by Alison Mau
Mum was often not aware of these dramatic midnight collapses. She would wake up in hospital, confused and wondering why she was not at home in her bed.
I got into the habit of calling the house several times a day to see if both Mum and Dad were okay, and if anything was needed. One day I called three times, a few hours apart, and each time Dad told me that Mum was still in bed sleeping.
Something felt wrong. I decided to leave work and drive down there to check. Sure enough, Mum was tucked up in their bedroom, apparently asleep. I tried, gently at first and then more urgently to raise her, but to no avail.
‘Leave her, Liz, she’s just tired,’ said Dad.
I wasn’t convinced. With an uneasy feeling prickling my spine, I called 111 and asked for an ambulance. Mum was in a coma. They rushed her to the emergency department.
By coincidence my mother’s specialist and his wife were friends of mine; she has been a student of mine at fashion college, where I’d been a tutor. When we arrived at Christchurch Hospital, I phoned John and asked his advice, insisting on knowing what was best for Mum. He told me she was in a coma and as my father had thought she was asleep, there was no telling how long she’d been that way. Given she’d been revived so many times and there may have been brain function lost in the most recent episode, he felt further intervention would not be the fairest option for her.
Looking back, I know I should have asked the hospital to keep her alive, do something for her, until Faye had time to arrive from Melbourne and be at her bedside. I live with guilt to this day that I agreed to let her life ebb away. I spent the day at her bedside, talking constantly to her. She was conscious briefly and asked for a glass of water. I told her gently it was close to the time for her to go to heaven — she told me she was not ready yet.
I went home briefly in the evening to freshen up, leaving my aunt and uncle with her. A call at ten-thirty summonsed me back to the hospital, and as I was walking down the corridor to her room, she left us. She did not suffer in her last hours and I am grateful at least for that. Her life came to a gentle close.
I didn’t tell Dad that night; in fact I waited until Faye arrived the next day. A sad thing, and maybe even the wrong thing to do, but I needed my dear sister there to help get us all through our joint grief.
Bereft, Dad went into a rest home for a few weeks, and I would visit and have lunch with him. He seemed alright considering the loss he’d experienced. On the Friday I popped out to get him a few things at the shops, and when I came back I told him I’d be there again for lunch the next day. He smiled at me, and winked. I thought at the time that was most unusual.
The home called that night to say Dad had slipped into a coma. I summoned Faye yet again and at 3 am the next day we got an urgent call, telling us we should come to him immediately.
We were both seated at the end of his bed when he opened his eyes for a brief moment and looked straight at us both. Then he took a last little breath, and he left us.
There was just seven weeks between the deaths of my mother and my father; and suddenly Faye and I were orphans.
My memories of their passing are still quite raw. I hold onto the fact that I spent some very special times with my father in his last months, and he had softened an awful lot near the end of his life. He surprised me with some of the things he told me about his youth, his years with Mum, our childhood. I no longer harbour distrust or anger towards him, and his passing (like my mother’s) has left a massive void in my life.
Mum would have been delighted to know that.
EPILOGUE
It’s December 2014. I’m now well into my seventy-second year, and am, as always, looking forward to very special things. I will move back to Christchurch, the city of my birth. Housing New Zealand called earlier this week to tell me I have been approved for a two bedroom house, and now it’s just a waiting game.
Christchurch has been my anchor for most of my life, dotted here and there with experiences in Australia and, of course, a crash course in life-and-everything in 1960s London.
Almost fifty per cent of my adult life has been lived outside of New Zealand, and the urge to return to my home city is very strong now. My mind is full of just how much I’ve managed to cram into my seventy-two years — never, as a youth, did I imagine I would experience such gains and such losses, in career, finances and relationships.
Each venture taught me something more. I do believe we each have a life’s prescription, written exclusively for us. In my case, it’s been a colourful one. From a chance meeting with a florist in Levin while under Welfare’s care, to a hairdressing client in South Kensington who threw open the door to the world of high fashion; theatre, television, and the razzle-dazzle of the Australian casinos. Some of these endeavours brought little more than pennies, some brought me huge sums of money. I do wish I had paid more attention to the financial parts — fun has its cost.
I so often wish my parents were still here, to have witnessed, and known beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I have been there and done that.
In the 1960s, on my return from London, I remember my dear mother leafing through the press coverage of design success, saying, ‘Oh, I wish your grandmother was alive to see this, Garry.’
I never did blow my own trumpet, I simply don’t believe in such conceits. Joyce Jacobs once told me when discussing a mutual acquaintance: ‘Self-praise, Garry, is no recommendation.’ Mrs Jacobs dropped a great many pearls of wisdom in my lap, and to this day they’ve not been wasted.
So many people have accused me of making false claims, particularly about my working life, and I have waited until now to lay back and give them the proverbial ‘middle finger’.
So here I am, packing up boxes with remnants of my past, not even attempting to fathom what this new move, to a new yet utterly familiar home, will bring. I am aware, though, that Christchurch is home for me, and that life has been both kind and unkind to Garry and Elizabeth Roberts, in many ways.
But I am still here.
ABOUT THE WRITER
Journalist, broadcaster, writer and speaker, Ali (Alison) Mau is one of New Zealand’s most experienced media names. After a 20-year career as a top-level television host on shows such as ‘One News’, ‘Fair Go’, ‘Newsnight’ and ‘Breakfast’, Ali’s now paired with Willie Jackson for afternoon news, current affairs and talkback on 100.6 ‘Radio Live’. First Lady is Ali’s first book.