Letter from my Father

by Dasia Black

  All sorts of things were happening around me. Doctors wanted to know what Henry’s blood pressure had been in the last few weeks. I had no idea.

  As soon as they heard the news at 11pm, Jonathan and six-months-pregnant Paula got into their car and drove through the night to be with me. On arrival, Jonathan established exactly what was happening since some of the doctors in charge had been his fellow medical students. He took me aside and explained in his usual clear manner that if Henry were to wake from his coma, the person waking would no longer be the man we knew. He would be a person functioning at the level of what he called a vegetable. The full force of Henry’s instruction, I don’t want to live on in a diminished state, hit me. He must have felt or known something that he had not shared with me.

  I knew at once that he must not be allowed to linger on like this. I talked to Kim, herself completely stunned, and she fully agreed with me. But we also wanted to get Henry’s brother Ernest’s consent for our decision not to prolong his life artificially.

  We had already phoned Ernest in Florida and he had got on the first flight to Australia, practically in his pyjamas. He arrived at noon on Sunday. He went directly to his younger brother’s bedside, gave him a nudge, and said firmly: That’s enough. Wake up! Come on, Jungchen (he always referred to Henry as young one in German).

  We had lived with the situation for what seemed many days, though it was only two. It was important that Ernest grasped the reality of Henry’s condition very quickly, since the conference with the head physician was scheduled for 2pm that day. Jonathan took Ernest for a walk and talked and talked, repeating patiently and in different ways the level of his brother’s functioning. Finally Ernest took it in.

  At the conference with the physician, Jonathan kept on repeating the question: What sort of person would Henry be if he were to regain consciousness? The answer was starkly clear. It would be a much-diminished shadow of my husband. That Sunday evening we took the decision to take him off the life-support system. His doctors expected him to die in the next couple of days.

  During this period I slept on the couch in the waiting room adjoining the unit, still in the clothes in which I had arrived. Paula made cups of tea for me and was very kind and patient. Since she and Jonathan needed to be back to Sydney the next day, I asked them to send me some of my clothes.

  Simon arrived the next day to be with me, having left seven-months-pregnant Ruth and the two boys to cope on their own in Sydney. He slept at Henry’s flat while I took turns with Kim and Ernest to be at Henry’s side. I stroked his broad chest and muscular arms. I held his hand and talked to him and watched the monitor showing his breath.

  One night, Simon stayed with him through the night, telling me later that, though he had been reluctant to do so, he was glad he had.

  On the Monday night, I noticed signs of distress on Henry’s face and the doctors agreed to a slight increase in his dose of morphine. He did not pass away on Tuesday, as predicted. He kept on breathing, without life support. On Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday many of his close friends had asked to come and see him, and Kim and I had agreed they could. Many of them were from his lifetime involvement in politics and economics. These mature men went to his room, stayed there for a short while and emerged shaken and tearful. The nursing staff told me that they had rarely seen such a display of love, sorrow, devotion and respect. They were themselves affected by it, as they sat by him and stroked him.

  John Edwards, adviser to Prime Minister Paul Keating and a friend of Henry’s, visited to relay a message about Keating’s deep concern for Henry.

  I had stopped eating and noticed my first grey hair. On some nights I slept in the flat on a mattress on the floor, with Simon beside me trying to coax me to eat and drink. Although I was barely aware of anything except that Henry was lying in a coma in that quiet room, I was moved by Simon’s devotion and love in action.

  On Wednesday, the senior nurse informed me that they could not keep Henry in his room at the Intensive Care Unit (ICU) any longer. Nothing further could be done for him there, and in any case it was needed by others. He would be moved down to a ward. I knew that Henry would hate being ‘demoted’ to a lower floor. Since he had always liked to leave decisions to the last moment, I asked: What is the latest time possible for such a move? She said the following day, Thursday. I persisted. What time on Thursday? She told me he would need to be gone by 6pm.

  Now we had a deadline. I told Kim that Henry would die on Thursday before 6pm. Crazy as it sounded, I spoke with such conviction that she believed me. His breathing became shallower as the afternoon progressed. As Kim and I watched the monitor, hypnotised by it, I observed breaths taken where the brain does not activate, indicated by a flat line on the monitor, followed by deep and frequent breaths. The intervals between these increased and then all we could see was a flat line. Henry had stopped breathing.

  It was five minutes to six on the evening of our fourth wedding anniversary. Henry exited in typical style, leaving it to the very last minute, when delay was no longer possible.

  We left his body in the hospital room and started making phone calls to organise the funeral with Chevra Kadisha, the Jewish burial society; put notices in the newspapers and made phone calls to family and friends. Then the senior nurse, one of the group of dedicated and skilled people we had encountered during the last terrible days, suggested that it would be wise to go back and spend some time sitting by the body. As I entered the room, Henry’s home for the last six days of his life, I was struck by the breathtaking sight of a magnificent sunset. Above the darkening line of the surrounding hills, a pink-golden glow extended from one end of the horizon to the other.

  I was surrounded by utter silence. I sat by Henry’s body and suddenly was overcome by a strange feeling. It was as if his spirit were standing behind me and enveloping me, releasing the heavy pressure from my shoulders and letting me breathe deeply and rhythmically. I felt like a person being brought back to life after nearly drowning. As I breathed I could sense Henry’s compassion, Henry’s wisdom entering my body and my spirit. He was becoming part of me; he was within me. He was certainly not abandoning me. I felt as if grace had been bestowed upon me and that I was whole.

  The next few days are a blank. I was in a haze, only vaguely aware of the reading of Henry’s will, focused to a large extent on the allocation of his beloved Gandhara figures among Kim, me, his ex-wife Joan and Ernest. Back in Sydney there were comforting phone calls from the University to let me know I should take as much time as I wanted before resuming my duties. There were visits, phone calls and letters from many of our joint friends, as well as a host of Henry’s friends and colleagues from earlier phases of his life. There was a letter from Prime Minister Keating which summed up Henry’s public life most succinctly. It told me that Keating had come to value his good sense and intellectual courage and, in and out of the Public Service, Henry was always a public servant of this country, and one whose wisdom we will all miss.

  One episode is still vivid. Simon and I visited the Chevra Kadisha to purchase a plot for Henry’s burial. We talked to the sympathetic secretary who connected us by phone to the sextant at Rookwood Cemetery. He wanted to know what type of plot I wanted for the grave and in what location. I had given the subject no thought, and asked his advice on what criteria one should consider in choosing a plot. The main thing is position, position, position, he answered. It seemed we were talking real estate. What is a good position? I persisted, quite bewildered. He explained that I would want a grave not too far from the road but in an elevated position, so that when it rained water did not run down from higher ground. He happened to have just such a space in the new section, Simon suggested that I should consider a double plot so I could lie next to Henry when my time came. He added that he (and probably Jonathan) would pay.

  We were finally allotted plots 37 and 38. Now I had to decide which was to be mine and which Henry’s. The helpful secretary asked: On which side of the bed do you like t
o sleep, your husband’s right or left side? It was the left, so Henry would be buried in plot 38 and I on his left in plot 37.

  As we finalised the arrangements, the secretary was still on the phone to the sextant. He wanted to know if we knew where to come on the day of the funeral. She explained this to us and then told him: The wife knows exactly where she is going, tapping her finger on the document before her. Ester: plot 37.

  As Simon and I left the building, we burst into laughter. So that was where I was going! It was good to have the direction of my life clarified. Between tears of mirth I said to my son: Now all I have to do is work out what comes between now and plot 37.

  The funeral took place on a windy day. As the funeral car sped towards the cemetery, I mustered all my strength to maintain my composure. Letting go would be too risky.

  The car halted close to plot 38. It was immediately engulfed by people. They were crying and waving their arms, wanting to offer sympathy. I felt trapped. I needed space. I could not cope with other people’s emotions as well as my own. Yes, I know you are friends, but please take a step back.

  At the graveside our good friend, Solomon, an observant Jew, steeped in knowledge, officiated. He was sensitive to Henry’s suspicion of organised religion and had helped me choose the psalms and prayers to be said with the greatest discretion. I read an extract from Henry’s description of the silk textiles we had admired in Varanasi as an apt metaphor for his life: I even dreamt about it, feeling how a whole lifetime could be unrolled before one’s eye in this manner, with a scroll showing lighter and darker patches, brilliant colours and greyer areas...

  My mother, Simon and Ruth, Jonathan and Paula and I arrived at my townhouse to find a big platter of fresh egg sandwiches in the courtyard, put there by my friend Ella. Ernest had gone off with Kim. The rest of us sat around the table and devoured the whole platter.

  That evening at the minyan, the prayer service and rites which require the presence of ten males, Ernest spoke about the attitude of German Jews to Judaism. Having embraced and contributed to the Enlightment, they could relate to the rationalism of Maimonides, but felt religious observance based on literal interpretation of the Torah was alien to them. He stressed, however, that Henry had observed the commandment to honour one’s parents. Their mother, aged 101 years, survived him. The minyan was more a wake with family and friends, during which we recalled Henry’s lighter side. My two pregnant daughters-in-law were symbols of hope for the future.

  While participating in these activities surrounding my husband’s death, I found myself making my own plans for survival. Six days after my loved one’s death, I knew I was drowning and that I needed to surface – soon. The day after the minyan, I wrote:

  In the time ahead – build structures in terms of work, leisure, friendships and then let things develop. Follow up openings. Go with the flow. Be open to experiences. Do not shy away, do not overplan or be anxious. Many anxieties about the future do not eventuate.

  I repeated over and over again my wise Cousin Szyjko’s succinct advice, offered by phone from Israel: Ester, a great unhappiness has befallen you. That is the way it is. Be strong. But, I protested: What does it mean to be strong? He gently replied: Live your life as a life should be lived. He assured me that I could take my time.

  Jonathan echoed this thought with a comforting: Mum, you don’t have to cope. Anyhow, not immediately. I understood what both of them were saying but not coping was something I could not allow myself. It did not feel safe.

  The Canberra memorial service for Henry, held in University House at the Australian National University, was a memorable occasion. Henry’s friends, as well as Ernest and Kim, make humorous, gracious and affectionate speeches drawing on their experiences with Henry on the Dunera; in the Public Service, where they fought the good fight for a better world; and in New Guinea. I promised myself that I would maintain contact with these interesting people who had enlarged my horizons.

  Back in Sydney, Jonathan and Paula moved in with me, since they had rented their flat as they waited for their American visas. They were nervous about any delays, since it would not be advisable nor permitted for Paula to fly when she was more than seven months pregnant. I became even more anxious. We were getting on each other’s nerves. They expressed concern about my possible interference when I came to help them with the baby. I assured them that I intended to offer two things: calm and practical help.

  Our conversation was a salutary reminder that I was now on my own and could not rely too much on my children for nourishment and support. They had their own challenges. My loneliness, my not being with Henry, hit me with full force.

  Most nights I woke around 2am, full of pain that spread throughout my body. In the mornings as I walked along Bondi Beach, observing the waves breaking with strength and majesty upon the shore as they had done for millennia, I breathed in the salt spray and felt the energy of it all and Henry’s encompassing love for me. Then my body would relax.

  On many an evening when preparing dinner for myself and the children, out of the blue I would feel my heart pounding fast, as if it were preparing to jump out of my body. I knew that technically this was called a panic attack and that the best way to manage it was to let it happen and observe it. This did nothing to diminish my terror. Fortunately a visit or a call from a friend or Jonathan and Paula coming home, would interrupt it and I would become calmer.

  Two weeks after Henry’s death I wrote in my diary: I am just coming out of a terrifying panic attack. I found myself in a dark tunnel and coming towards me was a tiger. As he drew closer, I could clearly see his yellow eyes looking at me. I froze. Somehow I knew that this was not real. I phoned my friend Yoyo for help to contain the terror. She talked about relaxation imaging, but I was not able to follow her instructions as the tiger approached nearer and nearer. It was too late. Another friend, a psychologist, asked: Terror of what? I screamed: Just terror! Solomon then dropped in and helped me conceive an image of a thin, blind tiger, and my strong perfume throwing him off the scent, so I could pass by.

  At a meeting of our book club at my friend Elizabeth’s, I felt headachy, tired and very sad as I became aware that among these five married women, I was the only one with no husband waiting for me when I got home.

  My emotional life became precarious. On many nights when I was about to turn off the light and go to sleep, I could clearly see a slab of grey-black marble a metre square hovering over my bed and slowly moving down towards me. I felt I could not breathe. It was going to crush me! I would put my arms up and push it up and away as hard as I could, far enough to allow me to become calmer. It was amazing how I, who had always thought that I lacked imagination, found these and other terrifying images haunting me, each so vivid that I believed them to be real.

  I was advised to have regular massage to soothe my body. I found David, a most sympathetic, firm and gentle masseur. He came to me weekly and was good for me. Some three weeks after Henry’s death, while being massaged I had an image of my heart being pierced by a long needle. It hurt so badly that I cried out in pain. David asked me to tell him about it and that helped.

  I also attended a group psychotherapy training session dealing with healing. I had organised this before Henry’s stroke. My fellow participants quickly identified my fragility but were puzzled by my paradoxical insistence that I do not want to lose my vulnerability. I believed it defined me.

  In ordinary daily life, while Jonathan and Paula continued to live with me, making numerous phone calls to the United States about their visa, I made plans for my study leave at McGill, which I had delayed by four weeks. Some of my friends were surprised at my decision to proceed with the sabbatical in Montreal. One friend, Rob, a psychiatrist, phoned to say that he wanted to come over for a serious talk with me. He patiently explained the association between extreme stress and cancer, and urged me to abandon my plans. He told me that I should not go away on my own, putting myself in a position where I did not have a support network
of family and friends. He was concerned that I was putting myself at risk. I heard what he was saying but believed that staying at home would not work for me. I knew myself and, if I were to stay, I would be sensitive to the needs of my mother and children and would do my best to cope and not burden them with my grief. They would try hard to make me less miserable and not allow me the space to deal with my pain my way.

  I had recently seen the film Three Colours: Blue by the Polish director Krzysztof Kieslowski, in which a woman who has lost her husband in a car crash leaves her normal life, believing that she can only come to terms with the meaning of life, if any, by disengaging from human relationships. I understood her so well.

  Another film, Truly, Madly, Deeply, in which a loving husband comes back as a ghost to help his wife let go of him and turn to the living, left me cold.

  Before leaving for Montreal, I visited Henry’s grave. As I sat in the quiet space of the cemetery, I saw before me images of his face and body in the intensive care unit, while he was still breathing and after he died. Would he really never come back? Then I thought of all the good people who had appeared in my life to shelter me with their love, and I was grateful.

  There were so many moments where I could feel Henry’s presence. I would see him coming into town with me, looking smart in his suit; I would be picking him up at his office and watching him approach with his jaunty gait; I could feel that incredible warm hug after he would beckon me to him as he lay in bed and I would be getting ready to go out. These memories made me feel good.

  Finally Jonathan and Paula departed, with Paula understandably concerned how they would cope with setting up in the home being organised for them by the Cardiac Clinic. She also wondered about giving birth to a baby in unfamiliar surroundings, with medical staff she didn’t know. But Jonathan was excited about this new phase of his career.

  In fact, they managed very well. They rented the ground floor of a charming house in a gentrified suburb. Paula furnished it with her customary flair, made friends among Jonathan’s colleagues, and organised everything for the baby.