Learning how to Breathe

by Neil, Linda;

  My daughter, she whispers, licking her lips slowly.

  Yes, but which one? I press on, leaning over her gently.

  I had three, she says, a long way away.

  I press my cheek lightly into hers. But what’s my name?

  You’re the other one, aren’t you? I love her when she is like this, when I can feel so strongly that she is still playing with me, teasing me that I am only one of many, making me come down off my high horse and wait in line, just like everyone else, for what is my due.

  Mum, don’t you know? I ask, mock-dramatically. Don’t you remember?

  We often play this game with her, teasing her back to life with silly questions and challenges.

  Come on, Mum, we’ll say, trying to rouse her. Who’s this? And who is that?

  Cathie is better at it than I am. Her life force is strong and vibrant like our grandmother’s was. Paul, Kim and the boys never have to try at all; they do it just by coming, a tumult of fun and activity, into Mum’s room. Janice can do it with gusts of laughter. Stephen usually just sits beside Mum and gently taps her arm with his forefinger, and she will know that it is him. We all have a way of making ourselves known, our signature tune, so to speak, our personal melody.

  With great effort she lifts open her right eyelid. Mmm … she mumbles, moving her lips slowly in the chewing motion she makes as she begins the effort of speaking.

  Have you forgotten then, Mum? Have you forgotten who I am? I say as I lean my head down on her shoulder, which is so brittle now that I feel I could break her with too heavy a touch.

  Your name … means ‘beautiful’, she whispers, swallowing the last word in her effort to say it. I don’t get up from her. I only lift my weight so she will not be hurt by my head leaning on her. She doesn’t grimace or grumble in pain as she often does these days. She lets me lie there with her, a favour to me on Christmas Day.

  There is a sense sometimes of being able to do something justice, and then there’s another sense that tells you not to even try. I wonder then whether such times need to be noted or spoken of, or whether they are just there, as they always have been, in the brushing of my cheek against the soft cotton of her nightie, in my hand reaching out and holding on to her other bony shoulder, in her quiet sighs that seem to die away to nothing as she falls asleep opposite the small photograph of my father emerging, smiling, out of a bright blue pool of light, while Cathie and Steve laugh in the next room, and my violin lies, full with song, at the end of my mother’s bed.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to extend my deepest thanks to the many people who contributed to the making of this book:

  To my mother, Joan Neil, for graciously allowing me to share this sometimes difficult part of her life, and – from the very start of my life – for the music.

  To my father, Ben Neil, for the rich legacy of his life; to my grandmother Chris Cottrell, for also passing on to me the fruits of her long life; to my sisters and brothers and extended family, to my sister Cathie, who kindly shared her words and memories with me; to Mum’s friends and colleagues, and to the many other friends, students, carers, nurses and doctors with whom my family and I went through the highs and lows of this experience.

  For the writing of the book itself I would like to thank Jan McKemmish, whose support for me as a writer brought forth the first lines of this book, to Amanda Lohrey, for her belief in the story, and to Bronwyn Lea, whose empathetic response helped me to keep going when I was ready to give up.

  Thanks also to the Literature Board of the Australia Council and to Arts Queensland for its support during the early stages, to the University of Queensland, which gave me an opportunity to work on later drafts, and to the staff of the School of English, Media Studies and Art History at the University of Queensland. Thanks also to Sharon Davis, Radio Eye and ABC Radio National. I would like to thank Madonna Duffy, who first brought the book to the attention of UQP, Alexandra Payne, non-fiction publisher at UQP, whose enthusiasm for the book has been consistently welcoming and warm, as well as Rebecca Roberts and Jo Jarrah for their editorial eye, empathy and patience. Thanks also to Marion Campbell and Gail Jones for their support.

  Thanks to the many others who contributed with their love, kindness, belief and support, especially Ross Ebert, Louella Linkson, Jamila Bonvegna, Joanne and James Douglas, Gabriel P, Estelle Castro, Mary Maher and Phil Vanderzeil.