only police officer invited to deliver this prestigious address. John also made the point that I had been the first to break the Australian tradition that academia and the police only provided quite separate careers. I had done this when I became a Visiting Fellow at the Australian National University — John himself had just surrendered an Associate Professorship at Charles Sturt University to take up his Canberra appointment. After John had left, I thought to myself that it would have been nice if he had mentioned a few other firsts. For example, being the only Australian Police Commissioner so far to head a territorial, state and Commonwealth force; the only Australian policeman to be awarded the Queen's Gold Medal, and the Gold Medal of the Australian Institute of Public Administration, the only Commissioner made a Companion of the Order of Australia. Then I realised that never before had I felt the need to trumpet my achievements. It must have been a symptom of my depressed state — normally I have always found enough challenges ahead to fully occupy my thoughts, but this time the future looked gloomy indeed.