Up Until Now

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Up Until Now Page 27

by Petrea King


  ***

  Weeks passed and Killarney House was soon to go to auction.

  About this time, I attended a function at Prince of Wales Hospital because a patient of mine, a breast-cancer survivor, was being celebrated for her service to the hospital as a researcher. The Barbara Gross Research Unit was established that day in recognition of her many years of dedication to the health and wellbeing of women and their infants. When I went to congratulate her, Barbara pressed into my hand a small slip of torn-off paper with a name and phone number upon it, saying to me, ‘If you’re serious about purchasing Killarney House for the purpose you say, then ring this person.’ On a day dedicated to celebrating her achievements, Barbara was thinking of those who’d suffered like her and she wanted to help them.

  I came home from the function and shared with Wendie what had happened. We talked about the reality of Quest owning Killarney, and whether or not we felt we were up to the challenge of creating the dream that lay more in my heart than in hers. I then waited for a week to make the phone call, as we needed to be sure that we were unanimously certain about this. We knew if the purchase happened, this dream would absorb every ounce of our time, money and energy for the foreseeable future.

  The day came when it felt right for me to phone the person whose scrawled name graced the torn-off slip of paper.

  Clare patiently listened to my story. I told her of the work I had done with thousands of people and the dream I held of creating a safe harbour for many more. I told her about my desire to encourage, inspire and educate people to more consciously embrace their challenge so they can find peace and healing. At the end of my story, Clare asked me to put what I had said into a one-page document and fax it through to her. She would see if she and her husband were interested or able to help us.

  Days passed before Clare called back to say that her husband, Geoff, would visit so we could show him Killarney House.

  ***

  Geoff arrived an hour later than expected. Wendie, two other board members and I greeted him warmly, but he seemed hesitant as we sat in my rooms in town and dealt with introductions. After a brief conversation, we drove to Killarney—which, given our lateness, was deserted and lay in complete darkness; the manager and her son lived on the property, but she had given up waiting for us and had gone out for the evening. Her son said he knew how to break into the building, so he climbed through a window to allow us entry. Geoff was silent as we began our tour of the dishevelled premises.

  Killarney’s decor needed a complete upgrade. Its furnishings were tired and of a bygone era. Its walls were painted in apricots, pinks, limes and mauves, which did nothing to complement the brown sticky carpet or the orange chenille bedspreads that were all in disarray.

  Geoff still said nothing while I chattered on about the potential I could see in the place. I flashed the torchlight into the dark distance to give him some idea of the shape and size of the property, but this did nothing to enliven the gloomy landscape.

  Finally, our tour was complete and my patter exhausted. We invited the still-silent Geoff home for a meal before he returned to Sydney.

  Our friends Sue and Bill were staying with us at home. Sue was living with breast cancer, and they frequently visited from Melbourne for counselling and advice about managing her health. That night, she prepared a fish pasta and a fresh salad from the garden. While we chatted over dinner, Geoff still said nothing about Killarney.

  After we’d eaten, we moved to the lounge room. Geoff requested pen and paper. He asked the dollar amount that the vendors hoped to secure and jotted down some perfunctory calculations. He believed that the property could be purchased for less than was expected, with the addition of a few hundred thousand dollars for refurbishment. Then he wrote ‘$1.5m’, sat back and said, without fanfare, ‘Yes, we can do that.’

  Wendie and I were gobsmacked but grateful. In that moment, our lives changed.

  We couldn’t have imagined how significant a challenge it would prove to be.

  ***

  It turned out that two of Geoff and Clare Loudon’s closest friends had been patients of mine. The couple simply wanted more people to benefit from what Quest and I had to offer. I remain deeply grateful to them for their generosity of spirit and for the faith they showed in Wendie and me.

  These extraordinary people, who chose to remain anonymous until now, made available the money—which grew to $1.67 million—in a non-recourse loan, without a business plan and knowing we had no experience in undertaking an endeavour like the Quest for Life Centre. The terms of the loan were very generous—and, several years later, Clare and Geoff forgave the loan. Since then, the property has been owned outright with no debt by the Quest for Life Foundation.

  When I rang Chris Levy to let him know what had happened, he was as surprised and delighted as we were. Chris thinks I have fairy dust in my pockets.

  With two friends who lived nearby and were also board members, Wendie and I sat at a computer and plucked figures out of thin air for a budget to refurbish the property. Lights? $25,000. Carpet? $60,000. Paint? $45,000. Raising floors? $30,000. And, though none of us were builders, we pulled together a budget based on our best guesstimations: $865,000. We ended up being $5000 out in our calculations.

  Some things were donated, such as the paint from Dulux, which allowed us to allocate more funds where needed. For instance, the initial building inspection said the roof didn’t need replacing, which turned out not to be the case.

  The property was abuzz with activity from many people who gave generously of their time and expertise. Patients, friends, members of the local community and others volunteered to empty the building of rubbish, and to clean and prepare it for painting and refurbishing. Clare and Geoff often worked alongside these volunteers, though none of them knew they were the benefactors who had made it all possible. Geoff lugged mattresses and other paraphernalia here and there, and Clare was down on her knees scraping out the ancient dirt and nails from the floorboards.

  Wendie and I worked with a fabulous local project manager, Roy Burton, to completely refurbish the main building and accommodation lodges so that it was wheelchair accessible and safe for unwell people. Roy told us we were some of the easiest people he’d worked with because we were decisive. With his advice, we sealed up doorways and established new ones, changing the traffic flow within the building, and replaced glass bricks—along with a thousand other changes. Today, after more than twenty years of running the Quest for Life Centre, we would make the same choices.

  There were times when we didn’t have the funds to accommodate unexpected contingencies associated with the refurbishment. Rae and Geoff donated all the front windows and the main doors at the entrances. Like my parents, Dame Elisabeth Murdoch, a dear friend and supporter of Quest, contributed significant funds to complete the extensive tiling of the walkways and front companionway.

  Wendie and I found the whole process to be energising and uplifting. We were excited to create a beautiful place where people could find peace and healing. None of it would have been accomplished without Wendie’s love, commitment and support. We always discussed things and never had difficulty in arriving at a united front, as we mostly held the same tastes and sensibilities. Wendie has a great eye for design, and I’m often happy to be guided by her.

  CHAPTER 36

  Never smooth sailing

  Amid all the buzz of activity and the preparations for the opening of the Quest for Life Centre, I discovered a group of lumps high in the tail of my breast near my armpit, along with a lump in my neck. I was loath to tell Wendie—I couldn’t bear the thought of her losing another partner.

  I wasn’t particularly stressed by the possibility, as I was no longer a worrier. After I’d faced my mortality in my thirties and journeyed with hundreds of people who likewise had faced theirs, death no longer held any sting for me. It would be profoundly inconvenient for me to be ill when the Centre was about to open, but I had no fear and would just be disappointe
d for Wendie and our project.

  Finally, I broached the subject with Wendie, and we consulted with one of the best breast surgeons in Sydney. He was a man I’d heard only the loveliest of comments about from his patients, and he knew of my work; I had written a book for women with breast cancer, and many of his patients had come to see me over the years. He was gracious and kind when he told me he was certain these breast lumps would prove to be cancer and was also concerned about the neck lump. He held a mirror for me to see the dimpling around the lumps, which he said was a sign they were cancerous. He referred me to the breast clinic in the city, and Wendie and I dutifully went off to have a mammogram and needle biopsy. I tried to jolly her along while feeling miserable that I was the cause of her having to sit in a breast cancer clinic again. None of it was funny.

  My intuition shrieked at me not to have the needle biopsy. I was lying down while the specialist, needle in hand, was standing over me. I said to her, ‘Why do I need to have the needle biopsy given the surgeon wants to remove the lumps anyway?’

  ‘He wants it,’ she replied.

  ‘But I don’t want to have the biopsy given he’s scheduled me for surgery,’ I feebly replied. It’s so hard to stay true to your intuition when you’re lying down, half naked, and a specialist is standing over you with needle poised in hand.

  ‘He wants it,’ she repeated. The echo of ‘he wants it’ stirred a thousand memories of being unable to speak up when a man had needs that obliterated my own.

  Reluctantly, I again surrendered to what was done to me.

  During the biopsy, the specialist punctured a blood vessel, contaminating the specimen and making it useless for diagnosis.

  I was disappointed with myself for sacrificing my own sense of things and giving my power to someone who appeared to know better. When would I learn to trust my intuition and not be swayed by others who expressed their view more forcefully? It seems to be a lifelong learning for me to stay true to what I know.

  Some people believe I must have had a blinding flash of insight in the Grotto of St Francis and that my life was instantly and permanently transformed; that no trial or tribulation would ever ruffle my peace.

  Worse still, over the years, some people have put me on a pedestal, only to be terribly disappointed or angry when I don’t measure up to their expectations—perhaps, for some, making me or anyone ‘special’ becomes an excuse to avoid putting in the necessary effort to challenge their own beliefs or judgements. I’ve been luckier than most in having circumstances challenge my own cherished but often limiting beliefs and judgements. Each moment is a choice: do I go with my cherished but limiting beliefs that are second nature to me, or let go and cultivate a larger experience of life? I thought it interesting that we refer to these beliefs, judgements, reactions and feelings as ‘second nature’ to us without any questioning of what our ‘first nature’ might be. Yoga philosophy supports the notion that, to find peace, we need to relinquish whatever has become second nature to us, in order to experience our essential nature, our first nature. The qualities of our first nature include wisdom, humour, insight, intuition, spontaneity, authenticity and creativity.

  I refuse to go to my grave trading off the limitations, anxieties and beliefs I accumulated as a child. I want to grow into the fullness of this life. And so I continue to choose life every day.

  While there were flashes of insight and experiences of the peace that passes all understanding in my time in the cave, like everyone else who wants to find that peace as a permanent state, it continues to be a journey of choice. These patterns of the past are deeply ingrained in all of us. They had shaped and moulded me into who I had become. But I know that I am more than my story.

  I wouldn’t change one bit of my story. Those tragedies, difficulties, traumas, joys and challenges have brought me to now. I had discharged a multitude of powerful emotions during my time of isolation in the cave. That cathartic journey had hollowed me out and taken me to the heights and depths of human emotional experience.

  It is great to have a story. My story had broken me open and laid me bare. Long years of practising meditation had given me the skill to witness the expression of long-held grief and sadness as it ravaged my body. I watched as my body shook and shuddered through an emotional roller-coaster of emotions. Expressing them had been a blessing as it was the means by which I understood myself so deeply. My story had broken me open.

  The more I aligned with being the witness of this experience, the more peace I felt. Finally, the witness became my more stable, authentic and peaceful expression of my essential nature. I could have a story without having to be my story.

  My intention is simple; no moment will pass when I am not aware of any temptation to react from past conditioning. This is the path of yoga that I embraced wholeheartedly. It provides the only certain journey into peace.

  ***

  A few days later, I entered hospital for the lumpectomy and the removal of the node in my neck. Because of the burst blood vessel, the lumpectomy was larger than anticipated so that clear margins could be obtained.

  In the hospital bed opposite mine lay a woman who was in for a second lot of surgery after a positive diagnosis of breast cancer. She noticed my name on the card at the head of my bed and inquired, ‘You’re not the Petrea King who wrote Spirited Women, are you?’ When I said yes, she came over to my bed with her copy of my book for me to sign, telling me it had become her bible as she went through the experience of breast cancer. She asked why I was in hospital, and I told her, ‘First write the book, then have the experience!’ and we both laughed at the not-so-funny situation.

  The following morning, I was on the gurney ready for the anaesthetist to make his observations outside the operating theatre. He took my pulse and blood pressure, then asked if I knew why I was having surgery. I told him that my surgeon believed I had breast cancer with the possibility of a secondary node in my neck. The anaesthetist said, ‘Your body is completely relaxed and your blood pressure is normal.’ I told him I meditated and had done so for decades. Looking surprised, he emphasised that my pulse rate was slow: was I sure I understood what was about to happen to me? He seemed quite bemused, perhaps not quite believing me when I told him that meditation helps me to remain calm in difficult or stressful circumstances.

  When I awoke from the anaesthetic, my surgeon was standing by my bed. He was more than a little agitated as he profusely apologised for frightening me. He had sent off a frozen section for biopsy during the surgery, and it appeared that while the cells were unusual, they were not cancerous. He said he still wasn’t convinced, as he’d been so certain of his initial diagnosis, and he promised to phone me in a few days with the definitive result.

  Much to everyone’s relief, the thorough biopsy revealed no cancer. Rae believes her prayers are very powerful.

  Wendie and I had recently attended the birth of our first grandchild, Matteo. His delightful presence in our lives was a great antidote to everyone’s upset over my surgery. During my recovery I cuddled him as he fell asleep in my arms. Holding him was a blissful balm in my heart.

  Once fully recovered from the surgery, we attended to the last preparations before the opening of the Quest for Life Centre.

  CHAPTER 37

  Without a dream, nothing happens

  Beyond all expectations, we opened the doors of the Quest for Life Centre eight months after the purchase of Killarney House. Wendie and I had never undertaken such a mammoth project before, and we were grateful when the day of the opening dawned sunny and clear.

  Dr Jerry Jampolsky and his wife, Diane Cirincione, from the Center for Attitudinal Healing in Sausalito were visiting Australia at the time, and they did the honours of officiating at the opening ceremony. This was most fitting, as the Twelve Principles of Attitudinal Healing that Jerry distilled in his bestselling book Love Is Letting Go of Fear have been a foundation in my own life and lie at the heart of our educational programs at Quest. So much of my life and my wor
k with other people has been about changing attitudes to whatever the crisis or upset might be.

  Many of my patients, colleagues, board members, volunteers, friends, local community members and supporters from farther afield gathered for the auspicious occasion. We planted a hawthorn tree in the grounds, as the hawthorn has several positive associations, including being the tree of love and protection in Celtic lore.

  ***

  There was little time for us to celebrate our accomplishment before the real work began. We opened the Centre with a mere $50,000 in the bank and no active fundraising on the horizon. Anyone who knows anything about business would understand that those are slim pickings for starting up such a venture from scratch.

  Along with our board members, I was loath for Quest to have an overdraft, as the business model would always be reliant on donations, bequests and program fees. The Foundation would subsidise people’s attendance at the five-day residential programs so we only ever charged half the actual cost to house, feed and educate people. Given the stories of tragedy, trauma, life-threatening illness, grief, loss, despair, anxiety and depression that people brought to Quest, our ratio of program team members to participants has always been high out of necessity.

  Wendie and I worked virtually seven days a week for the first few years, as it took every ounce of our energy and time to attend to every detail. She became the first general manager, and I focused on the development of the educational programs that we would conduct. We answered phones, made beds, cleaned toilets, ran programs and generally did whatever was necessary to make the dream become a reality. There were dozens of policies and procedures to be written; there were behind-the-scenes accounting structures and administration processes to be developed. We enjoyed the challenge of helping to bring it all to fruition. Without a dream, nothing happens!

 

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