Unconditional Love

by Jocelyn Moorhouse

  He stopped breathing. Sandy and I watched him for about twenty seconds. He was gone. I closed his eyes. Then I heard snuffling. I remembered the young boy was still there. He was weeping.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said to him. ‘Are you okay?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Are your parents waiting for you?’

  ‘My dad,’ he said.

  ‘Why don’t you go and find him?’

  He walked out of the room, just as Kathy was walking in. She saw my face and knew. She kissed Dad. Soon after, Greg arrived. We hugged him, then Greg kissed Dad too.

  Dad’s funeral was beautiful. The young schoolboy who called Dad Mr Google turned up with his parents. He told me he felt honoured to have been there when Dad died. Kathy, Greg and I all gave eulogies—so many people wanted to talk at the funeral, we were late to the cemetery. The gravedigger was waiting with his earthmover while the sun went down. As we lowered Dad’s coffin into the grave, a huge flock of white cockatoos flew overhead, a twenty-one-bird salute.

  I don’t know if Lily and Jack know that their grandparents are dead. I have taken them to their grave a couple of times and told them that Grandma and Grandpa are buried in the ground. I don’t know if they have a concept of death, but I take Temple Grandin’s advice to parents: ‘Always assume competence.’ So I assume they do know, in their own way.

  About a year ago Maddy, Lily and I had a picnic at the cemetery and admired the amazing memorial sculpture Kathy commissioned for the graves. A local artist created a wrought-iron fence featuring native birds, Mum and Dad’s names, as well as their nicknames for each other: Pal and Little Pal.

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  The thing is, I don’t think in a language, and animals don’t think in a language. It’s sensory-based thinking, thinking in pictures, thinking in smells, thinking in touches. It’s putting these sensory-based memories into categories.

  TEMPLE GRANDIN

  Many people still do not know what autism is. When they encounter it, they are often puzzled and alarmed. Or they assume that the child wailing or flapping in front of them simply needs discipline. There have been times I have had to stand in front of a crowd of people (on a plane or in a medical waiting room) and announce, ‘My child has autism. Please be understanding.’

  But on the whole, people are a lot more aware of autism now. There have been books, films and TV shows in which major characters have autism. More and more kids with autism are being mainstreamed in schools. Special-needs teachers, paid carers and therapists are part of a compassionate army of helpers who try everything to reach our children. Through music therapy, physical therapy, speech therapy, play therapy, sensory integration, we are telling our children, ‘You matter, and we want to know you. Nothing you can do will stop us from trying to reach you. We will be here when you are ready to venture into our world, and when you do we will keep you safe.’

  I often wonder what day-to-day existence feels like for Lily and Jack. Do they, for example, have synesthesia, the condition where the senses somehow connect differently, and people can see sounds or taste colours and shapes? A number of recent scientific studies have found a link between autism and synesthesia. Daniel Tammet, an extraordinary man with Asperger’s syndrome, wrote a book called Born on a Blue Day in which he describes how he sees numbers as shapes, colours and textures and can perform incredible mathematical calculations in his head. There has even been a recent study revealing that some people with exceptional memory have a kind of time-space synesthesia, and can literally see all the hours, days, months and years of their lives surrounding them, as if their body were at the centre of a clock or compass.

  Do Lily and Jack smell colours, or taste shapes? What if Lily’s reaction to certain sounds is because they create frightening shapes before her eyes? If Lily could tell me what was happening in her reality, she might describe a completely different world from the one I try to imagine she lives in. I’ve heard of people with certain kinds of neurological disease who cannot bear to hear music outside a certain tonal range because it physically hurts them. Maybe that’s why Jack can listen to some songs and not others. What if Lily, with her exceptional memory, has time-space synesthesia? This could explain her obsession with calendars.

  PJ and I know that living with autism in the family is survivable. It’s not a tragedy. It’s just a road less travelled. In the past I sometimes tried to go it alone, but I have learned that I am not enough for my kids. They need more than just me and my love. Allowing other people to help allows me to be stronger and brings new friends into Jack and Lily’s lives. One day PJ and I won’t be here anymore. If Lily and Jack depend only on us, they will be frightened and lost when that day comes.

  The other day, Maddy walked into my bedroom giggling. She was holding a book called Eucalyptus—not the novel, but a field guide by the botanist Ian Brooker. ‘Mummy! Why do you have an entire book about eucalyptus trees, with your name written in the front?’

  I took the book from her and looked at it. I remembered I had to keep buying copies of this book when I was in pre-production on that long-lost film. I would lend it to someone on the crew and never see it again. Finally, I wrote my name in a copy.

  ‘Well, Maddy, a long time ago, I almost made a movie about eucalyptus trees.’

  ‘A movie about trees?’ Maddy asked, incredulous. ‘But what was the movie really about?’

  ‘Love stories!’ I laughed. ‘Inspired by the names of the trees.’ Maddy pulled a face, as if disgusted, then sat down next to me. ‘Okay, so tell me about eucalyptus trees, Mum.’

  I launched into a spiel, and kept going until she stopped me.

  ‘Wow. You really do know a lot about eucalyptus trees.’ She gave me a hug. ‘It’s sad the movie never got made.’

  I shrugged. ‘It was a long, long time ago,’ I said, ‘before you were born. If I’d made the movie then, I wouldn’t have been able to put you in it. So what would have been the point?’

  ‘Oh, that’s true. It wouldn’t have been as good if I wasn’t in it!’ She grinned.

  I do not take conversations like this for granted. I treasure every word that Maddy speaks—so fluently, without effort. She has already decided she wants to be a novelist one day. She writes her own chapter books and makes movies on her iPad. Maddy is very funny, and very compassionate. She sees herself as a big sister to both Lily and Jack, even though she is years younger. She grew up with no preconceived ideas about them, knowing them for who they really are. While she finds them annoying at times (like any siblings can be), Maddy is a fierce advocate for Lily and Jack. Recently she gave a talk at her primary school, to educate her classmates about autism. PJ, Spike and I are so proud of her.

  Despite the sixteen years between them, Spike and Maddy are remarkably close. They share a dark sense of humour and a mutual fondness for the ridiculous. They also share a love of animals, history, books, science, and their very individual autistic siblings. Their deep love for each other makes me incredibly grateful.

  My life has had its moments of heartbreak (whose life doesn’t?), but also moments of absolute joy. Seeing my kids’ personal achievements helped me understand that by climbing our metaphorical mountains together, the love between us grows stronger. Sure, there is always another mountain waiting, but if we can climb one together, we can conquer them all.

  Climbing emotional mountains can be exhausting. It took me years to realise that a lot of the pain I was feeling was of my own making. I was fighting an internal war between my instinct to cling to my dreams about life, and my need to accept the truth. I worked for years on the script idea I had conceived back in 1999, the story about a couple who raise a changeling. I don’t know if I will ever make the film. In the story, the parents spend a long time trying to rescue their perfect child. They know this child has been kidnapped by bad fairies, who left behind a wild, scary creature who merely looks like their real daughter. At the end of the script, they come to understand that they have been under a spell of sorts. Their re
al daughter is that wild and scary creature, and they love her anyway. They finally see her beauty. The parents’ epiphany was, of course, my own journey to accept Lily and Jack for who they really are.

  Something else I had to do was to accept me for who I am. Part of me, an important part, is an artist. For too long, I felt I had to deprive my creative side. I felt I must have sinned against my kids by making A Thousand Acres, and trying to make Eucalyptus. I had chosen to pursue my art, and my career, and in doing so had deprived my children. I had committed treason against motherhood! As a woman, and as a mother, I thought my duty was to devote as much energy as possible to improving the lives of my children even if that meant ignoring my own needs.

  But this was superstitious, primitive reasoning. It didn’t have to be one or the other. I could be a loving, working, committed, creative mother. The simple truth is I needed to work. I wanted to work. Not working made me sad and frustrated. Continuing to deny the part of me that yearned to tell stories, that loved making movies, was to deny the self that existed before all my other roles in life. I had always been that person. Why deny that she still existed?

  PJ and I built a world of dreams around each of our children. It’s what parents do. And those original dreams revealed themselves to be ephemeral. Transient. Illusory. Eventually, the time came to rebuild those dreams. Right now, I am nurturing new dreams for Lily and Jack. They both love animals and nature, music and creativity. Kathy and I are thinking about setting up a small farm where they, and other special-needs adults, can live, work and be looked after. Just like the farm my mother made for her children and grandchildren, there will be cows and chickens and an orchard, and a big vegetable garden. There will be art and music therapists. A pool or river for swimming. Lily and Jack will sell their produce at local markets. They will be part of a community as they grow old. All of this is still a dream, but I am determined to make it happen somehow.

  My children and I know each other very well. My autistic kids sometimes have a sharper sense of what I am feeling than the two who have more fluent language skills. Perhaps, without much speech, Jack and Lily read things in me that would otherwise go unnoticed. Lily has a sharp sense of smell. Perhaps she can smell changes on me, when I am stressed or happy. Her moods often reflect mine. Jack has great empathy. If he sees Maddy crying, he will always hug her. If he sees me feeling unwell, he will come and sit next to me and lean on me, hugging my arm.

  A long time ago, a neurologist told me that my autistic kids may not ever love me. It was a devastating thing to hear. It was also completely untrue. Our love is deep and strong. It has to be, to weather the times when we cannot reach each other. And there are plenty of those times. Loving someone with autism means building a bridge from one reality to another. And when the bridge crumbles and falls, it means finding the strength to build another. Our bridge-building will continue until I can build no longer. I want all my kids to feel that they belong in this world, and are loved for who they are. I think, in our hearts, that’s all any of us wants for our children.

  Acknowledgments

  I want to thank Penny Hueston, my wonderful editor at Text Publishing, for helping me create and shape my memoir. This book was something I needed to write, even though the idea of sharing my thoughts and memories scared me. I’ve kept journals since I was twelve, and hoarded copies of my emails, letters and faxes, so it took months to decide what to include in this memoir. It also took a lot of work to cut 90,000 words from my enormous first draft! Thank you again to Penny for taking on that responsibility. Thank you also to my brother and sister, Greg and Kathy, who read the manuscript and gave me permission to share parts of our family history.

  I would also like to thank my extremely supportive Australian agent, Kate Richter, who encouraged me to write my memoir in the first place. Thanks to Cori Carlsen, Kate McAll, Ricki Robertson and Angela Borelli, who let me ask them a million questions about our time together. Thank you to Beth Swofford, Bobbi Thompson, Jessica Tuchinsky and Ida Ziniti for guiding my filmmaking career in the USA. Thank you also to Suzanne Tenner for being such a beautiful photographer and cherished friend on so many of my films.

  I am grateful to the many teachers, carers, therapists and friends, in both the USA and Australia, who helped our family in those frightening early years after Jack and Lily’s diagnoses of autism. I also want to thank the compassionate army of carers (especially Gunta, Ysobel and Rob) who continue to support Lily and Jack, helping them to lead fulfilling lives. I am deeply grateful to my family archivists, Mum, Grandma Mid Wood, and baby sister Kathy, for safeguarding over a century of family correspondence and photographs. Those letters, stories, poems and images inspired me to write my own story: this is my contribution to the family archives. Most of all, I want to thank my husband, Paul ‘PJ’ Hogan for all the love and support (both emotional and artistic) he has given me since we first met in 1981.

  I cannot finish these acknowledgments without thanking Spike, Lily, Jack and Maddy, who have brought so much love, laughter and joy into my life. They are my reason for everything.

  Denice Tobin-Wood and Jack Moorhouse at their engagement party in Melbourne, 1950.

  Grandma Mid Wood holding me, aged ten months, with Greg, aged three, in our front yard at Heatherdale, 1961.

  Greg, aged three, with me, aged seven months.

  Me, aged two and a half, with my fringe destroyed by Mum, in our backyard at Heatherdale.

  Kathy and me holding our notorious dog, Fred, at Mooroolbark, 1972.

  Mum with one of our many donkeys, 1975.

  Senator Susan Ryan hands me my Diploma of Arts, Film and Television at the AFTRS graduation ceremony in 1984. Storry Walton looks on.

  Cast and crew on the film Proof, 1990. See imprint page for names. CREDIT: NFSA Collection

  Our young family in a Santa Monica Park, before Lily’s diagnosis of autism, 1996.

  Lily’s therapist, Heather Gonzales, teaching Lily to imitate. CREDIT: Lara Porzak

  Lily, aged two and a half, around the time of her autism diagnosis.

  Kathy, our darling Mum and me, 2007.

  Jack, aged two, with me in Los Angeles on Christmas Day, 2005.

  Lily, aged eight, hugging her favourite angel statue.

  A rare photo of the two sisters together! Lily, aged eleven, holding Maddy, aged six months.

  On the set of Unconditional Love in Chicago, 1996. PJ was having a bad day so I was making him smile.

  Maddy and Kate Winslet on Kate’s last day on the set of The Dressmaker. CREDIT: Ned Rocknroll

  Jack, aged eleven, with Maddy, aged eight, holding a young crocodile at Maddy’s Spooky Birthday Party.

  Cinematographer Don McAlpine, far right, with me, on the set of The Dressmaker in Little River, Victoria, 2015. Image courtesy of Film Art Media. Photographer Ben King

  Caroline Goodall and me on the set of The Dressmaker, 2015. Image courtesy of Film Art Media. Photographer Ben King

  PJ and me on the set of Mental, which was filmed in his boyhood home in Tweed Heads, NSW, in 2013. Brett Tracey is the camera assistant. CREDIT: Jasin Boland

  Jocelyn Moorhouse, award-winning scriptwriter, film director and producer, was born in Melbourne in 1960. She has directed numerous films, including Proof, How to Make an American Quilt, A Thousand Acres and The Dressmaker. She has produced some of her husband P. J. Hogan’s films, including Muriel’s Wedding and Mental. They have four children, two of whom are autistic.

  Praise for Jocelyn Moorhouse and Unconditional Love

  ‘Unconditional Love is a shining example of the strength of mothers. Jocelyn’s sensitivity and humour made me fall in love with her passion for filmmaking and her family. Her resilience is inspiring and beautiful.’ NICOLE KIDMAN

  ‘A beguiling memoir, written from the heart, revealing a life lived truly.’ CATE BLANCHETT

  ‘A truly wonderful book, a heartfelt achievement. I read it over two days, unable to put it down.’ JANE CAMPION, Academy-Award-winning dire
ctor of The Piano and Top of the Lake

  ‘An exquisite and often heartbreaking balancing act of storyteller, wife and mother. A memoir told with the love, joy and images that make Jocelyn’s films so special.’ RACHEL GRIFFITHS

  ‘A darkly clever Australian drama…Miss Moorhouse’s direction is as crisply controlled as her characters’ banter, and as quietly insidious in its own way.’ NEW YORK TIMES on Proof

  ‘An enormously compelling character study.’ GUARDIAN on Proof

  ‘The triumph of the prodigal daughter.’ SYDNEY MORNING HERALD on The Dressmaker

  textpublishing.com.au

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  Copyright © Jocelyn Moorhouse 2019

  The moral right of Jocelyn Moorhouse to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  First published in 2019 by The Text Publishing Company

  Cover design by Text

  Cover image by Kylie Handley, courtesy of the author

  Page design by Jessica Horrocks

  Typeset by J&M Typesetting