The short version is that Daphne has a blocked artery in her neck and could have a major stroke at any time. She’s a time bomb waiting to go off unless she has surgery to clear the blood vessel. All these strange symptoms she’s been having are to do with the impeded blood supply to her brain; the thumping she’s been hearing is her heart trying to push the blood through the blockage. The falls she’s been having are due to small clots lodging in her brain. If a major clot breaks off she could have a stroke. The solution is to visit a vascular surgeon, which Daphne’s regular doctor can arrange for her. The hospital will pass on all the information so an appointment can be made as soon as possible.
Pam seems happy to have some answers, but Daphne sinks in the wheelchair, knowing her doctor will not be happy. How long is it now since the GP recommended having those tests done? No doubt he will ask about the referral that ended up in the bin.
The ponytailed doctor is asking if Daphne has private health insurance. If she does, it’s likely the surgeon will operate soon, otherwise she’ll probably have to go on the list. For years, Pam has insisted on paying those ludicrously expensive insurance bills. Daphne has always thought it was a waste of Ray’s hard-earned money. But now perhaps it’s just as well.
34
Daphne likes the vascular surgeon—she finds she has a reluctant admiration for him. His rooms are modern and flash and expensive-looking (which will probably be reflected in his bills), but he is surprisingly human. He is smartly dressed, fit-looking and affable with a distinct twinkle in his eye which sets Daphne’s concerns temporarily at ease. He talks her through the details of the operation, showing her several ghastly pictures of the anatomy of the human neck with railway tracks of coloured veins and arteries running through it.
‘This is your carotid artery,’ he says, pointing with his pen. ‘Yours is more than ninety per cent blocked. We need to clear it out and then your risk of stroke reduces dramatically.’
As he leans forward across his desk, explaining it all to her, Daphne catches the scent of aftershave. It’s tangy and masculine, not too strong. Having lived with a man with a beard all her life, aftershave is a simple pleasure Daphne has never experienced. But then women who’ve never made love with a bearded man have missed one of life’s great intimacies, she thinks. She flushes. Here they are talking about an operation and she is thinking about sex. The good thing is no-one would suspect her of it. All they see is an old woman and they think she is past imaginings like that.
Memories of Doug have been coming to her frequently this week, more than usual. She sees him in the night, strong visions of his face, the lovely texture of his beard, the gentle intensity in his eyes when he looks at her, love written into them. Sometimes she imagines his smell—the bushy, earthy aroma of his skin. One night she finds herself reaching across the bed for him, which she hasn’t done in years, decades. That was one of the hardest things to accept after he died: the loss of his comforting presence in bed, the solidity of him beside her, the reassurance that came with closing her hand over his and feeling him grasp hers any time of night, always there for her.
The surgeon is asking Daphne if she has any worries, and all the anxieties of the past week resurface: the arguments she’s had with Pam, the visit from the policemen. Daphne doesn’t know what to think about anything anymore, other than the fact that she doesn’t want to have this surgery done. Despite her newfound enthusiasm for life, she’s not sure she should allow anyone to cut into her with a knife. It might be a death sentence to dodge the operation, but the anaesthetic is a risk too. And she’s lasted months without any issues, hasn’t she? Who knows, she could go a few more years without any problems. If she has a stroke and goes out quickly, that’s fine. She’s had a good life. Why tempt fate with operations?
The surgeon places some sheets of paper on his desk in front of Daphne and offers a pen and points to where she should sign.
‘I’m too old for surgery,’ she says.
The surgeon nods slowly, as if taking her concerns seriously, which is more than Daphne expected of him. She thought he would strong-arm her into seeing things his way. ‘I understand why you might be worried,’ he says. ‘But actually you are quite healthy for your age. I wouldn’t recommend surgery unless I thought it was the best solution for you.’
Daphne shakes her head firmly. She sets her feet on the ground and prepares for battle.
The surgeon smiles persuasively. ‘All your blood tests are good. Your heart is in good shape and your blood pressure is excellent—not in your carotid artery, obviously, but overall it’s fine. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t have the operation. There’s some risk of course, as there is with any surgery, but we work to minimise that. I have a fantastic anaesthetist who’ll look after you. And you can relax knowing I’ve done lots of these operations before.’
Relax! Daphne almost laughs. Only a surgeon could say something like that. Relax while I cut open your neck. Relax while I slash into your blood vessel.
They talk through risks and percentages again; the chances of a stroke if she doesn’t have the operation, the risk if she does. It feels to Daphne that she is caught between a rock and a hard place. Risk both ways.
Then Pam intervenes. ‘Mum, the doctor is telling you that if you don’t have this operation there’s a very real possibility you’ll have a major stroke that will leave you incapacitated. You don’t want to be left half-paralysed and unable to speak or do things for yourself, do you?’
Daphne meets the surgeon’s eyes. ‘Is that what you’re telling me?’ she asks. She refuses to have Pam putting words in his mouth.
He nods.
Daphne leans back in her chair and considers this. The concept of being brain-damaged and dependent is horrifying—she definitely doesn’t want that. But Pam is being manipulative to get the result she wants. After the visit to the hospital with the ponytailed doctor, she and Pam had argued on the way home. Why didn’t you tell me about all those collapsing episodes? Pam had asked indignantly.
You knew, Daphne had defended. You were there when the first one happened. It was out at the valley that day Abby helped me.
You said it was nothing, Pam had protested.
It was nothing, Daphne had insisted. I recovered.
Each one of those collapsing episodes was probably a small stroke, Pam had said. But we didn’t know because you didn’t tell me.
The argument was circular, as arguments so often are, and Daphne had found herself staring out the car window, switching off to her daughter’s rave.
Now she feels resentment bubbling in her chest. ‘I’d rather be dead than paralysed,’ she says, turning to Pam angrily. ‘I don’t want to be kept alive on machines.’
The surgeon clears his throat and smiles gently. ‘It’s not always that simple—not unless the stroke is so major it wipes your brain out. For lesser strokes we can’t always tell how a patient will recover. It takes time. We have to wait and see.’
Daphne tastes sourness in her mouth. Wipes your brain out is a bit blunt, she thinks, especially coming from a doctor, but perhaps he’s decided to dispense with medical terms and speak plainly. ‘What would you do?’ she asks.
The surgeon sits back, steeples his hands and regards her thoughtfully, as if he is giving this due consideration. But Daphne already knows what he’s going to say. She has posed the wrong question and he knows he has won. Pam is looking distinctly smug.
‘I would have the surgery,’ he says, and his response is no surprise. He’s a surgeon after all, and surgeons like to use their scalpels.
Daphne looks to Pam and knows she is defeated. She hasn’t the energy to stand against the two of them. ‘When should we do it?’ she asks. And everyone around her is smiling. Great, she thinks, now they’re all happy except me. If I’m lucky I might just die.
But on the way home she realises she doesn’t want to die. She isn’t ready yet. And with that a great lump nestles itself in her guts and refuses to budge.
35
‘I’m so sorry. The skull was my fault.’
It is a few days after the appointment with the surgeon, and Abby is visiting again. She insisted on coming to see how Daphne was doing after the dramatic collapse in the presence of the policemen, and she’s wearing a look of guilt and apology that reminds Daphne of a reprimanded dog. The discovery of Doug’s skull is only one of the many things that has been occupying Daphne’s mind. There are other issues of importance she must attend to before the operation: her will, her few possessions, what she should take to the hospital.
The policemen returned only yesterday to discuss their investigation. Years had lapsed since Doug’s disappearance, and Daphne hadn’t expected any further evidence to turn up. Weather, snow, wildfire, predators—she’d considered the lot and come to terms with the loss of his remains. A sky burial was how she liked to think of it.
But now the story is different. The police said a man had come across Doug’s skeleton in the mountains some years ago and retrieved his skull. The man hadn’t considered the consequences of his find, or the meaning it might have for someone else—least of all Doug’s family. He’d passed the skull on to a friend who collected bones . . . this was the worst of it for Daphne: the concept of Doug’s skull sitting as a showpiece in a stranger’s home. After the police had departed, she’d vomited up her distress and flushed it down the toilet. Too late for being precious now, she’d told herself . . . but it was a bit rich for someone to keep Doug’s skull.
‘How can it be your fault?’ Daphne says, dismissing Abby’s concern.
‘I know the guy who had it.’
Daphne finds this hard to believe but Abby’s face is serious.
‘That guy with the red Commodore,’ Abby says. ‘He told me he had a human skull in his collection and I told him he had to hand it in.’ She shakes her head. ‘I never imagined it could have anything to do with you. I just thought it was wrong, that he shouldn’t have it, and that a proper burial was necessary.’
Daphne feels overwhelmed by all this information. ‘It isn’t your fault,’ she repeats.
‘But what if you’d died when you found out? I couldn’t have lived with that. As it was you collapsed again, and I feel so guilty.’
Now Daphne sees where the girl is coming from. ‘My little episode had nothing to do with Doug’s skull turning up. It was just an unlucky coincidence . . . or rather, a fortunate event, according to the doctors. Now we know what is happening with my health, they can do something about it. I’m supposed to be happy about that.’
‘But you’re not?’
Daphne frowns. ‘Nobody celebrates having surgery at my age.’
Abby grins. ‘I guess not.’ Then her face lines again with worry.
‘I’ll be fine,’ Daphne says. ‘They say I’m in top shape, whatever that means. And I intend to survive. I want to live.’
It’s such a ridiculous epiphany she almost laughs. She likes being alive. And she’s good at it. A lifetime of experience and she knows how to do it; such a pity to waste all that by dying. She sees now why she is here when Doug is not. It isn’t because she is weak. She chose life because she is strong, because she can face things, absorb pain. Not everyone can. Doug wasn’t able to.
‘My husband didn’t want to live,’ she says to Abby. ‘That’s why his skull ended up in those mountains. He couldn’t cope with the suburbs.’
It had been clear from the moment they moved, and she remembers it all so clearly—how a dark entity had taken residence inside Doug. He’d folded in on himself like a closing anemone, all the soft parts hiding away, the lights going off. She’d seen it each morning when he emerged, empty-eyed, from the bedroom. He was sleeping late and it seemed a great weariness was pressing him down. On the farm, he never slept in. He was up with the kookaburras in the early pre-dawn, and by the time the morning sun crept over the ridge, he’d already had breakfast and was out with a lead-rope in his hand, looking for his horse.
‘Doug just wasn’t cut out for urban living,’ she tells Abby. ‘He’d lived almost a lifetime on the land, with air and space around him. He couldn’t fit his soul into a backyard. The fences hemmed him in.’
Daphne would find him lying on the bed, hands folded on his chest, eyes closed. She would stand at the door watching him breathe, the sadness simmering inside him. More than once she offered to take him to the mountains for a daytrip or a picnic but his eyes remained shut and he refused to go, said he didn’t want to.
‘I tried everything,’ she says. ‘I suggested golf, bowls, bingo, bridge, the Rotary Club. But Doug refused everything. He said golf and bowls were for old people who couldn’t entertain themselves. That he’d be damned if he would sit around talking with city folk, pretending he was interested in what they had to say. Said he’d rather be dead in his grave.’
Abby laughs. ‘I think I agree with him,’ she says. ‘Bowls is boring. But who am I to comment? I’ve never played it.’
None of it had sounded particularly appealing to Daphne either, but she’d known they had to find a way to prop themselves up, and it seemed the only way was to engage with the community. There were fights every time she tried to force Doug into life. Let’s find things to do together, she’d said. Maybe it was time for them to retire anyway. Other people retired in their fifties, didn’t they? Public servants with big superannuation payouts? The payout for the farm would serve as their super. They would invest it, make it last the distance, and if it ran out they would probably qualify for the pension. Maybe enforced retirement could be a good thing. They’d worked hard all their lives. Perhaps they could stop and enjoy themselves, do some recreational things, maybe buy a caravan and travel around Australia, join the Grey Nomads.
‘It was a tough thing to face forced retirement in middle age,’ she says. ‘Doug wasn’t young, but he certainly wasn’t old. He was in his late fifties with plenty of work left in his bones. But it wasn’t likely he could find other employment. What would he do? Work on a road gang turning stop signs? Fill shelves at the supermarket? Of course not! And he wasn’t the sort to sit around and chew the fat. Not unless it was with other farmers, discussing the cattle markets, or the price of land, problems with weeds, the cost of hiring labour. By the time we left the farm, he was definitely starting to slow down but he wasn’t ready to retire. He was a worker, never idle. In the suburbs, he ground to a halt like an engine without fuel. Then our old dog died, and everything went downhill from there.’
Daphne pauses for a moment then decides to tell Abby everything—the girl is an adult after all, and there’s probably not much she can’t handle. She settles herself, knowing this won’t be easy. But she feels she needs to do it. If Abby knows the story behind Doug’s disappearance, she will understand it better. Daphne draws a steadying breath then lets the story come out.
She remembers the day clearly. It was autumn, fine and cool. Doug had woken in a strangely euphoric mood. He’d emerged early from bed and listened to the radio as he ate breakfast. Over coffee, he asked Daphne about her plans for the day, said she ought to go out and buy herself a new dress, said he might go out himself, maybe visit his friend, Sel. Selwyn owned a small property out of Queanbeyan where sometimes Doug went to help out or talk about the old days. Daphne hoped Sel might be able to lift Doug out of his gloom. Doug was always good after visiting with Sel, came home with a bounce in his stride, as if he’d found the missing part of his soul.
She didn’t ask what he would do after visiting Sel, preferring to leave him in his upbeat state of mind—it was such a nice change from his moping. She decided to go shopping to buy some nice thick steaks for a barbecue dinner. Doug liked a good steak, and Daphne had found a decent butcher in town who knew his cuts. Perhaps they would have a happier evening. They might talk some more, laugh together, remember good times.
Doug came to her then, and folded her in his arms, held her strong. Daphne was surprised at this uncommon show of affection—he’d been so locked into him
self since they shifted to the city but she relaxed against him, and drew in the sweet smell of his neck, the familiar mustiness of his beard. When they pulled apart, Daphne saw a bright gleam in Doug’s eyes, so she pushed herself against him once more, kissed him then grabbed her handbag from the table and hurried out the door. That night she would cook him a feast and they would be together as they hadn’t been in months.
When she came home from the shops, the house was silent, which was no surprise as Doug had probably gone out. She put the shopping on the table and wandered through the house looking for him, just in case he was home and perhaps sleeping. But the house was deserted. She went out to the garage, and yes, Doug’s work truck was gone. On the workbench, his tool boxes sat undisturbed.
She passed the day cleaning and gardening, and by the time she went to shower and prepare dinner, she was very happy with herself. She put on a fresh dress then donned an apron while she chopped vegies and marinated the steak. When everything was ready, she turned on the TV for the evening news and picked up her knitting to kill time till Doug arrived. He should be back soon; he was rarely out after dark.
But dark came and Doug did not appear. She began to worry. He was never usually out this long, and if he was likely to be late, he generally rang. Once or twice he had met up with a friend at the pub and drunk himself silly, but this had only happened a few times and Daphne couldn’t blame him. If drink was an occasional salve for despondency, she could cope. Even then, he’d called from the pub to let her know he was all right. Then he’d caught a taxi home and she’d bundled him into bed.
At seven o’clock the phone rang and Daphne leapt to answer it. But it was only Sel, and Daphne suppressed her disappointment. Just wondering when Doug’s planning on bringing my truck back, Sel said with an edge of grumpiness. Wouldn’t mind getting my horse back too. Thought Doug would have shown up by now, with it getting dark and all.
Surprise then irritation ran down Daphne’s spine. Doug must have had plans for today that he hadn’t shared with her. If he’d taken a horse in a truck, he must have gone riding somewhere. Pity he hadn’t invited her too. She would have enjoyed it. What’s he been up to, Sel? she asked. I don’t know a thing about it.
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