We all laugh. I promise to keep his advice in mind.
After we’ve exhausted the wedding album and depleted the mezethes (small bites), Alex and I get up to take our leave. Sotiris hands us a generous jar of honey from his own hives and passes his phone number on to me so I can let him know how I get on in Ikaria. ‘And don’t forget, if you want to come a bit later in the year, we’ll leave no stone unturned . . .’
Despite Sotiris’s advice, I decide to visit Greece in May, when the flowers in the countryside are in bloom, the weather is mild, and tourists aren’t yet out in hordes. My reasons are more practical too. I have a short break from teaching then and the fares and accommodation are cheaper, which means I won’t need to draw down so much on the mortgage. And I’m in luck. My cousin’s ex-wife, Isa, who lives in Greece, is going to join me for some of the time I am on the island. She says she will bring her friend Niki, who grew up there. It’s nice to know I will have company.
Once again I serach the internet for Ikarian accommodation. It’s been a little over two years since I came across Stamatis Moraitis on my computer. I’ve come a long way since then – I’m more comfortable in my skin; feel more content with my life each day; know when to take stock and curb the occasional ‘spirit sickness’– a general malaise, a vague sadness and meaninglessness – when it strikes me. I no longer go to bed with indigestion more nights than I’d like to count. I’m feeling more connected to those around me – my kids, my husband, my mother, extended family and friends. And I’m doing more things in keeping with what is important to me and less of the things that aren’t.
I find hotels overlooking azure blue water, glittering pools in the foreground, rustic hillside tavernas and rugged mountainsides. My guilt escalates. I’m wanting to find out how to live better, perhaps write something that will help others live better too, not to have a luxurious holiday.
‘I’m going to miss you,’ says Emmanuel, looking over my shoulder at the screen.
I stop what I’m doing and turn around. ‘I’m going to miss you too.’
‘They all look beautiful, Mum,’ he says, nodding towards the places I’ve been looking at. ‘Just book something.’
With just six weeks to go before I leave, I’m strangely hesitant about booking my fares or accommodation. I haven’t even dug out my passport to check that it hasn’t expired. There are so many things to think about – what to do about banking, buying a new suitcase, what pyjamas to take. It’s easier to keep putting it off.
All the while, my life doesn’t stop – a new bunch of students has started the year, I’ve got several business projects to complete, and I still need to cook and clean and get the kids to their activities.
It’s been more than fifteen years since I’ve travelled overseas by myself and the thought of it makes me feel a little tired. And scared. The long flight. The transfers. Will I still remember how to negotiate taxis in Athens? How will I manage buses and bank tellers? What if I die?
Random and irrational worries swim around my head, but my main concern is how I will leave my family for a month. In the past, I’ve left them for a few days at a time, but never for this long. How will George manage the administration of family life, the little things like getting bills paid on time, getting the kids to their sporting commitments, answering the many questions each day that start with ‘Mum . . .?’ And most importantly, will the kids get their quota of vegetables each day?
Finally, with Emmanuel breathing down my neck, I find rooms at Thea’s Inn in the tiny town of Nas on the southern side of the island. I read that Thea hosted the Blue Zones team when they stayed in Ikaria. Perhaps she can share with me her take on the longevity phenomenon. Before I can change my mind, I send her a message enquiring about a room for a few nights. After that, I will see what happens.
Emmanuel looks pleased. ‘Good work, Mum. Can I come too?’ he says with a smile.
What sort of mother leaves her family for a month to spend time in some obscure backwater where she has no family or connections?
My guilt makes me grumpy and irritable. I take it out on Emmanuel. Just focus on your homework, stop making a mess, be nice to your sister . . . I am in overdrive trying to get him to curb his creative, scattered energy. Deep down I am worried that my sensitive young son might unravel in my absence. Or perhaps that I, without the stabilising influence of family, will myself become unwound.
As well as going to Ikaria, I’m planning to visit my relatives in Greece. I’m a bit apprehensive about the welcome I will get, concerned that I might be a burden. It’s another way of convincing myself I’m making the wrong decision. I call my Theia Kanella and tell her tentatively that I am coming and that I’m hoping to spend a few days with her and my cousin, perhaps at the start of the trip.
‘Does that work for you?’ I ask.
Theia Kanella laughs. ‘Everything works for us, Spiridoula.’
‘I wish I could bring Mum. She would love it.’ Mum speaks with family in Greece regularly, but hasn’t visited since the 1970s.
‘Can’t you bring her?’
‘It’s hard for her to travel. She isn’t the woman she once was . . .’
‘No, none of us are. None of us are,’ Kanella says.
She puts me on to my cousin Stathis. I repeat my news, telling him I don’t want them to go to any trouble on my part.
‘You know I can live off those beautiful wild greens of yours. A bit of cheese and bread and I’m a happy woman,’ I say.
‘Come, Spiridoula, and we will have a good time. There will be horta, and meat, and all sorts of things. We are rich in our hearts here and we will celebrate,’ he says with characteristic pathos.
I laugh. Already I am looking forward to being among them, being a part of the simple rituals of cooking and eating together.
I share with Stathis my fears about something happening while I am away. I am worried that Mum might have another stroke, that she will slip away from us while I am many thousands of kilometres away.
‘Spiridoula mou, I hope this doesn’t happen,’ he replies. ‘But remember, our mothers, they have worked hard. Their bodies are tired. When the time comes for them to go, they will be ready. Maybe they are ready now.’
‘They might be ready. But I’m not.’
He laughs a little sadly. ‘They won’t ask if you’re ready. When the time comes, we need to let them go.’ I know how close he is to his own mother. Despite teasing her mercilessly, I know he manages the home, loyally looking after Theia Kanella, whose rheumatoid arthritis and weak lungs often keep her bedridden for days at a time.
‘Here, talk to your uncle,’ I say to Emmanuel as he walks past.
Emmanuel looks abashed. His Greek is limited to a handful of phrases. Euharisto. (Thank you.) Ohi yiayia, then thelo kiales patates. (No, grandma, I don’t want any more chips.) It’s lucky Stathis’s English is good.
Talking on the phone, Emmanuel starts laughing. I hear him assure Stathis that he will learn more Greek this year. Their conversation goes on and on, Emmanuel getting more garrulous as the minutes tick by.
When he passes the phone back, I ask Stathis what he said to Emmanuel. He laughs and says that some conversations are only to be held between men and tells me that I have an ‘artist’ on my hands in our young son.
‘I should bring him with me to Greece. He would learn some more Greek,’ I say.
‘Why don’t you?’
I hesitate. Despite my guilt, I know this is something I need to do on my own.
The start of May is only four weeks away, and my mind reels with all the things I need to do before then: finish this current teaching block and mark assignments, finalise projects and write reports, prepare for the trip, hand over the household reins to the rest of the family and make sure that everything is under control.
Meanwhile, family life keeps going. Dolores’s books are spread across the kitchen table as she tries to study for the first of her Year 11 exams. George brings in the last of the cherry t
omatoes and several huge pumpkins from our autumn garden, placing them in a pile in the hall. The seasons are oblivious to my distress – they keep rolling along as if nothing is happening.
Much to my chagrin, I wake up with a migraine and must take to my bed for the day. I ring work, down painkillers and force myself to sleep. In the early afternoon, propped up in my bed with a bowl of lentil soup, I realise that after all the Ikarians have taught me from afar – to eat food that makes my body feel good, to move more, to connect with those around me, to have a more generous spirit, I still need to learn to accept that there is only so much I can do in one day. I need to have a little more faith that the important things that need to get done, will.
Angsting
It’s the Thursday before Easter and I’m rushing down our street on the way home from work, when I see my brother’s car parked out the front of our house.
I make my way in, past hugs from Emmanuel, a kiss from Dolores, towards Mum and my brother. Mum has just put a large pot of fish and vegetable soup down on the stove, an oversized packet of toilet paper on the bench, and milk in the fridge.
‘What have you brought this time?’ I say, giving her a hug. ‘One day you will come to our home empty-handed.’
‘It’s nothing. What do you want me to cook for Easter Sunday lunch?’
‘There’s no need to cook anything. I’ve got it covered,’ I reply. Cooking has become harder for Mum since the stroke – she can’t remember what goes in dishes she used to cook automatically, can’t read recipes anymore, is easily flustered when she forgets where utensils are.
‘Here, take some money and you can shop for something.’ She puts some notes on the sideboard. I tell her off, but give up after a while. I know she will win the argument.
She starts to fossick in the cupboards for an apron. She’s ready to start baking. When I told Mum I was going to make koulouria (traditional Easter cookies) with Dolores this year, she wanted to help. I was hoping she would say that, glad to harness her cooking expertise in a way that makes it easy for her. And I know it will make her feel useful.
A few days ago, when I was shopping for ingredients, I referred to a dog-eared Greek cookbook that my Theio, Uncle Spiro, gifted to Mum in the ’70s, which is now mine. Inside the cookbook are several scraps of paper with recipes in Mum’s writing, including ‘Rena’s koulouria’. I imagine Mum diligently jotting these down after tasting them at neighbours’ or friends’ houses. In Rena’s recipe, Mum has listed the ingredients, but has omitted the method. I refer to a similar recipe in the cookbook, just in case she’s forgotten the process. I don’t want her to be embarrassed or stressed if she can’t remember. Since the stroke, I find myself protecting her from things that might hurt or upset her. I’m conscious that her blood pressure can go up, and that this increases her risk of having another stroke.
‘I’m just going to change out of my work clothes. I’ll be right back, and we can start,’ I tell her. She has found the flour and sugar, and is waiting impatiently for me to read out the amounts.
Dennis plans to go out while Mum, Dolores and I are baking. Before he leaves, he fills me in on the day’s events.
‘I went with Mum to the chemist today to fill a script. He took her blood pressure,’ Dennis says.
‘Was it okay?’
‘Yeah, but he said she has an irregular heartbeat.’
I stop what I’m doing. ‘An irregular heartbeat? It’s only been a few weeks since we took her to the doctor. How can he tell that from a blood pressure monitor?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know,’ Dennis replies.
‘Did he seem concerned?’
‘He didn’t say much. Just that we should check it out next time we go to the doctor.’
‘Does he know she’s had a stroke?’
‘I don’t think so.’
I turn to Mum. ‘The chemist said something about your heart.’
‘Oh that. That’s nothing. Maybe because I took three of those tablets to help me sleep . . .’ She’s referring to the strong painkillers she has beside her bed.
‘Three? All at once?’
She nods sheepishly.
‘Mum, that’s too much,’ I say.
‘The doctor said I can take as many as I like.’ The doctor had said that the painkillers were less harmful than sleeping pills, which he didn’t want to prescribe as he was concerned about Mum having falls during the night if she got up to go to the toilet.
‘He said no such thing. I’m always with you when you go to the doctor.’
‘Well, my sister said . . .’
‘Mum! You can’t just take any medication you like.’
‘I know, but I can’t sleep, and if I don’t sleep, the next day, I can’t talk properly. And then I worry about it.’
I can feel my own heart beating faster now, remembering Mum on a gurney, attached to monitors in emergency, me trying to take in what the doctors were telling me. A good amount of time has elapsed since then but the fear of it happening again hangs over our heads. Dennis looks concerned too.
Tomorrow is Easter Friday. I see the long weekend looming ahead, and fear the worst. What if Mum has another stroke, or a heart attack? And what if, knowing that there was a problem, I’d done nothing to help prevent it?
‘I’m going to ring the pharmacist,’ I say.
‘Don’t do that. We’ve got baking to do,’ Mum protests.
‘I don’t care. Your health is more important than the koulouria.’ My voice is rising. I know I’m being a bit irrational, but I can’t help it.
‘There’s nothing wrong with me. Let’s just get on with it. I wish your brother hadn’t said anything.’
I take myself off to my room and ring the pharmacist. No one picks up and I leave a message.
As we’re mixing the ingredients for the koulouria, George comes home from shopping. He goes around the kitchen, blindfolding Dennis and the kids in turn to test whether they prefer the cheap supermarket hot cross buns, or the single fancy one he bought from our local sourdough bakery. Mum rolls her eyes – how can we play when there is important work to be done? I shoo him away when he comes to me, too anxious about Mum to be blindfolded. I am already mentally preparing to take her to hospital after the GP visit. With only two weeks to go before I fly to Greece, I won’t leave if she is unwell. Perhaps this trip just isn’t meant to happen.
When the ingredients are mixed, Mum pushes me aside. The kneading is her job. She scoops the dough away from the sides of a large basin, then presses down on it with her knuckles. She puts her whole body into it.
‘Should your mum be doing that?’ asks George, serious now. ‘What about her heart?’
‘I don’t think I can do anything to stop her.’
I ring the pharmacist again and get through this time. He confirms that he found an irregular heartbeat. He says it could be his monitor, but it’s worth checking out, particularly now that I’ve told him she’s had a stroke. I ring the doctor’s surgery. When I describe the problem to the receptionist, she tells me she has an evening appointment available.
It’s now after 4 pm. I tell Mum that we’re due to see the doctor that evening.
‘What about the koulouria? They won’t be finished by then.’ She starts to stumble over her words, gets nervous.
‘Dolores and I will finish them. Don’t worry.’
The first batch is ready to go in our new oven, but we can’t light it. I sit on the floor and stare at the oven dials, fiddling with them. Nothing happens. Is this an omen?
A few minutes later, Dolores presses a button on the display, and it starts.
‘Turn it up so we can do them more quickly,’ Mum says, all aflutter. Time is running out.
I do as she says. Several minutes later, a burning smell wafts through the kitchen. We’ve burnt both the bottom row and the top.
I take them out. Perhaps I have put a hex on the koulouria. Maybe I’m being punished by a higher power for prioritising a mere mortal over more important
spiritual concerns. Perhaps it’s just the new oven. I switch the knob over to the fan-forced setting, turn the heat down.
‘What a shame,’ says Mum.
‘We’ll have to throw them out,’ I say.
‘We can’t do that.’ Mum puts the tray over the sink, asks for a knife, and starts scraping their black tops.
‘We have to go, Mum,’ I say, turning the oven off, leaving the remaining half-baked koulouria inside, resigned to this batch being a failure too.
On the way to the doctor, my head feels like it’s got a tight band around it. For the past few weeks, I’ve been making daily task lists, powering through the many things I need to do before I leave for Greece. I haven’t factored in Mum being unwell. Mentally, I put her health at the top of the list, trumping the now trivial tasks below it. I am reminded again of how insignificant everyday things seem when one’s health is in jeopardy.
As we’re waiting, I talk to Mum about the need to relax, to try to sleep better.
‘How am I going to sleep when you’re gone? Do you think I will be able to relax then? Have you really booked your trip?’
‘I have, Mum. I know it’s not easy. Not for you, or for me. But I’ll be okay. I’ll ring regularly. Please don’t let anything happen to you while I’m gone. I will never forgive myself if you have another stroke for worrying for me!’
‘Pppfft, I’m not worried about dying. I’ve lived my life. I worry about you and the family . . .’
‘We’re all going to be fine. George has it covered. And they will visit once a week – you can cook for them.’
She smiles, looks comforted by the idea of doing something useful while I’m gone.
The doctor calls us in. He isn’t Mum’s regular doctor, and he takes his time to read the test results and letters from the hospital. I convey what the pharmacist said. He takes Mum’s blood pressure and listens to her heart carefully.
‘I can’t hear any irregularities,’ he says, and then tells Mum, ‘Your heart is surprisingly good for someone your age.’
My Ikaria Page 11