The Upside of Down (23 page)

Our new cul-de-sac is small but busting with young kids—about twenty attending our local primary school. For Aidan and Oliver, who have spent nearly all of their lives in a childless apartment block, this is like living in a lolly shop. When the street's annual Christmas party comes around, it's reminiscent of our 4th of July block parties in California. Except for the barbeques, which sit on centre stage here. The shiny metal barges are rolled out with pride as a crowd of men gather to admire and compare features. Barbeque envy is ubiquitous. There seems to be far more to it than throwing some hot dogs on the Weber—here the barbeque has a deep primal meaning for men. Even Darryl, who generally despises spending money unnecessarily, surprises me with his odd enthusiasm about trading in our perfectly adequate charcoal hibachi for a spanking new, gas-fired version.

Unfortunately a few days after the street party, just before Christmas, we have our first medical experience in Australia. Oliver has developed a cough, the first serious one in several years, and it needs to be addressed. Darryl takes him to the Children's Hospital. An hour later he phones.

‘They're going to admit him,' he reports.

‘Why?'

‘He has an audible wheeze and his oxygen saturations aren't great.'

‘But how could this come on so quickly. He was fine yesterday.'

‘I think that's one of the things they're concerned about. It could just be asthma. We know CF kids can have it from time to time, even if Oliver hasn't before now. They said it could even be brought on by allergies.'

Over the next few days Darryl stays at the hospital while I go back and forth, bringing Aidan and Ellis to visit Oliver. To our great pleasure, we find that siblings are welcome on the ward in this hospital; in fact, they're encouraged to come and spend time with their brother or sister. On the evening of the twenty-third we're told Oliver will be discharged the next morning, Christmas Eve. I awake that morning, feed Aidan and Ellis, and arrive on the fifth floor ward at about ten o'clock to pick up the others and bring them home. Aidan, in his constant state of excitement and high-rev energy, runs ahead to Oliver's room.

He pops right back out. ‘Mum, his bed's not in there anymore,' he says, a perplexed look on his face.

I feel something rising in my throat as a man turns around from the desk which is just outside of Oliver's room. He's on the phone. Covering the mouthpiece he asks, ‘Are you Oliver's mum?'

I nod my head slowly. He immediately hangs up the phone. It's my heart that's making a rapid ascent into my mouth, garbling my words. ‘Wh-what's the matter? Where is he?'

‘Um, don't worry. I'm Oliver's nurse. He's okay. But he's in ICU.'

‘ICU? He can't be. What do you mean? He's supposed to be discharged this morning.'

‘He was having quite a lot of trouble breathing which we were unable to manage here. We had to do a MET call in the end.'

‘What's a MET call?' I grip Ellis' pram tightly to steady my wobbly legs while putting my hand to my mouth fearful I might vomit, fear swamping me.

‘It means Medical Emergency Team. It's a bit like a code. It's just a system we have that gets him the help he needs in a hurry. But don't worry about that. You can go see him in ICU. Darryl's there with him.'

Even my frightening conversation with the nurse hasn't prepared me for the scene that awaits us in ICU. Darryl is in his pyjamas and his hair is scruffy. But it's his eyes that tell the real story. There's a panic there which I can't recall ever seeing before. And he's angry, probably not directly at me, though it initially comes across that way.

‘Where have you been?' he snaps, in a barely controlled whisper.

‘I was getting the kids ready, feeding Ellis. I didn't know anything was wrong. Why didn't you call me?'

‘I couldn't leave him, even for a minute. I didn't know what might happen.' He pauses, the rage rising again. ‘How could it have taken you so long? We needed you.'

It's only then that I look past Darryl to Oliver. He's lying on the bed in the corner with—
thank you, thank you, thank you
—a huge smile on his face. There's a nurse with him.

‘Hi Mum!' I hear, garbled through his oxygen mask. He waves at me. His face is as white as the walls around him and he almost looks like he's sucking air through his stomach. Each time he breathes in there's a noise and his stomach pulls in, exposing his ribs and collar bones in a very unnatural way. The sight is a shock; my legs begin to feel unsteady again.

Turning back to Darryl, ‘I'm sorry I wasn't here. What happened?'

‘When he woke up this morning he was wheezing, like he has been these past few days, only worse. John, his nurse, gave him Ventolin but it didn't seem to help. He eventually put him on continuous Ventolin through a mask. But Oliver just didn't seem right …'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I don't know … the TV was right in front of him but he was saying that he couldn't see it. He just started getting really vague. John said it was hypoxia—lack of oxygen to the brain.'

‘What was the MET call thing like?' I ask though I'm not sure I want to hear.

‘It was terrifying. John came in and said “Look, just to warn you, the room is going to fill up with people really quickly.” Then, like ten seconds later, there were literally a dozen people in there all rushing around, ripping open packets of drugs, starting an IV, monitoring him.' He stops speaking, as if to recover.

‘I wish you had called me—I wish I'd known.'

‘I didn't want to leave him and the phone in his room doesn't allow you to call out.'

Our conversation is interrupted by the arrival of the Clown Doctors. I don't know who called them or if it's just chance, but they are just what we need. There are two clowns. One's wearing huge plastic shoes, an orange wig and a bright red nose, plus his white doctor coat and fake stethoscope. The other one is playing the ukulele and pretending to pick his nose. They head straight for our corner of ICU. Ellis, at three months old, is asleep in the stroller but Aidan and Oliver have their eyes latched on this kooky couple. The repertoire is fantastic, including plenty of burp and fart jokes just right for the audience.

We're all enjoying the entertainment but when the clowns pull out bubbles and begin to blow them all around Oliver's bed I get apprehensive. I'm certain the nurses will be angry about this—it's ICU, for heaven's sake. In France, bubbles wouldn't have been allowed in the parking lot. I look around and notice several nurses smiling in our direction. Amazingly, they seem to be accepting this potential breach of regulations. In fact, one of them comes over a few minutes later and suggests the clowns do a particular trick. Darryl and I look at each other and shake our heads, in astonishment.
Are we on another planet?

Oliver improves through the day and late that evening he is moved back up to the ward. That night at home I phone my parents and Raewyn to explain the events of the day. Although I try, it's impossible to hold back the tears. I can feel a cloak of despair settling over me. It's more than just Oliver being in the hospital again. All of the hope and optimism associated with a new country, a better climate, excellent healthcare—what's the point if he's in the hospital already after just two months? Were we kidding ourselves thinking that Australia would be the place to beat CF? Maybe it's too fierce an enemy after all.

This is the saddest Christmas I can remember. After Aidan and Ellis are in bed I wrap presents until late—tears dripping on the gold and silver wrapping paper—while snacking on the biscuits and carrots Aidan has laid out on the table for Santa and the reindeer. First thing in the morning we load the presents in the car, I dress Ellis and we drive to the hospital.

We're all reunited on the ward by eight o'clock and thrilled with what we find. Oliver has colour back in his face, is off the oxygen and swamped by a stack of new toys. Apparently he awoke to an overflowing Santa-sack on his bed: a Thomas the Tank Engine game, Bob the Builder book, a grunting toy chainsaw—from someone, somewhere in this clunky old building. Later that morning we hear sirens and look out the window to see several fire trucks roaring up to the hospital. The firemen make rounds through the wards, posing for photos, handing out gifts. A full Christmas lunch is put on for all of the families downstairs.

At one stage in this long day, a major TV news station comes by our room for a quick interview. ‘How is it spending Christmas at the Children's Hospital?' they ask us. ‘What things have made it special for your son?' Some friends from France who have also recently moved to Australia see us on the six o'clock news that night. They arrive the next day after driving three hours to Melbourne, loaded with food, games and much-needed love and support.

Of all the surprises that occur on Christmas, the most significant relate to the care Oliver receives. Doctors, nurses and physios introduce themselves, talk to us and include us in decisions. This involvement is a direct antidote to the powerlessness of this illness, returning a measure of control to us.

Although he has improved hugely since the day before, we're still expecting tight restrictions on Oliver's activity. John, his nurse, comes to speak with us first thing Christmas morning.

‘How does Oliver seem to you today?'

Darryl begins. ‘He looks a lot better, but he was so sick yesterday …'

‘Yeah, of course. But he seems a lot better to me also. He's clearly itching to try out his toys. I was thinking we could let him out of bed when his IV finishes and see how he goes. How do you both feel about that?'

We have given Oliver a scooter and Aidan a skateboard for Christmas. John keeps an eye out as the two of them drag-race up and down the corridor throughout the day. Initially I am anxious, fearing a telling-off by the nurses. Yet they are good-natured, joking with the boys, side-stepping the wheels. When the doctor comes by for rounds he notes Oliver's improvement, commenting that it's looking more like a severe asthma episode and less like infection. And even he seems comfortable with the drag races. It's as if, at least for this one day, the serious business of medicine is making space for the serious business of Christmas and sacred family time. We are moved by the experience. To the staff, Oliver is more than a CF patient: he's a child; a wound-up four-year-old boy on Christmas. And we are grateful for that.

***

One thing I'm learning is that no place is perfect; changing countries is about exchanging some improvements for some shortcomings. Before we came to Australia I knew that one of its downsides would be the presence of many of the world's most dangerous creatures. It's a good thing the healthcare is so family-friendly in our new country since our chances of ending up in the hospital from some dangerous animal bite seems to be high. Apparently Australia is the only nation with more venomous than non-venomous snakes: of the 155 species of land snakes, I learn, a full 93 are poisonous. It turns out that five of the country's most dangerous varieties—Tiger, Eastern and Western Brown, Copperheads and Red-bellied Black snakes—can be found in suburban Melbourne backyards. Just like ours. The Tiger snake's bite can result in paralysis, blood that won't coagulate and muscle damage, possibly leading to renal failure. In Paris, we plied our kids with rules on street-crossing and stranger dangers but here the enemy may be lurking under our backdoor mat.

Luckily we manage to avoid stepping on snakes, but we have only been in Australia a few months when we meet another common Aussie critter. One evening, about forty-five minutes after putting the kids to bed, Oliver trots down the hall excitedly announcing the presence of a spider in his room. A big spider. Darryl agrees to deal with the offending creature. Moments later he returns, looking shaken.

‘Sue, you had better come and see this—it's big.' Clearly it is far beyond the scale of the flimsy daddy-long-legs in our Parisian apartment.

‘No, thanks. You can deal with it.'

‘No, really, you have to come.' By now he is insisting, almost pleading, clearly not wanting to face it alone. This is one of the few times I'd prefer to have a traditional alpha-male husband telling me not to worry my pretty little head about spiders because he'll take care of them. Instead, Darryl is skittish and unhelpful. Normally by the time we finish arguing over ‘who killed the last one', the spider is out the door and on his way. But no sir, not tonight.

This Huntsman spider is about fifteen centimetres across with the trademark furry legs. And surprisingly, given his bulk, he can really move. Up the wall, across the ceiling, down the other wall; we chase him with two brooms, like some comic episode from
The Three Stooges
. The overhead light is on, Darryl and I each wield a weapon, Oliver shouts unhelpful instructions like, ‘There he is. Hurry up, Mum. Get him, Dad.' Meanwhile Aidan persists in a heavy sleep on his loft-bed, at times perilously close to swinging brooms and hairy legs.

Eventually we bring in the heavy artillery: the vacuum cleaner. After three near-misses, the Huntsman disappears under the bed. Several minutes later we are moving Oliver's bed, one final step before evacuation of the room, when he suddenly screams.

‘There it is, Mum, on your hand!'

Sure enough, it has popped out of the bed on to the headboard and is crawling up my hand, in a vain attempt to befriend me. Now, I know this Huntsman is harmless because my Australian friends have been telling me that for months. But harmless has no meaning when bushy legs are prickling the skin. I shake myself free and vault on top of Aidan's bed while Darryl sucks him up with the vacuum.

Oliver is content to climb back into his trodden-on bed; Aidan continues his peaceful sleep, while Darryl and I check every window and screen in the house before performing a thorough search of our bed.