by Robert Manne
II
A few weeks after my trip to the sperm bank, I started dating a girl named Lucy. Dating is the sort of activity that, by its very nature, tends to be forward thinking. The moment at which something transitions from idle sex and into a full-blown relationship is usually the moment at which you begin to imagine a year, two years into the future and still see that person lying in your bed each morning. The problem with dating while you have cancer is that half the time when you look a year or two into the future, you’re not lying in your bed anymore. Your life at that moment is more concerned with avoiding endings than searching for new beginnings.
Still, at the age of twenty-two, sex tends to be a driving force of your existence in the same way that oxygen is a pretty bang-up way to stay alive. Simply sidelining the issue because of a piffling concern like a life-threatening illness ain’t going to fly. And when the sum total of your daily obligations is a fifteen-minute visit to the radiotherapy clinic (with weekends off) and all your friends have jobs and university degrees to attend to, well, having a girlfriend becomes a really useful way of passing the time.
So, I started seeing Lucy. She was a few years older than me, pale-skinned, with punkily dyed, asymmetrical hair. Her eyes had a kind, almost sad cast to them, although I later discovered this was because of the permanent watering caused by her heavy, just-this-side-of-clinical-blindness contact lenses. She was tomboyish in attitude and fashion, a girl of quiet self-possession whose wry smile gave off the impression of being in on a joke that you haven’t quite worked out yet. On the first date I took her to see a band called Explosions in the Sky, and at the end of the night she kissed me in the car. For the second date we watched a film at an outdoor cinema and drank a six-pack of Peroni. I told her Peroni reminded me of summer. Lucy said they tasted like sex. It wasn’t a come-on, but the way she said it made her sound devastatingly assured. We went home together. She understood enough not to ask about my illness. I think she recognised a man looking for escape when she saw him.
We got along fine, but I think from the moment we started dating we were both afflicted by the sense that we were counting down the days until it was time to break up. I was preoccupied with my health and had plans to leave the state as soon as I could. She was in the middle of a university degree and had locked herself into Perth for the foreseeable future. Nonetheless, we settled into a cosy pattern: wake up late in the morning, eat breakfast, I’d drive her to university, go to my radiotherapy appointment, and we’d meet up again that night and drink and talk until late. For me it was these small routines, these dispatches from a less complicated life, that left me feeling the most together.
At the end of May 2008, a couple of weeks before I finished my final round of chemo, she sat me down.
‘Luke, this has been, um … great, but I think maybe we should leave it here.’
Having in my mind already departed for Melbourne, sans her, my relief must have been palpable.
‘Yeah. That sounds about right. It has been … um … great.’
We were awkward, but sincere. It had been great, but it was done. It was hard to know what else to say. We kissed to fill the gap and both blinked back tears.
There was silence for a minute, then:
‘Anyway, I think this might be me done with boys for a while.’
‘Oh. You mean …?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Right.’
Looking back at the amount of The L Word we’d been watching, I feel like the warning signs were definitely there. I couldn’t really blame her for trying it out with me, though. I was perhaps the most short-term-relationship participant you were ever going to find. One way or the other I was going to be out of the way in a few months. And, personally, at a time in my life when it was easy to feel transient, I’m just glad to have had such a decisive impact.
III
Recently I discovered that my sperm had taken the chemotherapy rather more personally than I had. Whereas most men might expect to produce something in the order of 40 to 60 million sperm with every ejaculation, I am apparently coughing out around 100,000. Of those fifty per cent are dead on arrival, leaving me with a grand total of 50,000 troops to hurl against the impregnation barricades. In my head I imagine my testicles as a post-apocalyptic wasteland where the remaining population has emerged from their subterranean bunker to discover that, yes, they really are the last people left on earth. As they stand there in uncomfortable silence, surveying the wreckage of their civilisation, a single tumbleweed rolls by.
You never realise quite how far below the average age of illness you are than when you’re forced to consider your reproductive prospects. The chances of me getting anybody pregnant au naturel are vanishingly remote, but I still didn’t have much of a reaction when they told me. Nothing about the announcement felt real. If anything, the knowledge that chance pregnancy was the next best thing to an impossibility came as somewhat of a relief. ‘Infertility? Oh, that’s fine, doctor. Last night I had a dream where I was a dad and I woke up screaming.’ Much better to consign that whole messy process to a controlled, deliberate future of injections and IVF and pure, unfrozen sperm.
I told Mum about the results one night as we sat drinking red wine in her kitchen. The rushed, awkward conversation of five years previously seemed an eon away. Now sex was just another topic in a lifetime of conversation.
‘Well, good we got in there early then,’ she said, a wry smile spreading across her face. ‘How do you feel about it?’
‘I think I’m fine. I’m finding it pretty hard to actually take it all that seriously. The idea of having kids is still so …’ I trailed off, searching for the right word.
‘Distant?’
‘Hypothetical.’
She laughed. ‘You sound like your father. We didn’t have Liam until I was thirty-three and even then I almost had to blackmail Gerry into it. But, you know, five years later it was his idea to have you. It felt like the easiest decision in the world back then.’ She sipped her wine and her eyes grew bright. ‘Twenty-eight years later and it still does.’
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Chemo
Dreams of Her Real Self
Helen Garner
It was always clear to me what would happen when my parents died.
Dad would pitch forward without warning into the grave he had dug with his knife and fork. The struggle that had shaped and distorted my character would be over. I would be elated to see the back of him. Then I would torture myself with guilt for the rest of my life.
Free of his domineering presence, my mother would creep out from under her stone. She would show herself at last. At last I would know her. Shyly she would befriend her five remaining children, maybe even come to live with one of us. She would take up her golf clubs again, pull on her flowery bathing cap and swim in the surf, simmer her modest vegetable soups, knit cardigans in quiet stripes with a lot of grey. In a few years she would fade, weaken and slip away. Surely, about her, I would feel only a mild sorrow that would pass in the manner that nature intended.
She went first.
In her early eighties Dad dragged her to the last of the scores of dwellings he had imposed on her during their long marriage, a seventh-floor apartment in central Melbourne that in a fit of Schadenfreude he had bought from a member of her family whose finances had hit the wall. Isolated up there, with a view of St Patrick’s Cathedral and Parliament House, she sank into a stunned, resentful gloom shot through with flashes of bitter sarcasm. She would point at a gin and tonic on the table and say, in a grim, warning tone, ‘Mark my words. In a minute that ice is going to melt. Then the glass will overflow, and there’ll be a hell of a mess to clean up.’ She slumped into depression, then drifted away into dementia. She wandered at night. She fell and fractured a bone. Her body withered. In a nursing home she became savage, bestial. She snarled at us and lashed out with her claws. Lost to herself and to us, she died at last, by means of something I can only call chemical mercy. My youn
gest sister and I, strained and silent, chanced to be the only ones at her bedside when she exhaled her last hoarse breath.
People we had hardly seen since childhood, friends she had left behind in obedience to Dad’s driven restlessness, came to her funeral. They spoke of her with tender faces.
After she died, we persuaded our father to sell his flat and buy the shabby little house next door to me. He was too proud to be looked after and he didn’t like my cooking. But for two years he flourished. He zoomed to the neighbourhood cafes on a motorised scooter. He came to hear a blues band at the Elwood RSL. He began to keep company with a woman he had fancied before he married Mum, a stylish widow from Geelong who was not afraid to take it right up to him. He had to ask his daughters for advice on his love-life. He liked a spontaneous drive to the country to look at the crops. In the car we were always laughing.
One scorching summer morning, at breakfast time, he told me he hadn’t been able to get his breath in the shower. I buckled his sandals onto him and called an ambulance. On Hoddle Street his heart stopped. The paramedics got it going and swept into St Vincent’s emergency. The family rushed in. He was ninety-one: the doctors decided to take him off the ventilator. We stood around him in a tearful circle. They whisked out the tube. He took a huge shuddering gasp, and began to breathe strongly. The doctors and nurses joined in our shout of laughter. The stubborn old bull would never die. He was admitted to a private room on the seventh floor. That evening the others went down to the street for a meal and I stayed with him. He was unconscious, breathing without help in a steady rhythm. A nurse came in to check on him. While she bent over him to smooth the sheet under his chin, I moved away from the bed and turned to look out the window of the high, west-facing room. The sun was going down in a blaze over the Exhibition Gardens. He breathed in. He breathed out. He was silent. I said, ‘He’s gone.’ The nurse, surprised, felt for his pulse. ‘Yes. He’s gone.’ She left the room. I blessed him. I sat with him quietly for ten minutes, on a chair near the window. Then I started texting the others to come back.
My father’s mother died, in Hopetoun, when he was two. He had a sternly loving stepmother, but there was always something of the abandoned child about him. He was as entitled and as quick to anger as a toddler. He was jealous, impatient, rivalrous, scornful, suspicious. He could not trust anyone. He could not keep friends; by the end of his life, he had none. He was middle class, a wool merchant, with money but no education. He never read a book. One of my husbands, put through Dad’s insulting third degree about whether he was ‘living off’ me, said he was a peasant. Yet with strangers he had great charm. ‘I thank you, sir, from the bottom of my heart.’ He had an unerring ear for music, though he never sang except ironically. He was a good ballroom dancer. He could shape a story. He liked to laugh. ‘I’ve never seen such a deflated manager.’ On Mum’s headstone it seemed right to mention the word love. For his, we could not find a short phrase to encapsulate his contradictions, our exhausting struggles. We ended up with Our father, a boy from the Mallee. People who had not known him were startled by the bluntness of the epitaph. But to me, at least, it evokes a landscape of complex meaning, forlorn, sometimes beautiful: a desert that now and then bloomed.
I set out to write about my mother, but already I am talking about my father.
He is easy to write about. He was a vivid, obstreperous character whose jolting behaviour was a spectacle, an endurance test that united his children in opposition to him. Things he did or failed to do gave rise to hundreds of stories that we still share and embellish.
To write about her at length, coherently, is almost beyond me. He blocked my view of her, as he blocked her horizon. I can think about her only at oblique angles and in brief bursts, in no particular order.
When my daughter was a teenager she had a dog, a poodle-cross called Polly. Polly fell down the crack between two of my marriages. She trudged again and again across inner Melbourne to my ex-husband’s house, and died a lonely painful death, by misadventure, in a suburban backyard. She was an anxious creature, timid and appeasing, who provoked in me an overwhelming impatience. She would lie at my feet, tilting her head on this angle and that, striving for eye contact. The more she begged for it, the less I could give.
In just such a way, over many years, I refused my mother eye contact. She longed for it. I withheld it. I lacerate myself with this memory, with the connection I can’t expunge between lost mother and lost dog.
When, in the street, I see a mother walking with her grown-up daughter, I can hardly bear to witness the mother’s pride, the softening of her face, her incredulous joy at being granted her daughter’s company; and the iron discipline she imposes on herself, to muffle and conceal this joy.
Elizabeth Jolley wrote that ‘the strong feeling of love which goes from the parent to the child does not seem part of the child which can be given back to the parent’. But last spring, at a big and brilliant community show to celebrate the reopening of Melbourne’s concert hall, a clever conductor divided the audience and taught us to sing in parts. A thousand euphoric strangers sang, in time and in tune, a slow-modulating melody. In the row in front of me sat an old woman and her daughter. Too absorbed in singing even to glance at each other, they reached, they gripped hands, they did not let go until the song was done.
A few years before she entered her final decline, my mother and I went together to hear a famous string trio. We arrived early, took our front-row seats high in the gallery, and looked down at the stage. It was bare, except for three chairs. My mother said, ‘Looks a bit sad, doesn’t it.’ Surprised, as if at a witticism, I swung to face her. She raised her eyebrows and grinned at me. We both began to laugh. I was filled with respect. Whenever I remember that moment, the hopeless thing in my heart stops aching, and finds a small place to stand.
I came home from university armed with the Baroque. Bach and Vivaldi, their stringent impersonality, made my mother’s favourite records sound overemotional and corny. Now, if I turn on the car radio and hear Tchaikovsky or Brahms, I find tears running down my cheeks. Perhaps that’s where I can find her, take her hand and walk with her: across the fields and through the splendid forests of the Romantic piano concertos she loved.
She was not confident, or quick. She did not sense the right moment to speak. She did not know how to gain and hold attention. When she told a story, she felt a need to establish enormous quantities of irrelevant background information. She took so long to get to the point that her listeners would tune out and start talking about something else. Family shorthand for this, behind her back, was ‘And then I breathed.’
Shows of affection were not done in our family. We could not even hug without an ironic shoulder pat. Expressions of emotion were frowned upon. ‘You great cake. Pick up your lip before you trip over it.’ I saw her, as an old woman, have to muster the courage to hold out her arms for someone else’s baby. Perhaps this is why she never knew that her grandchildren were fond of her. She was shy with them. Once she said to me, in her timid, patient way, ‘I don’t think they like me much.’
Only last week, though, there floated into my awareness, from a cache of treasures Dad had left behind, a passionately misspelt little tribute that their nine-year-old granddaughter, my niece, had written when Mum was dying. It is accompanied by a drawing: a roast chicken on a rug and far in the background two figures, one large and one small, walking away hand in hand. ‘Me, Grandpa and her went on picnics in the sun, just near her house in Kew. The sun was bright and the food was delicious, mostly chicken and potatoes and sometimes delicious sandwiches. Then we would go back home and read or watch telly. But what I liked was often we would go into her room and look in the cupboards and see all theese speicial things of hers some belonging to her six children one of which is my mum. I love all six of them and give them my best dreams of Grandma, dreams of her real self, the self with no evil diaseases, the strongest part of her body and everyone should know its still here.’
I think my mother was afraid of me. I went to university, the first of her children to move beyond her ability to contain, or help. In 1972 I was fired from the Education Department for answering my students’ questions about sex. There were cartoons for and against me in the newspapers. She showed me a letter of protest she had laboriously written to the editor of the Age. The letter revealed that she had not understood the irony of the cartoons. The one she most hated was the one that most strongly defended me. I tried to explain this gently, but I knew she was humiliated.
I was the eldest of six children. They kept coming. I must have been taught to change a nappy, fill a bottle, wheel a pram, rock an infant to sleep. Yet I cannot remember there ever being a baby in the house.
The clean, modest architecture of Victorian baby health centres has always comforted me.
When my daughter was born, I was estranged from my father. He had tried to prevent me from marrying my first husband, thus mortally offending his decent and generous parents. My mother had defied him and come to our wedding, at which one bottle of champagne sufficed for the entire company. But at the time of our baby’s birth she was unable to break through his veto. She did not come to the hospital. I don’t remember hoping that she would, or being upset that she didn’t. Years later my youngest sister told me she recalled, as a very small girl, sitting in the car outside my house with our father, waiting for Mum to come out. So she must have fought her way past him. I have no memory of her visit.
Towards the end of Mum’s life, when she was already becoming vague and fearful but was not yet demented, my widowed sister Marie was often angry with her, scornful and harsh in a way that made me flinch. The grief of her widowhood had stirred up some old rage in her that I did not understand. One day Mum asked my sister to drive her down to the Mornington Peninsula, to visit our aunt. She obliged. Next time I saw Mum, she told me, without complaint and in a puzzled tone, that when my sister had delivered her home after that outing, she had brusquely put her hand out for petrol money.