Up Until Now

by Petrea King

  In our programs, we don’t presume to know what’s best for people. We trust that people will find their own best answer. Our work is to share a perspective on life that empowers a person to heal the past, build resilience for the future and live more in the present. Participants pick the information, techniques, skills and strategies that feel right for them, and we encourage them to put these into practice in their lives to see if they’re useful. We stay current with the latest research in epigenetics and neuroplasticity.

  Up until now, participants may have reacted to the circumstances that have beset them—but, with understanding and education, they can choose new and healthier options so they move into the driver’s seat of their own life. There are many things in life that cannot be fixed, cannot be changed, cannot be made better, and there are a host of things we can do to shift from feeling like a victim, to feeling empowered.

  Over the years, talented and experienced professionals have been drawn to our work at Quest, sometimes because they had clients who reported their positive experience from attending our programs or reading my books. Some of our facilitators and staff have been working with Quest for a decade or more, while facilitators, counsellors and therapists continue to be added to our professional teams. This forms a large part of Wendie’s and my time at Quest, as we work to ensure that the future is secured through competent and experienced hands, minds and hearts. Wendie assesses facilitators and therapists so that we maintain our high standards, and she ensures that the educational aspects of the programs are consistently delivered and updated.

  I know of no other facility in Australia that does similar work, and the need for these intensive residential lifestyle, support and educational programs is enormous. People are hungry for information about resilience, rebuilding their health and establishing peace of mind. It’s extraordinary to see participants arrive at the Centre feeling anxious, perhaps unable to make eye contact, nervous about being with other people who, like them, are suffering in some way—and then to see them leave five days later with a spring in their step, hope in their eyes and a smile on their face.

  The financial future of Quest is also a large focus of my energy. When the time comes for me to retire, I would like to see the Foundation financially secure so the full vision of Quest can be accomplished: there is still so much that can be done to educate, empower and encourage people to improve their health and wellbeing. The nurturing of our staff and the program teams also lies close to my heart.

  With public speaking, radio interviews, writing and my responsibilities at the Quest for Life Centre, my career continues to be full and rich.

  ***

  Participants enjoy the beautiful grounds of the Centre and the opportunity to reconnect with nature. All around the grounds are places to reflect, to write, to weep or to dream, and a magnificent labyrinth for those who find that a walking meditation suits them better than sitting still.

  One of our participants’ favourite places to sit and contemplate is a lovely garden with a pond installed by Ruth Cracknell’s family in her memory. Ruth was a dear friend as well as the first Patron of the Quest for Life Foundation.

  Ruth first contacted me when her beloved husband, Eric, fell ill in Venice and was subsequently diagnosed with a life-threatening illness. I visited Eric and his family during this difficult time. Some years later, Ruth herself fell ill.

  Wendie, Ruth and I were on our way to give a talk in Newcastle at a palliative care conference when it was obvious that Ruth, sitting beside me while I drove, was very unwell, even though she seemed oblivious to her own breathlessness. I knew that everyone would want a photo with her or to have her sign a book after she had given her talk, and it would be difficult for her to say ‘no’. We whisked her away immediately after her presentation, and Wendie drove her home again, much to her relief.

  I visited Ruth several times at her house and encouraged her to seek assistance for her health. She felt despondent about the world and its sad madness and missed Eric terribly after he died.

  A few weeks after the conference, I received a distressed phone call from her daughter Anna: Ruth had been hospitalised. The family were at a loss to know what was happening, as Ruth found it hard to discuss her health and her doctor wasn’t obliged to enlighten them. I agreed to visit Ruth in hospital on our way to the airport—Wendie and I were leaving that afternoon for a holiday in the United States.

  I was shocked when I entered the room and saw Ruth on oxygen. She was finding it difficult to breathe, let alone talk. I sat with her for a bit, then spoke about the effect of not knowing what was happening to her was having on her very worried children. I outlined some ways in which she—or I, if she was willing—could include them in this unexpected and frightening deterioration in her health. Fortunately, she allowed me to talk to her family and inform them of the seriousness of her situation.

  I loved Ruth and was a great admirer of her, both professionally as a much-loved actor and personally as a dear friend. It was an agony for me to tell her that I was leaving for the States and wouldn’t return for six weeks. Until then, I had done all the talking, with only meaningful looks, nods, headshakes and hand-squeezing from Ruth as I made my various suggestions. When I told her of my flight to the other side of the Pacific that afternoon, she gave me a direct and stern look, took off her oxygen mask and said, in a tone straight out of Mother and Son, ‘How could you?’

  I felt mortified to be abandoning her at such a critical time. It was clearly impossible for us to talk on the phone, but I wrote to her regularly.

  On my return, Wendie and I went straight to the hospital from the airport. The moment I walked into Ruth’s room, she took off her oxygen mask and said, in a slightly weaker voice this time, ‘I waited.’

  It was a privilege to journey with her through those last weeks of her life. Most of our communications were simply through touch; I had to trust that my words to her about the letting go of a life lovingly lived were received gently and kindly, as they were surely offered with great love and compassion. Perhaps the warmth in her eyes and the tenderness of her embrace conveyed more than words could anyway. Ruth, who could deliver a line like no other, had also perfected the unutterable arts of love.

  ***

  Family life always presents its complexities, challenges, griefs and joys. As the years unfolded, it was a joy to welcome more family members into the fold of our love as children gained partners and then had children of their own. Family gatherings are always precious occasions because we are far-flung and rarely all present at once.

  There have been sad times too. Leo, then Geoff, died.

  Leo lived another twenty years after the removal of his lump. It never returned, though he suffered with circulatory problems due to the frequent peripheral shutdowns he had endured. In his later years, Leo became mentally unwell and paranoid about many things—but regardless of how difficult he became, Simon and Kate spoke with him regularly, visited him when he would allow it, and were both by his side when he died aged seventy-six.

  Wendie and I were on a ship many miles from shore when the text arrived from Kate telling us of Leo’s death. We knew he was likely to die while we were on this lecture cruise. Simon, Kate and I had spoken about the likelihood of my being away at that time, and they were fine about this. It was perfect just as it was.

  Silently, I wished Leo well on his journey and asked him to send me a sign that he was alright.

  Leo had always loved the colour orange. And he used to say that if you admired a butterfly, it would always return close to you for a second viewing; I had practised this throughout my life and found it to be largely true.

  As we stepped out of the lift on the top floor of the ship, two sets of automatic doors opened to the outside deck: one pair sliding open, the others opening outwards, though no person appeared to activate them—and in flew an orange and black butterfly. This beautiful creature alighted on the wall in front of us and spread its wings wide. We admired it and refl
ected on Leo’s presence in our lives.

  Finally, the butterfly put its wings together so I could gently pick it up and deliver it outside. It didn’t struggle and seemed quite content to be held gently.

  Then we went inside to the bar where we made a toast to Leo and wished him well on his journey. As we lifted our glasses, a pesky fly started buzzing around me and Wendie. It wouldn’t leave us alone no matter how much we waved it away. It didn’t go near our friends, just us. Zzzzzzzzz it went, right in front of our faces, finally landing on my nose. We laughed heartily as both the butterfly and the fly signified different aspects of Leo so perfectly.

  Only after Leo’s death was I reunited with some of Granny’s china, furniture and trinkets. None of them were valuable to anyone but me, but they were imbued with sentimentality and a host of happy memories and stories. Peter, Granny’s companion, had made a blanket chest out of a beautiful silky oak tree, and this finally came home to me after Leo died in 2013.

  Geoff also died while we were away, this time on a fundraising trip for Quest in Bhutan. Ross, who has always been an incredible support to my parents, was present with Geoff when he died. Geoff and Ross had long ago put their differences to rest—and, indeed, we were all emotionally up to date with him before he took his leave.

  My last phone call to him just before he died was painful, given all I wanted to do was gather him up in my arms once more and assure him of my love. Geoff wasn’t easy in my young life, but as adults we had become very close. I couldn’t have wished for a more loving, supportive and generous father, and we miss him. Kate and Simon adored Geoff, as he was loving, supportive and generous as a grandparent too, taking interest in their goals and aspirations. His final year was shared with the first year of his great-granddaughter, Olivia, and she brought him enormous joy and contentment.

  We are blessed with increasing numbers of grandchildren—seven so far, ranging from eighteen down to a little one about to arrive. Kate and Simon have returned to the state of our family’s origins, Queensland, and they and their partners have grown into wonderful people and parents.

  Rae once more lives in Bundanoon, after several intervening years living with Geoff in Bowral. At ninety-five she is as bright, loving and wise as ever, and we are so grateful to still have her with us.

  Ross continues to provide loving support and practical assistance to Rae and is the best brother I could wish for. We may have been strangers to each other during our formative years because of circumstances beyond our control, but now we are close and grateful to have each other’s love and support.

  The mystery of love continues to weave its magic throughout our extended family. We are not all related through blood, but our shared stories and history create a loving foundation upon which we are all enabled to flourish, grow and weather the challenges of life together.

  ***

  Every chapter of my life has leant value to my work. There are still challenges, of course, both personally and in running an organisation. It is nearly always through challenges that we learn about ourselves, other people and what really matters. I am blessed to have a wonderful relationship with Wendie, a loving family, good friends and work that brings me great fulfilment. All those things leave me feeling grateful and humble to play a small part in the journey of others, whether personally or professionally.

  I have been ministered to as well as ministering to others. In 2013 I chose to have both my knees replaced, one at a time. I had postponed this surgery for many years as it was the only option I was offered and I wanted the techniques to be as advanced as possible. Also, I was quite young to contemplate knee replacements because they generally last fifteen to twenty years before needing further replacement.

  While I could walk quite well, the subtle, tiny movements in the joints became too painful—rolling over in bed, going around a corner in the car, even the slightest shift while I was sitting could cause a ‘sproing-ing’ in my knee, a bit like having your funny bone whacked a few hundred times a day. I could still walk, but not far; I could still stand, but not for long. Stairs were becoming increasingly difficult to negotiate.

  Again my orthopaedic surgeon had retired, so I sourced another one who had an excellent reputation for his work with knee replacements. When Wendie and I walked into his office, he looked surprised. He asked which of the two of us belonged to the X-rays on the light box. When I claimed them, he said, ‘I expected an elderly person in a wheelchair to belong to these X-rays. I’ve never seen worse arthritis. Either keep doing whatever you’re doing or have knee replacements—there’s nothing in between.’

  The surgeries went well, but afterwards the pain was excruciating: not in my knees but each time in my hip socket. The hammering to fix the prosthesis in place had traumatised the ligaments in my hip joints, which no doubt had been under stress for years. Gradually my hip pain settled into a chronic bursitis.

  When I told the surgeon about my hip pain, he said, ‘No, that doesn’t happen.’ If I hadn’t been in so much pain, I would have felt even more deflated by his negation of my experience. When it happened the second time, three months later, after the second knee was replaced, his only reply was to say with a quizzical look, ‘Oh yes, that happened last time, didn’t it?’

  After I had this second knee replacement, an off-duty nurse found me whimpering with pain. She immediately knelt by my bed to ask why I was crying, taking my hands in hers. I was touched by her compassion, and when I cited pain as the cause of my tears, she said, ‘I’m so sorry you’re in so much pain. Can you give some of it to me?’ Through my tears, I told her how healing and helpful her words were—indeed, far more so than the pain medication, which did little to relieve the agony.

  Fortunately, one cannot relive the intensity of pain. Over the following weeks and months, while the pain subsided, it settled into a central nervous system sensitisation that extends from my lower spine to my toes; it’s a little like very intense pins and needles. Perhaps my legs have endured so much trauma over such a long time and have been subjected to so much manipulation and change that the nerve endings have become super-sensitised.

  I can walk well now and without limping. However, chronic pain is a constant.

  During my recovery from the second knee replacement I was plagued with severe stomach cramps, which reduced me to a sweating heap on the floor. Twice we went to the hospital, where they gave me an anaesthetic draught to drink. This helped but, within days, I was assailed by more painful cramps. I could barely think straight for pain. It was difficult to sort out the cause but I put it down to the powerful analgesia I was taking for the appalling pain in my hip. Finally, my doctor ordered an ultrasound, which revealed gallstones. I was relieved to have them removed and Wendie, as always, cared for me during my recovery.

  ***

  So much of my childhood was based around the limiting belief I had to do everything myself; I had to earn my right to exist, that my value lay in what I did, not who I am. Yet, so much more can be achieved through collaboration.

  When I started out as a naturopath, yoga and meditation teacher over thirty years ago, my work was initially with cancer and HIV/ AIDS sufferers. Having just confronted my own mortality and having prepared to die, I found I had much in common with people living at the edge, and I could use my skills, knowledge and training to ease their suffering. In time, every experience in my life became relevant, as people told me their stories of chronic pain, rape, hospitalisations, alcohol and drug abuse, grief, lack of self-esteem, failed marriages, domestic violence, broken hearts, shattered dreams and betrayals.

  More than 110,000 people have shared their stories of suffering with me. Most of these extraordinary people have been ordinary people like me. They have been through extraordinary challenges, and together we have achieved great things that would have been beyond each of us on our own. Human creativity is extraordinary—when it is collectively harnessed, solutions to our challenges become achievable. Together, we can more easily awaken to the
full capacities of the human spirit to embrace unimaginable challenges. These experiences may shape us but they do not have to define us.

  I didn’t arrive at a place called ‘peace’ and unpack. Peace is a moment by moment choice. Every challenge becomes an opportunity to choose peace rather than conflict, peace rather than being right, peace rather than a cure, peace rather than hanging on to what has become second nature to me. The peace that passes all understanding is attainable for each of us, yet it always requires effort and often the love and support of people who ‘get’ us. I have been abundantly blessed by many different people who ‘got’ me at different times in my life. Their belief, trust and support has both challenged and enabled me to achieve the vision of providing compassionate care, and a pathway to peace, for many thousands of courageous people.

  I hope to arrive on my deathbed with a soft smile in my heart, just like my friend with AIDS who ached to discover how to love before he died—and did.

  ‘Be where you can love the best,’ said Padre Luigi. Love turns out to be a moment by moment choice. Love for ourselves, love for one another, love of our precious home—this blue jewel of a planet—love is always the answer. And with love, all things are possible.

  Epilogue

  There are many things we can do in our lives to make us less vulnerable to disease and illness. None of those things come out of a prescription pill. We can learn to know and understand ourselves better. We can find what gives us joy and fulfilment, and pursue those large and small things that give our lives purpose and meaning.