My Ikaria

by Tsintziras, Spiri;

  ‘Is there any more lamb? It’s good.’

  I get up, reheat the last of the lamb and divvy it up between us, giving Emmanuel the larger serving. In the last few years, he has grown more than two feet. I still can’t get used to him stooping to give me a kiss, or his adolescent limbs taking up so much space. We dig in, wiping the lemony juices at the bottom of the plate with the bread George made. I try to take my time, savouring the taste. I look at my sensitive son expectantly, waiting to see if he has any more big questions.

  ‘Thanks, Mum. Is there anything else to eat?’

  A few days later, Mum, Dennis and I go to church. While Mum is doing remarkably well following her stroke, she no longer feels confident going to church by herself. I can tell Mum is pleased that I have come. We are here for the funeral of a former neighbour in his late eighties who passed away recently. We’ve come to honour his memory. I greet his wife, Theia Georgia, and she hugs me tightly. She too is glad we are here.

  We are surrounded by the smell of incense and perfume. The cantors chant rhythmically. High above, mournful Byzantine saints look down protectively. I remember being a child, wondering if God might literally speak to me in church, give me a sign that He was real. As the service droned on, and He didn’t speak, I would fidget, step from foot to foot, unable to stay still. Eventually, I would complain of feeling faint, the cloying smells and bodies making me feel uneasy. Mum would sigh and begrudgingly take me outside.

  As I’ve gotten older, I find the rituals of the church more comforting: the chanting that gives me a chance to still my thoughts for a time; and the regular commemorative services and communal meals that follow when someone dies – seven days, forty days, six months, a year; the chance to see people who I might not otherwise see. The ancient and familiar symbolism of biers, candles and naively painted icons is reassuring. It feels good to step out of my day-to-day life for a brief time and let my mind wander in such an environment.

  The priest reflects on the life of the deceased, and tells us that while we might now be sad that he has passed, his spiritual life continues in heaven – life is a continuum, and the body is but a mere temporary vessel. I listen with interest, unable to make myself believe that there is anything more after we pass on. Still, I am surrounded by people who are familiar to me, people who I have grown up with, and I’m glad to be here at this moment.’

  The summer holidays come around yet again and I’m in the laundry, piling towels into the washing machine, when Emmanuel says, ‘Mum, I think you’re going deaf. It takes you ages to answer me.’

  I don’t dignify his comment with an answer, infuriating him further.

  ‘See, that just proves my point,’ he grumbles.

  Emmanuel has been complaining of my ailing hearing for some months now. He doesn’t get the quick responses he expects when he tells me his pressing news, asks his very important questions, talks about his wonderful ideas. More and more, I find myself having to drag myself from my thoughts to focus on what the rest of the people in the house are saying, stop what I am doing and turn to face them, so I can hear them. Disconcertingly, I’ve noticed I sometimes have to get my students to repeat things. But it’s not enough to make me go to the doctor to get my hearing checked out. That might be inviting something in that I’m not ready for.

  While I’ve been taking Mum to the doctor regularly for blood pressure and cholesterol check-ups and enjoy the time it gives us to sit and chat while we wait, I avoid visiting the doctor myself. I dislike the feeling of something being wrong with me – I feel like it implies a weakness, a loss of control. Thankfully, apart from the odd migraine, I haven’t been sick for the past few years, not even with a small cold. I’ve only been to the doctor once since that day I followed the swishy-skirted GP to her office. By way of follow-up, my regular doctor took the requisite blood tests a year after that visit and everything was in order. By that time, I’d lost several kilos, my blood sugar levels were normal, my cholesterol levels were healthy and my iron levels acceptable. He didn’t bat an eyelid. I didn’t tell him about my Ikarian-inspired path to better health – our fifteen minutes were already up by then.

  Today my body feels good. I’m moving around a lot every day. I’m eating well most of the time, if a little too much. I’m sleeping well. Drinking moderately. I’ve kept most of the weight off. In my daily routines, I’ve become more social. I’m perhaps halfway through my life, all being well. One or two generations ago, I would have been considered ‘old’. Ageing doesn’t fill me with dread in the same way it did a few years ago. I’m getting used to being the age I am. I realise with a start that I’m feeling younger now than I did a few years ago.

  But Emmanuel thinks differently. A few weeks ago, he flopped down on the couch beside me and started chatting as if I wasn’t in the middle of reading my book. A few moments later, he stopped short, took a good look at me and frowned.

  ‘Mum, you’re getting wrinkles. That makes me sad. I don’t want you to get old.’

  I put my book down. ‘We’re all getting older. That’s natural. You’re getting older too.’

  ‘I miss being a child.’

  ‘You’re barely out of childhood! And anyway, you can always be a child. It’s all about how you feel in here.’ I point to his chest. ‘Sometimes I feel like a child,’ I say crossing my eyes and pulling a face. He laughs. Goes away. I pick up my book, re-focus.

  If I had a choice, I wouldn’t choose for my body to age. I wouldn’t choose for my belly to sag, or my skin to droop, or my muscles to wane. I don’t think my mother would choose to lose her capacity to speak clearly, or my mother-in-law to stoop as she goes about her chores, slowly, painfully. All we can do is make the most of where we are at any given time.

  A few weeks later, the kids go back to school. After nearly two months of having them at home every day, I relish having the days back to myself. I review my to-do list and realise that some of my ‘self-care’ tasks have been at the bottom of the list for several months now. My pap test is a few months overdue, and I haven’t had an eye test for four years. Fortuitously, there’s an opportunity to have a hearing test without the indignity of asking my doctor for it. My gym is offering them for free, according to a flyer on the back of their toilet door. I make sure to put the date in my diary.

  When I go to the doctor for a pap test I ask for a female GP. While she takes the sample, we talk about parenting teenage kids. As she palpates my breasts, we talk about private versus public schools. As she takes my pulse, we talk about the importance of being there for our kids as they navigate these difficult teenage years, and the challenges of balancing work and family. Overall, it’s an affirming visit. Everything is as it should be for my age. She leaves me with information about free mammograms. While it’s a little too early for the government to invite me to have a free test, I can elect to invite myself. I thank her and promise myself I’ll make an appointment.

  A few days later, I knock off the optometrist visit. She says my eyesight has changed a little, but it doesn’t warrant getting stronger reading glasses, especially as I don’t wear the ones I already have.

  ‘You can’t afford to leave your next appointment so long next time. Things change a bit more quickly as you get older,’ she says in parting.

  I walk away with a spring in my step. Eyes: check. Boobs: check. Fanny: check. Now, for my hearing.

  When the day of the hearing test arrives, I do a dance class, and then make my way to the gym carpark. The hearing van is there, as advertised, glistening in the sunshine. I approach apprehensively, wondering if I’ll be in the company of much older people; if this is the day that I find out I need a hearing aid. A parent is there with a young child, another woman in gym gear just like myself. They take little notice of me. A nurse comes, and without taking my details, leads me into a padded cubicle, where I don some headphones and start the hearing tests. A few minutes later, they’re done. The nurse shows me a range of dots on a graph. They sit at the top of the page. W
hat does it mean?

  ‘You have the hearing of a teenager. It’s excellent,’ she says.

  ‘Really? My son thinks I have terrible hearing.’

  ‘Teenagers are notorious for mumbling. And it’s common for busy mums to have a lot on their mind – thinking about dozens of things at once. It probably takes you a while to focus on what he is saying.’

  I could kiss this nurse person. I’m not going deaf. I can’t wait to get home and gloat. I’m going to tell Emmanuel he needs to e-nun-ci-ate. And to learn to say, ‘Excuse me.’ I walk out into the sunshine, smiling. I’ve got ears like a teenager and all my bits are in good working order. I feel young. Very young.

  Rejoicing

  ‘It would have been a year since your Mum’s stroke. We’ll book the house for then. It will be a celebration. We can cut a cake . . .’

  My cousin Kathy has had yet another win – this time a voucher to stay in a family-sized cabin at a caravan park. Ever-generous, she wants to treat her two younger sisters Dim and Georgia, myself and our two mothers to a ‘girls’ weekend away with her.

  We agree that it’s going to be hard to get Kathy’s mum to come. My aunty Sophia spends a lot of time at home, avoiding social functions.

  Kathy frowns. ‘If my mum doesn’t come, yours won’t either.’

  ‘I’ll work on mine, and you work on yours,’ I say. ‘Let’s talk in a few days.’

  By the time I ring my mother, she has already spoken with my aunt.

  ‘My sister doesn’t want to come. And anyway, what will George say that you’re going away, leaving him with the kids?’

  ‘They’re his kids too, Mum,’ I reply. ‘George is perfectly capable. And anyway, Kathy won the accommodation, we’ll bring food, it won’t cost a thing . . .’ Mum hates it when we spend our money on what she considers frivolities, especially if those frivolities involve spending money on her.

  ‘Still. Your aunt won’t come.’

  But my mother has underestimated my cousin’s persuasive skills. Kathy tells her mum that we are lucky to still have her sister with us, well and healthy one year after her stroke; and does she remember that one year ago, they had all rushed to the emergency department, thinking they were losing their beloved Chrysoula? She tells her mum she owes it to her sister to come away with us. A little emotional blackmail always works.

  And so, a date is set and a caravan park booked on the Mornington Peninsula, across the road from a beach. In the weeks leading up to our getaway, emails fly back and forth between us cousins – who will bring what food, who will carpool with whom, what time we can get away. Between us we have twelve children and it’s not easy to coordinate their care. Some of the older kids agree to look after the younger ones. Husbands step in.

  Finally, the day arrives when we can go.

  We meet at our house. We cut the cake. Mum starts crying. This past year hasn’t been easy. She’s been frustrated as small improvements have been hard earned, each word and phrase that resurfaces from the depths of memory sorely won. Her speech is still somewhat garbled, she still struggles with names, but she has come a long way. She hasn’t stopped trying to talk to us, hasn’t withdrawn, laughs through the challenges. She still has long phone conversations with both of her sisters every day, even if they talk more than she does. She walks with Dennis for more than an hour each day, tends her garden, has learnt to cook again. Her trademark optimism, humour and spirit are never far away. There is much to celebrate. We sit around her, these loud, outspoken women who love her; wipe away her tears, hug and reassure her.

  After loading the last of our things into the car, we’re off. I realise it’s the first time my cousins and I have taken our mothers away together. Going away for a weekend is foreign to Mum and her sisters. It was not something they did with their husbands or families. It feels like we’re taking two kids out for a treat. The tables have turned, and not for the first time I find myself feeling like I’m mothering my own mother.

  When we arrive, we unload the food. While we loosely agreed on who would bring what, we’ve overcatered and the junk food pile is like a mountain. Will I be able to resist its charms?

  Even though we have so much food, that evening someone wants fish and chips, and someone else wants pizza. We go for a walk along the beach, dipping our feet in the water, slowly making our way to the strip that boasts countless fast-food franchises. Eating decent food is going to be near impossible; I resign myself to a weekend of excesses.

  Back at the caravan park, we overindulge and then loll about on the couches. Kathy has bought cosmetic face masks and little slippers we can wear to exfoliate our feet. She gets to work massaging and plumping, wiping away product with several little face towels she thought to bring. At the end of the night, I force her to lie down and give her a long face massage. She moans with pleasure.

  When we were growing up, my cousins and I spent every spare minute in each other’s company, walking to each other’s homes a few suburbs away on weekends, sleeping at each other’s houses. Now we see each other less often, mostly on social occasions. It’s nice to be together again. While we are older, have responsibilities and have experienced quite a few challenges, it’s not hard to revert to our childish ways, even if it’s just for the weekend. It’s a chance to catch up, talk more about where each of us is at, laugh at silly things.

  Dim has a new job as a carer at a nursing home. After bringing up six kids as a full-time mum for many years, she is excited to be working and getting paid for it. She is good at her job and seems to instinctively know what each of her patients need.

  In keeping with my interest in the Ikarians and what it takes to live well for longer, I ask her what we should do now that will help us to grow old well later.

  Dim doesn’t hesitate in her response. ‘Don’t gain too much weight. It’s really challenging for those who are very large. They can’t move, everything hurts. We shift them from their beds to their chairs on a harness and I feel for them – it must be so undignified.

  ‘Stay social – even the people who are very sick, if they come to the common room and talk to people, they do better than the ones who stay in their rooms all day. They’re the ones more likely to be depressed.

  ‘And keep moving if you can. I had one patient who passed away just recently – she was coming to my exercise class until a few days before she died. She had spirit, wouldn’t give up.’

  What Dim says affirms for me, yet again, what I’ve learnt from the Ikarians and what my Mum keeps teaching me each day. I think back to what VicHealth’s Jerril Rechter said about investing today in your health future. I think I’m doing alright, mostly eating well, moving each day, and prioritising my connections with people, even if tonight the salty charms of the potato chips are having their way with me. I’ve come a long way from a few years ago, when I was lacking energy, and often felt at bit lost and flat. I still feel these things occasionally, but know now to be kind to myself during these times, to pick myself up by doing the things and seeing the people who make me feel good.

  The next day, we take another slow walk along the beach. Our mothers walk arm in arm, barefoot, laughing and talking. Watching them, I’m so glad we convinced them to come.

  On the last night, Dim, Georgia and I prepare a vegetarian pasta dish and a spinach salad. I fill my plate with salad and eat a small amount of pasta slowly. I’ve had my excessive hit of salty, fatty food, and have started to feel sluggish, uncomfortable. My body is telling me it’s had enough. It’s time to get back on track.

  Since ‘meeting’ the Ikarians, I find myself noticing older people more. On trains, at parties, even at seminars. Sometimes I find myself asking outright, ‘What does it take to live well, and long?’ It’s disingenuous, perhaps even a bit rude, but the response has always been enthusiastic.

  The first time I asked the question, I was on a train sitting next to an impeccably dressed older man wearing a scarlet silk tie. In his hand, he held a brochure about The Ghan. I had a choice
. I could surf the internet on my phone, or start a conversation. I started a conversation.

  ‘Are you thinking of taking a trip?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, I think my wife might like it.’

  He then began talking about all the trips he had made in his life for his work, and about the ones he would like to take with his wife. Now that he had more time, he wanted to make the most of it.

  On his lap rested a thick tome. He said he was going to teach himself Latin from scratch. After I finished a call with Dolores (‘Mum, can you please pick up something yummy to eat?’), the man confessed that he didn’t own a mobile phone. His wife was badgering him to get one, but he wouldn’t give in. Whatever happened to him while he was out, happened. So be it. His tips for living long and well? Keep learning, walk every day and enjoy each moment. He got off the train and strode away at a brisk pace.

  A few weeks later I had a long chat with a 91-year-old man at a party who still mowed his own lawn. He said he kept his mind active by regularly visiting the ‘elderly’ in a Jesuit nursing home, where he had existential conversations about the meaning of life. His advice on what it takes to live long, and well? Keep your mind and body active, be social, and make sure to marry a good woman. He took his wife by the arm and they climbed down the steps of my friend’s house, steady as you please.

  Today I met a 95-year-old woman at a writer’s event. And so, I reeled out the question again, even before we had been properly introduced.

  She didn’t hesitate before answering.

  ‘A good posture,’ she said giving me a piercing look, as if to say, ‘Are you listening to me?’ I held my shoulders back as far as they would go, noticing she was standing ramrod straight.